first time she pointed out the townhouse, jack didn't think much of it. he hummed in response, holding onto her smaller hand even tighter as a biker was passing them on the sidewalk.
they were walking back from their favorite coffee shop, paper cups warming their hands against the chilly pittsburgh morning.
she'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring across the street with that dreamy look she got whenever something captured her attention.
"ugh.” she swooned. “that's my favorite house," she'd said.
jack had followed her gaze.
it was a beautiful townhouse. it was about three stories of brick and black shutters with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows. it was elegant without being flashy. it was lived-in without looking old.
he'd hummed his acknowledgment and continued walking.
that should have been the end of it.
but it wasn't.
because the next week she pointed it out again.
and the week after that… and the one after.
soon it became part of their routine.
coffee, pastries, the townhouse.
every single saturday morning and every single time they passed it, her pace slowed.
sometimes she'd admire the little balcony on the second floor, or the iron railings, even the huge windows that flooded the interior with sunlight. and other times she would just smile at it quietly before continuing down the block.
jack never teased her about it.
he just listened the way he always listened.
collecting and gathering every detail she offered without her realizing it.
it was like he was storing them away somewhere safe.
—
months later, she was standing in front of the pastry display at the coffee shop when jack casually mentioned the open house.
she looked up immediately.
"what.. really?" she said is disbelief. “i didn’t see a sign, though. are you sure?” she said in the middle of taking a bite of her banana loaf.
"yeah they’re showing the townhouse today.” he repeated with that signature sideways smile. “it’s a private showing.” he shrugged.
the excitement that lit her face was instant and for a moment, jack almost felt guilty because she had absolutely no idea…
when they arrived, the house was somehow even more beautiful inside.
sunlight spilled through oversized windows, warming polished hardwood floors and pale walls.
the entire place felt bright, open and comfortable.
it was a place that people built lives together and they could feel the warmth of a loved and cherished home.
jack spent most of the tour watching her instead of the house.
watching her wander into every room with wide eyes, watching her run her fingertips along the bathroom countertops.
watching her stand in front of windows and imagine things.
he knew she was imagining things because she'd always done that. her imagination was everything that made her into the dreamer that she was.
even in their tiny conversations, or while walking down the street.
she saw dreams everywhere and a beautifully bright future in every empty space.
"this kitchen is incredible." she mused, as she rounded the kitchen island and peered out the windows that rested right above the kitchen sink.
her voice echoed softly through the room as jack leaned against the doorway.
her shoulders sank as she peered into the lush backyard garden.
"It is." he said as he watched her in quiet awe.
she moved toward one of the windows, sunlight caught her hair. the sight of her standing there nearly stole the breath from his lungs.
because she looked like she belonged there.. with him. he nearly groaned at the sight of her. her hair falling behind her shoulders while she playfully pretended to wash the dishes.
he smiled wildly as she looked behind her at him and wiggled her eyebrows, causing them both to giggle.
it looked like she wasn’t visiting.
or imagining.
she was just belonging.
as if the house had been waiting for her this whole entire time.
the realtor eventually left them alone to explore.
that was when the trouble started.
because the more she saw, the more she fell in love with it.
and the more she fell in love with it, the more impossible it became for her to hide her disappointment.
by the time they reached the living room again, she was trying very hard to be realistic.
jack knew that look it was the one where she talked herself out of wanting something.
it's okay," she said softly.
nobody had even asked a question.
jack raised an eyebrow as she laughed a little sadly.
"this place is just..." her gaze drifted toward the windows.
the fireplace.
the staircase.
everything.
"it's perfect." she hummed as jack placed his hand on the back of her small back. her words came out as barely more than a whisper as she looked up at him.
jack felt something squeeze painfully inside his chest.
because she wasn't being dramatic.
or materialistic, or unrealistic, she just genuinely loved this place.
the same way she loved old bookstores and small coffee shops and rainy afternoons cuddled with a good book.
she loved things completely, with her whole heart.
"a girl can dream, right?" she said softly to him. her smile small.
jack stared at her for a long moment— long enough that she did a double take when she wanted to pull him out and go back home.
"w-what?" she looked at him in confusion.
his hands slipped into his pockets, a nervous habit which was one she rarely ever saw.
then he nodded toward the room around them.
"good thing you don't have to." he nodded earnestly.
confusion flickered across her face. she laughed his name, "what are you talking about?"
"you don't have to dream about it, baby."
the silence that followed stretched before he finally said it.
"i bought it."
she blinked…once…twice.
the words clearly didn't fully register and he wanted to kiss her stupid as she gave him a look of purse confusion.
"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the kitchen.
still nothing.
her mouth opened slightly.
closed.
opened again.
jack fought back a smile because for someone so smart, she looked completely lost.
"you..." her voice disappeared.
jack nodded trying to get it out of her.
"i bought it." he said cocooning her into his arms as if to block her away from the rest of the world.
another heartbeat passed.
then another.
finally her eyes widened.
not a little.
a lot.
the kind of realization that arrives all at once. it was sudden and overwhelming and her heart was beating so fast she could have sworn that he could hear it.
"f-for us?" the question cracked in the middle.
jack's expression softened immediately.
"yeah." his voice was gentle, “so we can have somewhere that's ours."
the tears arrived instantly.
jack sighed.
because of course they did.
she slapped both hands over her face.
which somehow made it worse.
"sweetheart—"
"you bought me a house?”
his laugh filled the room. "i bought us a house."
"a whole house, jack."
"technically it's a townhouse." he teased causing her to let out a watery laugh.
then immediately started crying harder.
“i want you to decorate it however you want and i’m gonna help you.” he said softly, moving her hair behind her shoulders as she looked up at him. “we’re gonna make it ours.”
the next thing jack knew, she was throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.
of course he caught her automatically.
strong freckled arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against his chest.
the familiar scent of coffee and aftershave surrounded her instantly.
safe, comforting, home.
kack rested his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. neither of them spoke for a while.
they just stood there in the middle of their future living room as the sunlight poured in around them.
the house quiet and waiting.
finally she tilted her head back enough to look at him.
her eyes were red and her cheeks damp.
beautiful.
"you remembered." the words were tiny they made jack frown.
"remembered what?" he wanted to know, as he wiped his thumb against her wet cheeks.
she laughed softly. "the windows."
his expression immediately melted because of course that's what she was talking about.
not the price, or the size and not even the investment of it all.
the windows.
the thing she'd mentioned months ago during a random walk.
"the balcony." her voice trembled.
"the flower boxes."
jack brushed his thumb against her bottom lip as it quivered.
"i remember everything you tell me." he mused.
and judging by the way her face crumpled, that might have been the most emotional thing he'd said all day.
—
later, after the realtor returned and paperwork was discussed and the reality of it all slowly settled around them, they found themselves standing on the little front patio.
the one she'd always admired and pointed out dozens of times.
jack handed her the key, simple and unassuming. yet somehow heavier than anything she'd ever held before.
she stared at it in her palm, then up at him, then back at the house.
their house. their future.
their home.
jack leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before giving the smile that destroyed her every single time because it was the kind of smile he reserved only for her.
"what do you say we go back and start to unpack" he hummed.
and this time, when she looked at the townhouse, she didn't have to imagine anymore.
Thinking about surprising Jack at work with some good non-hospital coffee and food on a hard shift :,) everyone trying to get a peek at him being soft and in-love while not being too obvious (they are very obvious)
i do not give permission for any of my works to be reuploaded/ reposted, copied, fed into Al, etc. minors dni, age in bio or blocked.
18+! minors and ageless blogs will be blocked!! i do check every blog that interacts with my fics!
jack was usually quiet about his home life. that was for him to enjoy and keep selfishly close to his heart and his heart only. he loved his wife more than anything, and lord, he was going to keep her as far away from the trauma of his work as much as possible.
except today, apparently.
he didn't even realize he had left his lunch at home until he walked out of trauma bay three and saw you standing there chatting with lena.
jack was a man of routine, but once in a blue moon, something would throw him off. his shoes not where they normally are, his alarm going off a few minutes late, his bag not pre-packed the night before. today it was his breakfast. he must've forgotten to stock up on what he needed, and he had to spend a few extra minutes coming up with something on the fly. he was good at that, truly, but human error affects all humans regardless.
"what's going on?" he asked as he approached, still rubbing sanitizer into his hands. he tried to hide his concern, but you knew him better than he did sometimes. his face always gave it away.
"your wife was just telling me what you guys did over the weekend." lena grinned cheekily. he was never going to live this down. "i never pegged you for a tennis guy."
you laughed at his annoyed expression, pushing his lunch box towards him. "you left this on the counter this morning." you told him, "i figured you'd need the calories to get you through a long shift of saving lives."
he rolled his eyes at your teasing, gently grabbing your arm and the lunch box before ushering you into the empty break room.
"thank you, sweetheart." he hummed, planting a kiss to your cheek as the door swung closed. "you didn't have to come all the way out here, i can live on vending machine food for one day."
"no, because every time you do that, you eat three servings of dinner and i have no leftovers for lunch the next day." you laughed, pinching his stomach.
he jumped at the pinch, playfully swatting your hand away. "hey! watch it." he chuckles, moving to the communal fridge to set the lunch box inside. "is this heavier?"
you nodded. "i switched out your sandwich and granola bar with some actual food." you grinned, "that chicken bacon pasta you like, a salad, some fruit, and garlic bread."
he groaned in delight, coming over to grab your hips and kiss you properly. "you amaze me."
you laughed, shaking your head at him. "and the thermos has a marshmallow mocha latte in it, but the straw isn't see through, so you can still tell everyone it's just plain black coffee." you teased.
"you're an angel, really." he murmured, kissing you again. "thank you."
"your co workers seem nice," you commented against his lips, leaning against the table.
"they're vultures, is what they are." he snorted, "always on the hunt to find out anything they can about my personal life."
"mhm, is that why three of them are standing outside the break room right now?"
jack turned around just in time to see shen, mateo, and crus scatter like birds, finding anything nearby to make themselves look busy. you laughed, shaking your head at them.
"very subtle." you mused, smoothing your hands down his chest and straightening out his scrub top. "i can't stay long, i still need to get some sleep before my first client in the morning."
he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "jesus. vultures, like i said."
jack took a step back, taking your hand to help pull you away from the table and towards the break room door. he landed a playful smack against your ass as you passed by him, smiling innocently at your half-hearted glare.
he led you to the charge nurse desk again, giving you one last quick peck and a quiet exchange of i love you's before you were reluctantly on your way. jack leaned against the desk as he admired you.
"i'd love to see her in a tennis skirt." lena teased as she watched you walk away.
jack scoffed, crossing his arms. "yeah, yeah..." he huffed, shaking his head. "she looks fantastic in them."
Younger nurse reader having impeccable taste (her friends always ask her for fashion advice) and is girly and classy and likes the finer things in life. Abbot thinks that’s so cute and wants to spoil her so so bad but she won’t let him ;))) maybe it gets spicy too ;))
Ooo this is sooo good,I maybe have been a lil extra lmao. I know Jackie loves to spoil his girl. you know I had to make it spicyyyy I hope you like it!!!!
Warnings - 18+ MDNI, sex, unprotected
The Bag
One of Jack’s favourite things about you was watching other people ask for your opinion. Not medical opinions like he was used too, but fashion opinions, decor opinions.
Somehow you’d become the unofficial stylist for half the emergency department. Javadi texted you photos from changing rooms. Santos sent pictures of shoes before dates. Dana once spent an hour on the phone with you asking about her hallway and if the mirror was ‘too much’. And the annoying thing? You were always right.
You just had an eye for it. The stitching, the fabric, the cut, the quality. You noticed details nobody else seemed to see. Jack found it ridiculously attractive.
Not because of the clothes and furniture.
Because you cared about things.
You appreciated craftsmanship, effort, and the little details. It was one of a thousand reasons he was completely head over heels for you.
The only problem was that you never let him buy you anything, ever. Flowers? Absolutely not. Jewelery? No chance. Clothes? Get out.
It’s not that he didn’t want to, Christ he tried. You just insisted if you needed anything you were happy to buy it yourself. You didn’t want Jack wasting his hard earned money on your things.
Which was why Jack found himself standing in a department store one Saturday afternoon, watching you examine a handbag like it belonged in a museum.
The bag was beautiful. Soft leather. Elegant. Expensive in the quiet sort of way, not flash.
You picked it up, checked the stitching, ran your thumb along the strap and immediately smiled. Then you saw the price tag, the smile vanished. The bag went back on the shelf and you walked away. Jack didn’t say a word, but you could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain.
⸻
Three days later there was a very familiar box sitting on your kitchen counter.
You stared at it, then stared at Jack. He stared at his coffee, suddenly refusing to make eye contact.
“Jackie”
“Hm?”
“What’s this?”
You pointed at the box.
“Oh- the bag.”
Jack took a sip of coffee.
“The bag!?” You snapped, voice raising in a mix of shock and anger. You folded your arms and stepped towards him “Do you realise how much that cost?”
“Yeah, it’s fine”
“Jaaack.” You whined “It cost more than my first car!”
Jack considered that, his head now turning to look at you, still with his coffee in his hand and a smirk plastered across his face.
“It wasn’t a very good car then”
You laughed despite yourself “That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is.”
“It absolutely isn’t.”
Jack wandered around the kitchen island until he was standing in front of you, his hands settling on your hips.
“You liked it.”
“That’s not the point-“
Before you could finish his lips pressed against your forehead, his fingers gently pressing at the flesh on your waist.
“Baby, I don’t care how much it cost. You liked it and I wanted to buy it for you. You have to let me treat you sometimes. I love being able to spoil you”
Your heart immediately did that annoying thing it always did when he got serious.
“You don’t have to buy me things though Jackie”
“I know.”
The answer stopped you. There was no argument in his voice. No frustration. Just certainty. You immediately looked down, slightly embarrassed. Jack laughed quietly, slowly stroking his thumb across your jaw.
“Thankyou Jackie- I love it so much, you really didn’t have to but I love it so much baby. But no more gifts!! You’re all I need” you kisses his chest and hugged him a little tighter.
“Is this a bad time to tell you there’s another box?” he chuckled.
Your eyes shot up to him, he looked down at you with a grin before pulling another box forward on the counter. It was smaller, a shiny black plastic, thin square box.
You turned around, not showing your excitement, Jacks fingers still tracing your waist, you could almost feel him smiling from behind you.
You opened the box, pulled the thin paper tissue across to reveal a black lace bra and panties. Tiny silver crystals dotted around the padding of the bra, the matching panties with the tiny silver gems at each side. Your eyes practically lit up.
“Oh my god Jack - they’re beautiful”
Before he said anything you spun around and pulled him into a tight hug, burying your face into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, warm and familiar.
“I was thinking you should try that on? Ya know just so we know it fits?” He smirked.
You wasted no time, letting out a little giggle, then took the barely-there fabric and skipped off towards the bedroom.
⸻
Maybe you had done a little too much. You didn’t just put the outfit on, while you were in there you had fixed up your hair, running your hands through to create volume. Touched up the makeup you already had on and sprayed the perfume you knew Jack loved.
As much as you didn’t like to admit it you loved when he bought you gifts. You didn’t love that he spent his money on you, but you loved how he always knew exactly the kind of stuff you loved. So it was only right to dress all pretty for him, right?
⸻
You walked out the bedroom a little later, Jack had made his way to the sofa, he was half watching the weekly football roundup. As he heard your footsteps approach he turned around, one arm resting on the cushions at the back.
“Fuckin’ hell baby” he spluttered, his own hand slapping his chest as to clear it.
You leaned against the doorway as his eyes darted over your body. He wasted no time in getting off the couch and walking directly towards you, his hands cupping you ass straight away as he pulled you into a hungry wet kiss, you could feel the lace panties getting soaked between your legs.
“Mhm- wait Jackie- let’s go to bed” you giggled, pulling away from the kiss and pulling him by his hand into the other room. He followed you like a puppy until you reached the bed, your hands moved to his wide shoulders before sitting him down on the bed. You sat on his lap, one leg kneeled either side of him and sat back a little. His hands stroking across your body from your ankles, to your stomach, then your chest and finally your neck.
He pulled you into a kiss, his hand still at the back of your neck. A slow, wet and needy kiss. As you grinded your hips down onto him, both of you moaning. His hands gripped onto you ass, pushing you onto him harder.
“Fuck baby - you look so pretty - I don’t even want to take em off” he groaned.
You hands trailed to his waistband, palming over his hard cock underneath the fabric before you gave a gentle squeeze, a grunt falling from his lips as you looked at his hungry eyes.
“Let’s just pull em to the side Jackie” you whined.
As you pulled his cock free from his waistband the tip glistened with precum, you traced your thumb over the top as he threw his head back.
“Fuck baby - no teasing - fuck c’mere” he moaned.
He reluctantly released his grip on your cheeks to pull his hand to your front, snaking between your legs as your toyed with his throbbing cock. His fingers slipped under the delicate fabric and wiped against your slick folds. Whines fell from your lips as he trailed against you, moving your wetness all around.
“Oh fuck, baby- so wet-fuck I can’t wait to feel you” he groaned.
He pulled the lace to the side as you guided yourself over him, your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. His cock pressed into your needy hole, gentle but firm, his breath was ragged as he squeezed at your thighs to ground himself. Your own whimpers echoing around the room as he filled you.
As you moved your hips against him his thumb searched for your clit, not rubbing, not moving, just firm pressure as you warmed up to his wide cock.
“Jesus baby - so fuckin tight on me” he rasped.
As you picked up the pace your hands draped over his shoulders, his breath growling in your ear as you pushed yourself onto him.
Your nails dug into the skin on his shoulders, the pale skin that’s usually hidden under a shirt, as you rode him. You’d finally got the rhythm just right, the pool of heat building in your stomach as you forced yourself down onto him.
You bounced yourself down, hitting that sweet spot that felt so good no noise came out. His hands grabbed onto your ass, forcing your wet cunt down onto him harder than before. You own hand trailing down your front, furiously rubbing circles over your clit.
“Yes yes-right there Jackie-please I’m gonna cum” you squealed.
Your legs shook as your pussy tightened around him, his groans bouncing off the walls. Your orgasm crashed over you as you whined and whimpered in his ear.
It didn’t take much more to finish him off, the way you sounded when you came, the way you tightened around him and the way your nails dug into his skin.
He pulled you body down onto his cock as you grinded against him, writing and whining at all the overstimulation. With a few final bounces, he threw his head back as his hands gripped hard onto your hips.
“Ohh fuck baby-“ he groaned loud. You could feel the hot ropes of cum filling into you and slowly seeping out. You paused for a moment, utterly exhausted and content before Jack let out a signature old man groan as he laid back.
You body fell on top of his, both of you sweating and panting as you tried to catch your breath, his cock still gently twitching inside you. He stocked his hands up and down your back before you let out a small giggle.
“What’s so funny baby?” He quizzed, you could hear the smile through his voice.
“It’s nothing Jackie, I was just thinking I might let you buy me some more things now”
✶ pairing | jack abbot x f!reader
✶ word count | 470-ish
✶ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mutual masturbation, sex toys, getting off on someone else getting off, unspecified age-gap, exhibitionism, voyeurism, neighbor!jack, i'm too old for you!jack vs okay fucking bet!reader
✶ notes | bro i live in a shitty apartment with thin walls and i'm sandwiched in between two squalling children 🥲 i WISH i had this instead. i'm still working on my wips (esp the rabbot x reader) but needed to take a break and inspiration struck bc my neighbors are loud.
masterlist | ao3 | inbox | requests, taglist, submissions: open
jack abbot knows you're doing it on purpose.
there's no fucking way you're THIS unaware of how thin the walls separating your apartments are. now he’s no stranger to cheap insulation and scummy landlords, having lived in his fair share of dodgy places, but it's never been this… intolerable.
in fact, being your neighbor is more akin to a personal hell — his divine punishment for being a creep. and he gets it, alright. you're half his age give or take a few years for chrissake. he's too old, too weathered by life. widowed by tragedy and married to his job.
is he really supposed to ignore the jiggle of your ass when you bound up the stairwell in your workout gear, lycra clinging to the plush fat? smother how much he wants to squeeze and grope and bite; watch the flesh dimple and spill out from between the squeeze of his fingers?
why?
so what if he looks and likes (even when he knows he shouldn’t) — he’s only human; a man beneath all the grit and grime.
he’s not doing anything illegal, and no one else needs to know about how he adjusts himself afterwards lest he take out an eye while waiting for the elevator. he’s discreet like that. anyway, you never seem to mind if the subtle sway of your hips is any indication.
(half the time he feels like you’re taunting him on purpose.)
and isn't it rude to brush off that sparkle in your eyes when you shoot him a friendly smile in the mailroom? to not strip his cock raw when he fucks his fist while getting off to the sounds of you stuffing your pussy in the next room over — he bets you're cute; swollen and soft and soaked — with a toy again and again?
you're putting on a show and it'd be a shame if he didn't show his appreciation…right? right.
(though he promises he'll fuck you better if you just give him the chance.)
besides is he really meant to restrain himself from fantasizing about pinning your tongue beneath his fingers with every moan that slips out of your mouth because, "don't you know you need to be quiet, baby, these walls are so, so thin and your pretty sounds are for my ears only"? pretend like he doesn't hear an increase in the tempo of your thrusts, the squelching schlick-schlick-schlick as you make a mess of your sheets, when he joins you in touching himself?
or when he cums so hard to your breathy mewl of, "j-jack, oh fuck, right there, i'm gonna—" he nearly bites through his lip, whining in the back of his throat because his fat load streaks across his belly, sticky puddles making a mess of his chest, when he'd rather pump it so deep inside of your pussy you leak his jizz for days after?
honestly, what the fuck is he supposed to do?
especially when he runs into you the next day outside your respective apartment doors and you coo his name (are you flirting? it sounds like you're flirting). "think you could give me a demonstration next time?" you say with a flutter of your lashes and a sharp grin. "i'm more of a hands-on learner."
fuck, he's gonna have a heart attack before his lease is up.
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]
⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]
PART FIVE 𖤓★ — June 10th
PART SIX — June 15th
PART SEVEN — June 20th
PART EIGHT — June 25th
More chapters TBD
─── ⋆ EXTRAS ⋆
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
SUNDAY FUNK DAY SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
SUMMARY: You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop.
WARNINGS: flirting, mentions of Tom, rimjob discussion (don't ask just read), light talks of anxiety, some swearing
A/N: okay this is kinda like a little filler part of the series, helps with background for part five and also I just feel like it's cute to see them conversing through texts too!! Not only that but I'm aware of how long the chapters for the series are so I thought it would be fun to give you a bit of a breather from my rambling before the next part LOL
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
Okay, obviously this chapter is very different from the others, it's mainly just a little filler part to break up how bulky the series has become (word count wise) but I also thought it would be so fun to see what' going on in between part 4 and 5!!
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
summary: “I will pay for your coffee,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
word count: 4k (smut and fluff mainly)
a/n: i know i'm supposed to work on the part two of my andrew story, but...yeah, episode 7 was really something for my brain
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
One of the few undeniable advantages of the apartment is its location.
A single block separates your front door from the ER, which means: no subway delays, no buses filled with people’s germs and no waisted minutes that could be spent studying.
The apartment itself, however, is less impressive. It’s small, a fifth-floor walk-up with a radiator that only works every other day in winter, but it saves you from many issues, especially after a twelve-hour shift. Like most attendings say: efficiency is survival in third year. And this place is efficient.
The other perk is Jack Abbot, who objectively is a good roommate.
He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.
The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.
It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.
Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.
You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.
“Jack.”
He doesn’t even look up. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet!”
“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”
You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.
“I just need a small, tiny favor.”
“No.”
“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.
One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”
You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”
“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”
“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”
“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”
“You froze.”
I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.
“It was just…one second.”
“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”
You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.
“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious!”
“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”
“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.
He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”
“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”
He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.
You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.
The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.
You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”
His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”
“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”
He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says again, quieter.
You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.
“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”
You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.
“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”
You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.
Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.
Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.
Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.
“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”
──────────
Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”
“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.
He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”
You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”
“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”
You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.
“Oh, immensely.”
“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”
You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”
“I’ll go down on you.”
“What?” you ask slowly.
He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”
“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”
His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”
“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”
The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.
“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.
And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.
“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).
“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.
And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.
You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.
You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.
──────────
Four days after, you get behind on your charting.
Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.
“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”
He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”
You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”
Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.
“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.
“Oh, really.”
“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”
Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.
Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.
──────────
“Hey kid.”
You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.
“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”
He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.
Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.
“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.
“How long?”
You blink. “How long what?”
“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.
You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”
He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”
Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”
He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).
“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.
His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”
You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.
You can’t help but smile back at him.
Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”
Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.
“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”
You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.
“I hate you, Robinavitch.”
“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.
Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.
And there is a thing.
──────────
It happens after the code blue.
You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.
Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.
By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.
The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.
You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”
The door opens quietly behind you.
“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.
The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”
“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.
He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”
His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.
Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”
Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.
You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”
You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.
“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”
You study him, skeptical.
“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”
He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.
“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”
“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.
“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.
Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.
The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.
And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?
He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.
Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.
“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”
You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”
“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.
“Oh, do I know her?”
“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”
You pinch his side. “Rude.”
“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”
“Unbelievable.”
“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”
You swallow. “Oh. Her.”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love that.”
You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.
“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”
You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.
Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”
“Shower.”
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summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
Hi, I just had to tell you that I'm still thinking about the Pope's Secret Wife you wrote, it keeps spinning around in my head and I love it
eeee!! i've been thinking about it so much that i started a second part
prev
(pope had tried going home. his key didn't work, his wife didn't answer the knock on the door. you must be out somewhere doing something else. so he leaves, goes to his mothers house to say hello and kill time)
"I'll just go back to my place."
smurf looks at her son. the way she looks at baz passes the responsibility onto him. "you can't, man," he says and looks back at pope. "we sold it."
the rest of the cody's try not to be scared of pope. yeah, they wonder what folsom did to him, but he wouldn't hurt them, right? smurf wouldn't let him.
but, right now, they can't tell. their brother is fucking crazy and he looks like he wants to hurt every person in this room.
"where's my wife?" he asks, his voice a deadly calm. "where's my fucking wife?!"
"it's okay, baby," smurf says, reaching for him again. "we've kept her safe, but we've got some stuff to take care of before that."
smurf has you. pope had spent so long trying to keep you and your daughter safe from his family and she has you.
"i'm upset with you, pope," smurf says as she fixes herself another drink. "keeping my beautiful grandbabies from me."
***
a knock at your door. it's had you jumpy for the last three years, since your husband was taken from you. the people that knew never told you what happened, leaving you entirely in the dark as you raise two kids in a dingy apartment.
and you're afraid, terrified. which of her sons would she send to demand rent cheques that you couldn't pay? it went the same way every time. you insisting that you can't pay, craig or deran (baz rarely came by) getting smurf on the phone. she agrees to let the rent go if you bring her grandbabies by.
her grandbabies. not your children. not andrews children. but her grandbabies. you feel sick each and every time you take them into that house, the house your husband was abused in.
you look through the peephole. smurf stands on the other side of the door, her sons flanking her. you turn to your daughter, colouring in front of the tv. "belle, honey," you call and your six year old turns to you. "go sit with your brother."
she nodded and heads towards the bedroom she shares with her brother, who is currently napping.
you pull the door open just enough for smurf to see your face. "what do you want, smurf?" you ask, your voice short.
"drop the hostility, baby," she says, trying to look behind you. you block her view. "i've got a surprise for you."
your jaw is set, your stare hardened. whatever smurf had, it couldn't good. you look to the side.
his hair is shorter, his shoulder hunched like he's carrying the weight of the world. "andrew?" you breathe like you can't quite believe it.
he looks at you and you finally see your husband. you run at him, unable to hold yourself back. he doesn't catch you when you wrap your arms around him, doesn't kiss you back when you press your lips to his. no, he's staring at his mother like he wants to put a bullet in her head.
"where's belle?" he whispers, like his mother won't find out if he says it quietly enough.
"she's inside," you answer and reach for his hand. "i have to tell you something."
but you don't want to say it with his family surrounding you. you want to drag him into the apartment, into the place where you had to try and build a life without him. fuck, you want to cry.
"grandma!"
your spine stiffens as belle runs out of the apartment. she runs at smurf, who immediately drops down for a hug. "there''s my best girl!" smurf cries. you know she truly loves your kids, her grandkids, but that woman is nothing but bad. she looks up at you as she hugs belle. "where's adam?" she asks you.
you pull your husband behind you. you pull hi into the apartment while smurf asks your daughter if she'd like to come live in her house. "i have to tell you something," you say quietly as andrew follows you. "I was pregnant when you left."
six words so easily shatter his world. andrew looks at you, looks around the apartment. it's an entire mess, like you partially stopped functioning without him. only holding on for your kids.
"you have a son, andrew," you say and reach up to feel his hair. he lets you.
you lead him through the apartment to the kids bedroom. adam sleeps in his crib, holding onto a teddy almost the same size as him. a little boy, a little version of andrew, sleeping like an angel.
andrew doesn't cry. he stares at his son with the same fondness he uses to look at his daughter. a sweet man that's been through so much, that just wants to love his family. he reaches down, brushes adams cheek with his finger.
pope decides it then. he's gonna make this right. he's gonna do whatever jobs smurf wants him to so that he can find you a better place to live. a place where your neighbours aren't all low level criminals.
(smurf brings you to live with her while andrew is at the motel. she doesn't give you much of a choice; your kids are living in a 'safe environment' and your husband spends every day at her house, every day with you.
at first, belle doesn't recognise her dad. she was almost three when he went in, six when he came out. it breaks pope's heart, until she comes to him one day.
"mommy showed me pictures of you," she tells him, staring up at him with his eyes. "she says you're my daddy."
he nods at her. "i am your daddy," he says and crouches down in front of her. belle takes his hand. and that's good enough for him)
Summary: You send him photos while he's at work and he spends the rest of his shift dwelling on them. With all that pent up energy, what else is he supposed to do when he gets home other than teach you a lesson?
CW: smut, pwp, unprotected piv, creampie, heavy on the overstim (with a vibrator), dirty talk, sir kink, power dynamics, dom!jack, cowgirl position.
Note: Hi, I'm back with more husband!Jack x wife!reader. I just know that man is absolutely obsessed with his wife okayy. Kind of a part two to silver soul? But you don't have read one to read the other, I just imagine them being in the same uhh universe. Hope you enjoy! Feel free to slide into my inbox guys. I'd love to chat and interact more! :> Credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider.
Word Count: 3.7k
Ao3 Link: read here!
There are still eight hours left in his shift when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Jack feels dead on his feet already. His body just isn’t used to being up at this time, especially after a work week of night shifts. His circadian rhythm is all out of whack, but he’s owed Robby the favour for a while now. It’s a blessing in disguise though, or so that’s what he tells himself to get through each grueling hour.
He stands a chance at getting home early enough to take you out to dinner. Reservations are booked and paid for—at that fancy rooftop restaurant you’d been showing him pictures of the other day. Your not so subtle way of letting him know that’s where you wanted to go for your next date night. It’s hard to say, for sure, if the after work plans really make it more or less difficult to endure today’s shift.
Jack rounds a corner and steps back against the wall, slipping his phone from his pocket. He’s caught himself in one of those rare moments where he’s not being pulled in every which direction—a sort of paradox that he oftentimes finds himself doubting even exists until he’s amidst it.
The screen lights up and there’s a message from you. You’ve attached a photo. His brows furrow. It’s probably nothing important. Something you want or something silly you saw that made you think of him. He should tuck his phone into his pocket and get back to work, but when does Jack ever do the things he should? A scarce occurrence. Surveying the hall one last time, he returns his attention to his phone. The thumb that’s hovering over the notification presses down and the messaging app opens.
It takes his brain a moment to process what pops up on his phone screen. He thinks that he can feel his heart jump to his throat. His finger twitches over the power button, but he doesn’t pull the trigger—can’t bring himself to, nor tear his eyes away. It’s a photo. One of you. Tits wrapped up in pretty white lace, scalloped along the edge. You’re laying on your shared bed, crumpled sheets beneath you. His cock stirs in his pants, and he reaches down to discreetly adjust himself. Another photo appears before he can fully gather himself and begin to reckon with the first one. This time your hand has slithered into a matching pair of sheer white panties that do not disguise anything. Nothing is left up to the imagination.
The colour frames you as the very picture of innocence. A pretty little thing, yet you are anything but innocent. Hell, you might as well be conspiring upon his downfall. He swears he’s just experienced all five stages of grief in the span of the five seconds he’s spent with his eyes glued to his phone screen. As if he didn’t miss you enough, you find a way to torment him further. He begins to type out a response, but he flounders and his fingers tremble over the screen. He’s stunted, caught halfway between scolding you, teasing you, or outright complimenting you. None of it feels right. His mind races.
Someone moves past him, so he clicks his phone off and shoves it into his pocket in a manner that’s not exactly inconspicuous.
Langdon gives him a look. “You okay?”
Jack clears his throat and nods. “Yeah, man.” He pushes off the wall and slinks away, ducking his head slightly.
Dana catches his eye immediately, calling out to him. “Abbot! Need you in trauma one, multi-collision accident.”
And just like that he is thrown back into the fray.
There’s never been a day in which you don’t follow him into the ER like a shadow. You, the love of his life. You, the light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. But today you haunt him. The phone in his pocket holds an extra weight. Normally you are his sanctity—blissful respite from his chaotic line of work, but you had opened a wound hours ago and it’s been festering ever since.
He’s been off his game—making a fool of himself, and stumbling through his shift like an amateur. The cool and collected attending physician, Dr. Jack Abbot, reduced to a bumbling mess. Everyone can tell. He tries not to dwell, but he just can’t get the image of you out of his mind. It erodes him and every ounce of constraint. The end of the day can’t come soon enough.
And when he’s finally off, he’s not entirely sure why his brain conjures up the image it does. One of you wanting and waiting for him at home—still done up in that lacy set eight hours later. Maybe because he’s been so honed in on those photos, on you, that he’s become sickeningly obsessed with the thought.
Except when he gets home and trudges upstairs you are not laying on the bed. Whatever fantasy had deluded his mind splinters. The bathroom door is open and warm light pools into the adjoined room. You’re stood in front of the mirror in one of your little slip dresses, mascara wand in hand. It’s like nothing happened at all. You barely even acknowledge his arrival with more than a glance at him in the reflection as you busy yourself with getting ready for your outing.
He strides right up behind you, and winds his arms around your middle. Nosing at the side of your neck, he takes in your scent. You’re wearing the perfume he gifted you for your birthday two years ago. Your favourite and his.
“You,” he begins, sliding his gaze up to meet yours in the mirror's reflection, “are sick and twisted.”
A smile graces your lips. He’s hard already, erection pressing against you from behind. “It doesn’t take much, does it?” Your voice is lilting, teasing him and trying to work him up. And you succeed. Effortlessly. He is obsessed with you, and you know it. That’s the danger. That’s how you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but he can play your games too.
He squeezes your hips, and tugs you impossibly closer, relishing the way you gasp and your body jolts. His hand moves to your thigh before roaming up and under the skirt of your dress. He thumbs at your underwear, humming at the feel of the lacy material.
“Jack,” you warn, your voice clipped, “that’s for after dinner.”
“What? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, eyes tracking your movements as you place the mascara wand down and twist around in his hold to face him. He immediately steals the moment, seizing the opportunity to back you up and park you up against the bathroom vanity. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it.”
He leans down and presses his lips to yours even as you brace a hand against his chest. Still, his hands are already scheming along the hem of your dress, working it up past your hips. “Don't you go getting shy on me now,” he whispers, lips brushing yours as he speaks. He brings a hand up between your legs and cups your heat. He can feel how wet you’ve gotten immediately, tucking two thick fingers right along your slit. You wobble, and your practiced composure slips with the quietest squeak.
“Jack…” you say in hushed protest, but it’s halfhearted. He knows you well enough to piece together that it's just an act you like to put on. Reluctant and above his depravity, but you aren’t. He has the receipts in his phone. Today you’ve proved you might just be worse than him. He lets out a chuckle and hoists you up, patting your thigh as you lock your legs around his waist.
He approaches the bed and you jostle with each stilted step he takes, breath hitching when he halts and drops you to the mattress. His hands are already hiking your dress up again, and you sit up so he can pull it over your head and toss it aside. A low groan rumbles through his chest as he sits back to take in the sight of you.
“A surprise for after dinner, huh?” he questions with a scoff, shaking his head. “You went and spoiled it, honey.”
The irony is that you have nothing to say for yourself—you lay there, staring up at him with all that heat in your eyes, and no words to back yourself up. Just a needy little thing, squirming below him as you get ready to part your legs for him without question or hesitation.
And he watches slowly as you do, knees falling away from one another. His eyes flit down to the centerpiece of this painting you’ve created for him. Sheer panties cling to your slickened cunt that you’ve offered up to him on a silver platter. You expect him to give in just like that—to cave at the mere sight of your pussy—to drop to his knees and worship at your altar like he has so many times before. It would be a bold-faced lie to say he doesn’t want to do just that, but after the little stunt you pulled today, he’s not so inclined to give in as easily as he usually does.
A glimpse of something bright draws his attention to the nightstand. A little pink silicone wand sits on the surface, plugged in and charging. He looks back to you, raising a brow. He reaches past you, body crowding yours before retreating again. The weight of it settles in the palm of his hand, his fingers curling over the handle as he turns it over and assesses it. He’s not unfamiliar with it by any means. No, he’s recognized it in the bottom of your bedside drawer on numerous occasions. It’s only natural with him being away so often and for so long. Something to stave you over while he’s gone.
He slides a thumb over the smooth, almost velvet, silicone until he finds the power button, a shallow divot in its surface. The stare you’re giving him is like a physical prick on his skin. You remain silent as you watch him with a racing heart and bated breath. Holding the button down for a few seconds brings the toy to life. It begins to vibrate lowly in his grasp.
He clicks it once and then twice. The vibrations grow more intense each time. He cycles through the settings about six times before it returns to the lowest one. “This just didn’t quite do it for you today, huh?”
The buzzing is entirely too loud in the stillness of the bedroom, and you have the audacity to look embarrassed. As if you have anything to be ashamed of in front of your own husband.
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, lowering the toy and slowly beginning to skim it up your twitching thigh. “Though if I didn’t know any better, I might get the impression that I’ve been neglecting you—that I don’t come home every day and fuck you right.”
The tip of the vibrator grazes the junction between your thigh and where you’re needing attention most. He pauses, pupils dilating at the helpless whine you let out.
“That’s not—!” your response is shuttered the instant he taps your clit. Twice before pressing firmly and holding still.
“My job is important.” He moves down then back up again. “I can’t afford to be distracted.”
“M’sorry…” you whimper, hips jerking. Jack tsks, shaking his head. You’re apologizing only because you think that’s what he wants to hear—submitting to him—rolling over and baring your stomach because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You’re not sincere in your sentiments. You’re loving every moment of what’s come of those pictures.
Those damned pictures. It's frustrating how gorgeous you are. Even more so the way it requires barely any effort on your part to throw him for a loop. He’s seen shit. He's been through thick and thin in the ER, overseas, and through all of it he kept composed. Today had clearly outlined his greatest weakness. You.
“Are you?” he presses, looking for something more—looking to drag it out of you. He clicks the button, and the vibrations heighten. You moan and writhe on the bed. Your panties are completely soaked through now. “You don’t look it.”
“Yes—ah! Yes, sir…! So sorry, sir.” Now you’re just laying it on thick. Nonetheless, it stokes the fire in his belly, arousal like flames rising higher and higher. His cock stirs and your hand reaches for it greedily, barely managing to palm at it before his snaps down and shoves yours away. The look he gives you is lesson enough to keep your hands to yourself for the time being.
“Mhm.” His lack of response has your stomach flipping.
He's chosen not to designate any words to your second attempt at an apology, instead returning his focus to the matter at hand—your apparent and voracious neediness. With another click, he dials the vibrations up again. He circles your clit with the wand, lathering it with all his attention until you’re keening. You tense, your toes curl, your hands grapple with the comforter below. You completely unravel.
There’s a split second where you wilt, and your body mires to the bed. You’re sinking and sinking, head lulling to the side as you fade in and out of the moment unfolding before you. Then your brain rushes to catch up, your hips jerking the instant you register that the buzzing against your clit hasn’t stopped.
Jack looks all too smug as he watches you crumble. You look at him ready to ask him what he’s doing, but before the words can leave your mouth—another click. You cry out. It’s already beginning to feel too much, but in the next moment your body adjusts, relaxing as he begins working you from one orgasm into the next.
Before long you are coming unstitched at the seams again, making all sorts of pathetic sounds that feed into him. It’s like music to his ears. Finally, he withdraws and sets the vibrator down on the bed, only so he can pluck at your panties and yank them down, muttering about how they were getting in the way.
You watch bleary eyed as he reaches for the toy again. A soft sound of protest escapes you. He hovers it a couple centimetres from your clit, threatening to bear down again.
“How many times do you think you can come?”
You hum, brows knitting together as you process his words. He goes on without waiting for your response.
“You know, there’s some anecdotal evidence that suggests a woman can orgasm as many as twenty times in a row.” His voice has lost its usual edge. He sounds almost clinical. You swallow hard. That little tidbit of information sobers you up from your post-orgasmic daze immediately, heart jumping. “What do you think? Should we put it to the test?”
“Jack… I can’t,” you whisper, curling in on yourself, but he rends you back open and wrenches your legs apart.
“C’mon, you can give me one more at least,” he says, smirk pulling at the corner of his lips because it’s a little ridiculous—bartering for his wife's third orgasm, but he can see that look in your eyes. You’ll entertain his bargaining because you’re exactly where you want to be.
“How many was that?”
Your mind has drawn a blank. Your cunt clenches around nothing for the—you don't know how many'th time. Jack has worked you over again and again, but not a single number rests on the tip of your tongue. You can't even answer how long he's been at it, sitting before you, toying with your wrecked and spoiled body. Over and over.
Sweat cools on your skin and your breathing has turned ragged. Pleasure and ache have converged into one, but they've begun to untangle again. The sensations oscillate between the two. Your perception is distorted. You don’t know. The answer continues to evade you. He watches as you tremor, convulsions rippling through every muscle. You’re a mess. A beautiful one. A puddle of limbs and whimpers, completely at his mercy.
You’re all his.
“Pretty baby… I’m gonna need you to use your words,” he coos. That grabs your attention, dewy lashes flickering as you look at him with glossy eyes. The sound you offer in response is pitiful—something partway between a sob and a mewl. He prods your swollen, oversensitized clit, and you cry out. A tear slips down your cheek. He swipes it away.
You can’t handle much more. It’s pure static—electrical currents coursing through your veins. Synapses misfiring. Muscles spasming. He can tell that you’re toeing the line, treading closer and closer to complete a collapse.
“I dunno,” you babble, squirming away from the touch. “Too much, Jack—it’s too much…”
Poor thing. He relents, holding the power button until the vibrating stops. He chucks the toy halfway across the bed and crawls over you, lowering to plant a kiss to your temple. A large hand slides up your side. His thumb sweeps over your waist, graphing the stretch marks spiderwebbed over the skin there.
“It’s okay,” he says, sitting back so he can tug his shirt off. The mattress dips next to you as he lays down and drags you back into his arms. “S’okay. Did so good for me, didn’t you?”
You give a noncommittal hum as you nod, huddling close until your cheek is squished against his chest. Your fingertips trace lazy patterns over his bicep, charting constellations in the freckles there. There’s a set of them that look like a heart, or so you’ve told him in the past. You’d giggled when he had immediately knocked his chin to his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the pattern you claimed to see. He wasn’t so sure of it, even now, but you’ve always been so adamant about it. He smiles and places a kiss at your hairline and then another one, wrapping an arm over your shoulders and squeezing you tight.
Jack’s head tips and his eyes fall askance, drifting to the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s an hour past your reservation. Shit. You feel him tense beneath you and your gaze trails after his. He looks back to you, managing a sheepish smile in reply to the pointed look you give him.
“I’ll make you something nice,” he says as you sit up. You’re straddling him now. His hands brace your hips as he leans up and kisses your tummy, daring to move lower. “And I’ll take you to that restaurant tomorrow.” He’s smart enough to add, but you still look a little disappointed.
“And the next day…?” He croaks.
You shake your head, laughing softly. His hands remain glued to your sides as you slide yourself lower and lower until he's groaning. You roll into him. He grabs handfuls of your ass, tugging you down.
“Thought you didn’t have anything left in you?” He asks, his voice pinched as you shift over him. His erection is frustratingly hard and still trapped behind his zipper.
“Well, I figured I owe you one…” you murmur. You’ve taken insatiable to a whole other level, and he's not entirely sure what he ever did to deserve you. Jack certainly won't take you for granted though.
You lean back onto your haunches so you can unbuckle his belt. Your fingers fumble with it for a few seconds before you finally begin to work him free. His cock stands rigid, weeping at the tip. He’s been waiting for this all day, since you’d sent him those pictures so many hours ago. Your hand wraps itself around his shaft, gliding up the curve of it and then falling back down.
Jack heaves a shaky breath, his body shuddering after being starved of relief for hours on end. It had been suffocating, but your tender touch is already breathing life back into him. Your thumb slips over the slit at his tip, smearing a droplet of precome. His eyes clench shut. The line of his shoulders goes taut, brows pinch, and jaw clenches. Your gaze trails his form, taking him in. The wide breadth of him. The way his arms flex as he holds onto you, prominent veins running up the lengths of them.
He’s about to come right then and there, having barely just gotten started. Heat creeps up his neck, tinting his cheeks the moment he admits such a thing to himself.
“Fuck,” he pants, blinking his eyes open. “Quit it—need to be inside you.”
Suddenly, he’s hauling you forward until you’re positioned over him. Steadily, you begin to lower yourself onto his cock, exhaling when he bottoms out. He moans below you, throwing his head back as you rock down onto him. His hips begin to meet yours halfway, taking on a matching rhythm.
Slithering his hands around to your back, he unclasps your bra. The straps slip from your shoulders. He's instantly mesmerized by the way your tits bounce as you move up and down on his cock. His hands come up to fondle them. They fit perfectly in his palms. He kneads them gently.
Before long he is on the verge again. The plush walls of your cunt are wrapped so snugly around him, clenching and fluttering, sucking him in and pushing him out. You fall forward until your lips clash against his. He is holding you, hands roaming all over as if trying to scoop up as much of you as possible and bring you closer—meld you into him. You give another couple languid rolls. Stars split in the darkness behind his eyelids when they fall shut. He moans into your mouth and you swallow the sound. He hones in on your hips again, grabbing them up and pulling them down, stilling their movement so he can pour into you.
The kiss breaks off and you slump over him. He rubs your back as his cock softens, still buried inside you while simultaneously feeling himself leak out of you.
“Just so you know,” his voice is a whisper in your ear, “if you ever send me pictures at work again I’ll make sure we spend another evening beating your record.”
You shuffle above him, and for a while it’s the only indication you heard him.
“That’s a really unorthodox way of asking me for more pictures, Jack.”
“You're nothing but trouble.”
“And you love it.”
A beat of silence. You can hear the smile in his voice when he next speaks.
Hey can you write a fic where andrew protects the reader? Maybe something like that scene with amy where he almost beats her brother.
I was thinking something like maybe andrew and reader...are friends but more...and maybe she s a tentant to one of smurfs proprties and when he comes to collect rent(and take her out to the beach for a coffee like he always does or something) just to find reader arguing with an ex and throwing punches. Maybe reader is sensitive, emotional, sweet(maybe a doctor or something to be a contrast to Andrews rough persona)
Beating (Pope Cody)
a/n: EEEEEEE thank you anon! love you anon! (made the reader a struggling actress/waitress…oops)
MDNI - 18+
CONTENTS: pope cody x f! tenant! reader, angst, fighting, r! reader! deals with her ex, smut, unprotected p in v, major smurf mention, inexperienced pope, sub! pope, he just doesn’t know what to do but he wants to make you feel good!
WORD COUNT: 1.7k+
now playing: angel by massive attack
divider by @/mieluno
You had moved to Oceanside to start over, especially after your acting career fell through. The countless auditions that would be turned down, it was discouraging, so instead you seeked comfort in the waves that would comb across the shores.
You had picked up a waitressing job before moving from Los Angeles, the money was…well decent enough for the area. You would struggle from paycheck to paycheck, but shit, you needed an escape.
You had researched countless apartments and rooms online, struggling to find a place within your budget. It wasn’t until you found the Cody’s properties that you found the perfect fit. Sure, they were small and rundown, but it was the only thing that met your needs for the right price.
The movers were unloading the boxes from the moving truck when Smurf approached you. She stuck out her hand as she greeted you. “Janine Cody.”
“Pleasure to finally meet you,” you said as you glanced back at the door to your room. “Hey, I just wanted to say thank you for letting me rent this place. It’s hard to find decent places in the area for this cheap.”
“Anytime, sweetie,” She smiled. “My son will stop by on the first of the month to collect your rent.”
“Got it,” you sighed, thinking back to your hectic schedule for this next month at the restaurant. “I’ll make sure to be here.”
“Pope,” Smurf said that night. “I want you to take the property next to Deran’s bar, collect the rent every month, and do the maintenance.”
“You know that’s the one property I didn’t want, Smurf.” Pope growled.
“Who knows,” Pope grinned. “There may be an incentive for you.”
Pope greeted you that next month, sighing as his knuckles knocked the door.
“Hey, rent is due,” He huffed. “Open up.”
“Sorry,” you said as you opened the door. “I was just grabbing the cash.”
You offered him a thick envelope full of cash, he absently took it as he stared at you. Your large eyes meeting his stare, your messy hair resting around your exposed collarbones.
“I’m pretty sure it’s all there,” you piped up. “If not, just let me know. I’ll give you some of my extra tip money or something.”
He kept staring at you, heat creeping into your cheeks.
“I-I- mean I’ll figure it out,” You grew awkward underneath his intense gaze.
“S-Sorry, I’m Pope,” He said as he went to shake your hand, you grasped his hand. “You can call me Andrew.”
“Nice name, Andrew,” You smiled. “Same time next month?”
“Sure,” You closed the door and he smiled to himself.
The next month, he would stop by his favorite cafe next to your apartment.
“Anything else?” The barista asked.
Shit, he didn’t know your coffee order.
“U-Um,” He stuttered. “Maybe your best pastry?”
He knocked on your door again, nervous to speak to such a pretty face like yours.
“Oh, back so soon?” You chuckled as you handed him the envelope.
“Yeah, um,” he rasped. “I brought you this.”
He handed you the box that housed the pastry he bought for you. You gasped like it was the best thing you ever received.
“Thank you!” You exclaimed. “This truly made my day, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
“You should probably eat,” Pope said as he tugged his coffee to his lips. “I-I- mean I didn’t know your coffee order so I thought I’d play it safe.”
“Well, for next time,” You smirked. “I like matcha with oat milk.”
Of course, he would’ve never guessed that.
However, the next month he would greet you with a venti matcha with oat milk and take you for a walk along the beach. He would invite you to the Cody gatherings, whether it was parties or even as intimate as sharing the sacred pie after a good job. He liked you a lot.
It wasn’t until he went to knock at your door that he heard screaming from beyond the threshold.
“You’re the fucking problem!” You’d yell.
“No, you’re the fucking crazy bitch ruining my life!” A man’s voice would say.
“Oh yeah?” you shouted. “Like you didn’t cheat on me with your fucking ‘girl best friend’?”
“It was just one time!” The man would scream. “One time! You get that? One time!”
Pope would unlock the door then with his spare key, tackling the random guy that was in front of you. He would tug his wrists into his lower back.
“What’s your problem, huh?” Pope grunted. “If you have a problem with her, then you have a problem with me.”
“You’re kidding me, man,” the guy chuckled. “She’s my girl, got it?”
Pope would thrust punches then, blackening the flesh of the stranger below him. Continuously pounding his fist into his face.
“Andrew,” You heaved, mindlessly tugging at his fighting limbs. “Stop! He didn’t mean anything by it!”
“He did,” Pope said as he placed one lasting punch to his face, totally silencing the man below him. “Need to take care of you.”
You finally managed to tug Pope off of your ex, pulling him to his feet. The man you once knew heaved on the floor, spitting out blood onto the floorboards.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Pope shouted.
The man raised his hands in innocence as he exited your apartment. Pope sighed as he grasped your ribcage.
“Y’okay?” He asked.
“Y-yeah,” you gasped against his chest. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, I don’t mean to cause any distress to your tenants.”
“Don’t worry about it,” He said as he pressed his forehead to yours. “Not a problem.”
“Let me take care of these,” You said as you admired the split knuckles of what could possibly be your own guard dog.
You drew him to the bathroom by his wrist, taking your hands and placing him on the top of the toilet lid. You took out the bottle of antiseptic and the roll of gauze. You brushed the liquid onto a cotton ball, swabbing it across his knuckles. The liquid bubbled against the gashes that kissed his hand, you unrolled the gauze meticulously.
“M’sorry,” He whispered. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene in front of you.”
“It’s okay,” You smirked. “You were just protecting me, I appreciate you.”
“Yeah?” He rasped.
“Yeah,” You answered. “It means a lot, he’s been bothering me for forever. He doesn’t know how to treat a woman. Shit, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to be treated.”
“That sucks,” Pope’s voice said roughly. “You deserve better, y’know? I wouldn’t even know how to treat a woman like you.”
“That great, huh?” You smirked as you wrapped the roll of cloth around his knuckles. “I’m not, y’know?”
“Doubt it,” Pope said as he admired his freshly placed bandage. “You’re really nice.”
“Oh, yeah?” Your expression quirked. “I’m not that special.”
“But you are!” Pope was quick to exclaim. “I mean, h-he didn’t know what he had.”
“Andrew?” You questioned.
“Yeah?” He replied.
You’d tug his lips into yours, him sighing into your hot breath. Pope never really experienced this before, true lust and temptation, true love. His cock grew rigid beneath the fabric of his jeans as he sat next to you.
You opened your mouth, pulling his tongue into your mouth, nipping his bottom lip occasionally. He fumbled with his hands, tugging your hips and up your shirt, unsure of what to do. You pulled away then.
“Take it easy, Andy-” You moaned as his lips once again met yours. “Take it easy.”
“Yeah, okay,” He rasped. “Never felt this way about anyone before.”
“That’s okay,” You whispered, your mouth hovering over his. “Just take it slow.”
He whimpered as his tongue swept into your mouth. Your hand was on his jaw, drawing him into your sweet lips. The muscles in his jaw would tense as he kissed you, his hands hovering around your body, uncertain of where to place them.
“Here,” You’d say as you grasped his wrists, lacing his palms around your ribcage.
You wrapped your fingers around the hem of his t-shirt, yanking the fabric off of him. His exposed torso being free to explore, you drug your nails across his chest and strong abdomen. He gasped underneath your touch, feeling every part of your fingers scratching around his muscles.
He reacted in pure lust then, wrapping his hands under your arms, pulling you onto his hips. You clothed crotch rubbing and grinding into his. He ripped your oversized shirt over your shoulders and arms, most likely your ex’s.
Your thin little shorts were blocking your pussy from meeting his hard member. He fidgeted with the hem as he whimpered.
“Need these off.”
You stood between his hips then, wrenching your shorts off of your thighs, the fabric of his jeans clawing through your folds.
You’d tug down his zipper, shrugging him out of his boxers and jeans to where they’d pool around his knees. His cock pressurized against your swollen clit, rubbing against your entrance, desperate to enter you.
“Let me ride you,” You said, completely preoccupied by his length rubbing against you.
“Yeah, okay,” He heaved.
You took your hand and stroked him a couple times before his length dove into you, pulsating in all the right places as you dragged slow and hard movements over him. He hadn’t felt this way in so long. Someone he actually lusted for was hugging his member, what more is there to have?
He would drag himself in and out of your tight hole, your walls surrounding his inches tightly. He pumped into you, wanting to feel your insides tighten against him.
Even though he was inexperienced, he believed he could make you forget about your ex. He would do anything to take care of you, buy you anything you wanted, and totally worship you. Right now, hugging his dick, you believed he would. He would do anything for you.
When your clit would meet his hairy hilt, he would groan against your neck as he’d press sweet kisses against your flesh (because that’s all he knew). He would pulse his hips into yours until you were convulsing against him.
It wasn’t the best sex of your life, but it was sweet, and that turned you on even more.
He would press his load into your bare pussy, his chest rasping against yours, brushing your nipples oh so right.
“Was that okay?” Andrew asked.
“More than okay,” You gasped against his chest. “More than okay, Andy.”
manipulative pope cody + ‘just the tip?’ + breeding kink drabble :3
this is for my moots who inspired me to blurb! i luv you~ @valleyanimalz @dirtygir1 @bbuuunnyyy @groovyangelkisses
*nasty smut below the cut teehee* ! mdni !
pope cody hates that you make him wear a condom, that you have been making him wrap it up for the entire two month relationship. he feels it’s an unnecessary barrier keeping him from feeling all of you and filling you up properly. but, he agreed the first time because he was so desperate to be inside you. always has been. always will be.
now, even after you’ve fucked more times than he can count while protected. he’s fed up. he knows that you’ll like it bare. that you’ll need it. that you’ll never make him wear a stupid condom again when you learn how good it feels when he sinks into you raw. you just need his help. need your strong, heroic boyfriend to take that step that you cant take yourself. god, he’s so good to you. that’s what he tells himself when he formulates his plan.
he made sure you came on his face at least three times. until your legs were jelly, brain mush, voice hoarse from begging him to stop. ‘i-i can’t’ you had whined, ‘ ‘s too much andy!’. he did it to get you into that floaty head space where you’re babbling mindlessly and lax for him.
and you’re exactly that as pope crawls up your body and settles where he belongs, above you and inbetween your legs. still, you breathlessly slur the question that he despises. “condom?”
he feigns frustration even though this is exactly what he planned. “shit— i left my wallet in craig’s car… i don’t have one.”
your response is a needy whine that morphs into a gasp when he rests his cock against your drenched folds and slowly slides back and forth. “can i just have you like this sweetheart?” pope rubs his thick length upwards, angry pink tip catching your clit with every pressing glide. you whimper through your desperate nods, nails clawing at his shoulders, fusing your knees to his ribs to stay spread for him. such a good girl, he thinks to himself.
he keeps his ruttings short. almost playfully light in order to not get you anywhere besides out of your mind from teasing. just how he wants it. when you start to wriggle beneath him, whimpering a few mindless “please please please”s, he looks down at your aching pussy to see her clench around nothing. poor baby, she needs me so bad, he tells himself.
his dick is so drenched in your slick releases that pope ‘accidentally’ notches at your opening. staying in motion, he pushes in ever so slightly. your eyes shoot open in surprise “ohh- andy!” you squeal. frustration bubbles in his chest, but he doesn’t give up. because your panic simmers to pleasure and your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you moan at just his bare tip breaching your wet heat.
he buries his face into your neck to hide his satisfied grin, licking and suckling the skin how he knows you like. “jus the tip sweetheart? please?” he emphasizes his wimpy whines with an inching forward of his hips. your nails tear at the flesh on his back as you shudder. “p-promise?” you croak out. his reply is strained. “ ‘course honey.”
popes promise — to him at least— goes up in flames when he slips a tiny bit further inside and is met with warm, silky tightness. fuckkk. he groans, muscles tensing and you cry out, eyes rolling back. his thrusts are shallow and unsatisfactory. after a only a few, he’s twitching in need, pathetically trying to inch deeper.
you notice, starting to whine and pant. “you cant andy! i’m n-not on the pill!” the words almost make pope start to piston in and out of you. the thought of coming in you until you’re swollen with his baby infiltrating his mind. that you’ll be tied to him forever and— oh yeah. that’s happening, he decides.
pope leans down to kiss you languidly. trying to tongue fuck you into submission. your pussy is rapidly fluttering around the first inch of him, telling him that you want this just as bad as he does. he uses his words. “you just feel so good sweetheart. need you so bad. need all of you.” a breathy moan slips from you at his praise as you return his kiss greedily.
you pull back and blink up at him with your glossy eyes and kiss bitten lips. when your legs start to wrap around him, crossing tightly at his back, he knows he’s almost home free. “okay... i- i need you too andy.”
you barely get the words out before he hastily pushes all the way inside of you. guttural noises of pleasure are ripped from you both as you clench around him so prettily and he stretches you out so perfectly. it’s searing, intimate and raw. so fucking raw.
as pope starts to thrust in and out of you eagerly, obscene slapping sounds echo throughout the room. he whimpers loudly at the warm, wet feeling of you and the noises your body makes for him.
when you shakily tell him between moans “you h-have to pull out okay?”
it takes all of his dwindling restraint not to laugh in your face.
craig comes across andrew and his gf's homemade videos (18+)
(not proofread)
-
as per usual, craig could totally justify himself in his actions.
it wasn't like he'd walked into pope's room in search for the tiny little digital camera that now resided in his hands. he had an iphone at his disposal, what the hell would he use a digital camera for?
but it was the content of the tiny screen that had caught his attention.
pushing aside his search for the baggies nicki had misplaced somewhere around the house, he was now onto an entirely different mission.
pope's was usually the last room he liked to go into. it was eerily clean, with every single one of his possessions perfectly laid in its assigned spot. which was why the camera had stuck out like a sore thumb. it was an odd thing for pope to leave lying around, specially on his bedside table.
and so he picked it up.
and then he fell into a trance.
displayed on the small screen was a paused video.
you were sat back on the side of the bed, elbows digging into the plush of the mattress as you supported your weight on them, looking up at the camera with wide eyes and a tiny, pleased smile. your body was barely covered by a pink negligee falling off your shoulder and your tit peaking out. your hair had a little more volume than usual and your makeup was slightly different. you'd done yourself up for this.
with the click of a button, the enticing thumbnail began playing.
the quality was somewhat shitty, which annoyed craig a bit.
it was shot from pope's perspective, he noticed immediately. he towered over you as you sat on the bed looking up at him.
"hey, handsome," you spoke at the camera, cheeky smile on your lips.
your hands went up to pope's body, disappearing from frame but clearly beginning to paw at pope's chest off-camera.
similarly, pope's hand entered frame, cupping your cheek as you leaned into the touch. your face turned slightly to the side, mouthing at pope's palm until you caught his thumb in your mouth.
the angle of the camera raised a little, giving craig the perfect angle as you looked up at the camera, eyes wide and mouth suctioning at pope's thumb. he could pretend it wasn't his brother's.
"fuck, baby. so fuckin' perfect for me," pope interrupted.
after some moments, you finally slipped the thumb out of your mouth, licking at its length once before kissing the back of pope's hand.
with some coaxing, you laid back on the bed as pope drew himself closer, straddling your body on the bed.
"let me get a good look at you, angel."
this was followed by pope somewhat shakily panning into every inch of your body. he started with your face, planting a kiss on your lips before you showed the camera a toothy smile. his hand came out once more to caress at your cheek, trailing down to your neck, to your half-uncovered tits. there, his thumb circled your nipple through the thin fabric, drawing a sigh out of you.
below him, you squirmed and moaned for pope as his hand traced down every inch, feeling every supple inch of barely-covered skin. occasionally he'd lean down and kiss at whatever part of your body laid in front of him at that moment, making it so the camera drew too close for craig to see anything, but he could still hear that tiny intake of breath you did every time he kissed you.
"andy... want you."
"i know, baby."
again, he panned out, hovering over you and showing your needy self under him. there was some silence, only filled up by some low grunts of pope's.
"do i look pretty, andy?" you giggled up at him after some moments of silence, eyes drawing below the lens every so often.
"so pretty, baby," he grunted.
craig could guess what was going on off-screen as pope watched you.
"you gonna fuck me, or what?"
a breathless chuckle could be heard off-screen, and then some unbuckling and ruffling of clothes.
a hand appeared, digging into your hip as pope drew himself closer. while one hand shakily held onto the camera, the other aided in turning you over and onto your hands and knees.
from behind you, pope adjusted you, pressing deep into the small of your back to get your ass further up and your arch a little deeper.
teasingly, you swayed your hips at him, smiling at him as you twisted your head to look back into the camera.
the tiny thong you had on hid absolutely nothing, much less did the negligee pope had pushed up to fully uncover your ass.
the next few scenes were a little unfortunate for craig.
they consisted of pope pulling out his dick, stroking it as he pressed it into you, circling at your clit as you mewled out his name and pushed your ass up against him.
craig was conflicted. on one hand, he didn't want to see his brother's dick, but on the other, he really wanted to see you getting fucked from behind.
with a mental coin toss, he decided to do some mental gymnastics to remove pope from the equation and solely focus on how breathless your wails sounded as soon as pope made his way inside you.
he had a perfect view of the recoil of your ass, groaning inwardly when you'd push back, when the sound of skin slapping joined in with your tiny, high-pitched moans.
sometimes pope would grip at your hair, making you sit up on your knees and pressing your back to his chest. craig couldn't really see much from this angle, but he'd hear the kissing and your muffled cries.
he wasn't sure when this was recorded, whether he'd been at home when it happened, but you'd been careless in the volume of your noises. an endless stream of sounds of pleasure left your lips as pope pounded into you.
"m-more, ffuuck, please."
"right there- fuck, don't stop—"
"andy- oh, fuck, andy!"
these were all sounds he'd grown familiar with through your relationship with pope. you were never shy in expressing yourself in the bedroom, but seeing it? and from this angle, where he could pretend it wasn't his brother who was dragging these noises out of you?
fuck, he could just-
"what are you doing in my room?"
craig felt his body go completely still. every hair in his body stood up and his muscles tensed.
he couldn't dare look behind him, to look at the source of the voice as the video continued to play in his hands.
"and what the fuck are you doing with my camera?"
slowly, craig twisted his body, camera still in his hands as he looked to find pope's erect figure standing by the door of his room.
"hey, man, i was just-"
"fuck are you doing looking at my videos of my girl?"
with a single move, pope's hand landed on a tight grip around craig's wrist, making him groan out as his fingers relaxed around the camera, letting it fall onto pope's other hand.
mutely, the sex noises could still be heard emanating from the digital camera. pope turned the volume down, not once taking his threatening eyes away from craig's guilty ones.
"i just- i was looking for my baggies and-"
"they're not in my room."
craig sighed at the interruption, "yeah, man, i noticed. i just saw the camera and i got curious, that's all."
"you got curious for," he took a moment to check the screen, "twelve minutes and fifty-five seconds?" he read off the time lapsed of the video.
craig winced.
"it's not like that, okay?"
it was pure denial, but if craig knew anything, it was that the best remedy was always to lie your way out of trouble.
pope nodded to himself, unconvinced. with one step forward, he was in craig's face, looking up to him with that same threatening expression pope reserved for anyone but you.
"i catch you looking at my girl again, i'm going to break your legs. this is your last warning, craig."
even as he towered over him, craig gulped with a nod, eyes wandering away from his. it was kind of embarrassing how easily he folded under his gaze. he knew pope would be good on his words, specially with this being his second warning.
"understand?"
"yeah- yep, got it, pope."
taking his chance, he rounded pope and practically sprinted out of the room. outside, he let out the breath he'd been holding, relieved it didn't escalate this time around.
but even then, he found himself making a mental note.
he'd have to come back when pope was out of the house.
You buy an expensive gift for Jack, and instead of being rewarded with gruff, flirty praises and kisses while he rams his fat cock inside you, your loving doctor smacks the shit out of your ass instead. It’s punishment for not buying it with his card.
"M'not your damn sugar baby, kid."
...You only thought of returning him his oh-so-many favors of paying and providing for you, because...you know. He tends to treat you like one. A sugar baby.
Buying the gift with his card defeats the whole purpose of buying Jack a present, anyway! But when he acts like you slapped him with the receipt and told the world he can’t provide for his girl, who are you to complain?
Well. You complain. You whine, to be specific, just about how much each ass smack stings.
"Wanna do something nice for me, Sleepy? You tolerate me. That’s plenty."
The needy whines are bad enough. Jack can’t handle the way you jiggle under his palm.
summary: working night shifts at the pitt was supposed to help you focus on your career, not to develop a humiliating crush on your older attending physician. unfortunately for you, jack abbot keeps checking on you. which is exactly why your friends force you to download tinder. it would've been a great plan if every man on the app didn't immediately become disappointing the second you compared them to abbot, and it would've been even better if you hadn't accidentally matched with him.
tags: fluff, joy is part of the night shift, langdon kinda too, er setting, workplace romance, age gap, coworkers to lovers, protective jack abbot, she falls first, he falls harder.
author's note: SO this is just a silly little intro for a couple i'm really excited to share. i told my friend this idea and she absolutely loved it, so i really hope you do too. don't forget to reblog if you enjoyed it, please!!!
The automatic doors to the ER slid open, replacing the muffled noise of people waiting outside with the steady chorus of heart monitors, hurried footsteps and distant yelling. You walked in carrying two coffees, your pink backpack hanging off one shoulder and your puffy hot pink jacket making you impossible to ignore.
You'd been at The Pitt for almost six months now and you loved being part of the nightcrawlers. It was chaotic, unpredictable and exhausting in a way that made you feel alive. No case was ever the same twice and despite being specialized in peds, you'd learned more in half a year about other specialties than you ever thought you would.
You also learned that the ER staff operated almost entirely on stress, cigarettes, coffee, sarcasm and candies.
"Jesus christ." A voice muttered the second you walked past the nurse's station. "I think I've just gone blind."
You looked over with a grin to find Frank Langdon sitting in a chair while covering his eyes with the back of his hand.
Langdon was one of your best friends at work. A few months ago he started covering some night shifts for other attendings and that's where the bond between you two got stronger. Both of you loved making jokes and annoying each other constantly. In fact, he was the one who baptized you as "strawberry shortcake," which eventually became just "shortcake."
"Ha-ha, funny." You placed one of the coffees in front of him anyway. "You're just jealous because I bring whimsy into this room."
"So true." Langdon immediately grabbed it. "You're the light of my life."
The Pitt at night was different from daytime chaos. Everyone looked slightly haunted after midnight, like sleep deprivation slowly turned the ER into its own little ecosystem. The trauma bays constantly moved, someone was always yelling for labs, monitors beeped every three seconds, Shen and Joy silently judging everybody from across the station.
Once you reached the lockers to put your things away, you found Trinity just about to leave.
Trinity was also one of your best friends, alongside Victoria and Whitaker (because if Santos was there, Whitaker usually wasn't far behind.) Even though your schedules barely matched, you always got along really well. You were all around the same age and gossip basically held the friendship together.
Most of your nights off ended at Trinity's apartment because she was constantly organizing dinners, movie nights and sleepovers. It was always loud, chaotic and somehow comforting.
"Oh… I'm so happy to see you." She sighed dramatically before pulling you into a hug. "But not gonna lie, I'd be happier if I was already home, so..."
A small laugh escaped your mouth. "Go rest. See you tomorrow." You gently patted the top of her head supportively.
You barely even blinked before Trinity was already halfway near the exit doors waving goodbye. But right before leaving, she subtly wiggled her eyebrows and tilted her head behind you in a suspicious gesture.
You frowned slightly, confused about what she meant.
Until you turned around and accidentally walked straight into someone's chest, making your head snap back so fast you almost got whiplash.
Jack Abbot.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly and now you understood why Trinity looked like she was about to have a stroke.
Ever since the sleepover where you accidentally confessed that maybe you had feelings for your attending, Trinity and Victoria had not stopped bothering you about it. Thankfully neither of them had said anything to him.
Abbot was already wearing his dark blue scrubs with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, his backpack hanging from one hand while the other automatically steadied you by your arm before you could stumble backwards.
You apologized so quickly your words almost blended together.
"Sorry, shit, sorry."
"It's okay." He said calmly, pointing briefly at your jacket. "I like the pink." Your heart did a genuinely embarrassing thing inside your chest. "You just get here?"
"Almost five minutes ago."
"Did you bring something that's not coffee?"
There it was. That thing he did where he casually asked if you ate, if you slept well, if you were feeling okay in that low relaxed voice like he wasn't slowly ruining your emotional stability every single shift.
It was really hard trying to stop having feelings for him. He always took care of you, always paid attention. And sure, technically that was part of his job, he looked after everyone but with you it always felt slightly different. Softer.
Maybe it was because he still felt guilty for judging you on your first day.
After all, when he first saw you arrive in bright pink scrubs with glitter pens clipped onto your badge and a pink bandana holding your hair back, he genuinely thought you wouldn't survive a single day in emergency medicine. Instead, you somehow became one of the best people in the department with pediatric patients. Kids calmed down around you almost instantly and you noticed details other people missed, which basically made you essential during night shifts.
Even Robby had tried to steal you for the day shift more than once, but Abbot always managed to convince you to stay nights with suspiciously effective puppy eyes.
"I left food I made at home in the fridge earlier." He said while opening his locker. "Feel free to eat some later, Shortcake."
Your brain immediately stopped functioning like a normal organ. It was annoying how easily he affected you without even realizing it.
He just continued with his life normally, placing his backpack inside the locker before casually starting to walk toward the hallway again. Meanwhile you stood there frozen for a second staring at him like an idiot.
You almost had to physically force yourself to snap out of it and shove your things into the locker quickly before following the same path Abbot had disappeared through moments earlier.
A loud drunk guy yelling somewhere down the hallway got your attention as you returned to the main desk, setting your coffee beside Langdon's abandoned one.
"Triage." Lena said before you could ask. "Shen's there."
You headed into the room and immediately spotted a little boy crying while Shen peered into his nose with a flashlight.
"What do we have here?" You asked.
"A tiny red Lego stuck in his nose." Shen replied.
"Happens to the best of us." You crouched slightly to the kid's level. "What kind of Lego?"
"Minecraft."
"Honestly? Worth it. I love Minecraft." You smiled at him, making the kid giggle.
"You know." Shen said while carefully reaching with the forceps. "When I was seven, I shoved a gummy bear up my nose."
"What?" You turned slowly toward him.
A few careful seconds later, Shen finally pulled the tiny red Lego free and the kid immediately looked proud of himself, like he'd survived a battle with an Enderman.
"See?" You said, pulling out a sheet of glittery star stickers from your pocket. "Absolute champion behavior." You handed him three stickers for bravery.
Across the station, Lena yelled while pointing at you. "Shortcake! Ellis wants you in room four."
"Duty calls." You said proudly before leaving triage.
The little girl in room four immediately smiled when you walked in and you instantly understood why Ellis had asked for you.
"This case has your name all over it." Ellis whispered before quietly leaving you alone with the family.
She couldn't have been older than five, tiny legs swinging nervously from the bed while tears rolled nonstop down her cheeks. The child had severe burns across both hands and part of her forearms after grabbing a hot baking tray while her mother was cooking.
Your heart squeezed painfully. Burn cases with kids were always hard.
"Hi, sweetheart." Your voice softened immediately as you approached the bed slowly. "I'm here to help you, okay?"
The little girl nodded weakly.
You spent the next hour helping with dressings, calming her down whenever she started crying too hard and distracting her with stories about random things. At some point she stopped shaking every time someone touched her hands.
When everything was finally done and you allowed her mother back inside the room, the woman looked close to tears herself while thanking you over and over again.
Before leaving, you placed a glittery pink heart sticker carefully on the little girl's shirt. Then another one ended up stuck on your own sleeve because she said that you needed one too.
Which was honestly fair.
The second you stepped back into the hallway, you almost bumped into Abbot again.
"Sorry." You laughed automatically, taking a small step backwards.
Abbot glanced down at the sticker now attached to your arm. He stared at it for a second before looking back at you. It wasn't the first time he'd seen one of those stuck on you. Honestly, every single time he noticed one, the corner of his mouth always twitched slightly like he was trying not to smile too much about it and this time wasn't different.
"Good job." He said quietly.
Something warm spread through your chest embarrassingly fast.
"Thank you." You looked down at the sticker proudly.
There was something deeply unfair about the way he looked at you sometimes. Not obvious enough to mean anything and not flirtatious enough to call him out on it, just attentive.
Before you could say anything else to break the tension, Abbot reached for your hand to place a granola bar into it, his fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary.
"Eat."
Your eyes dropped to the granola bar, then back to him and then right back to the granola bar again.
This man was genuinely going to ruin your life. And the worst part? He walked away afterward like none of this affected him at all. Like he didn't realize what those tiny gestures did to you.
Honestly, it was humiliating. It was impossible not to like him and that was exactly the problem. Because every single attempt you made to get over him failed miserably.
Especially after the sleepover, where you realized nobody came even remotely close to making you feel the way he did.
The memory alone almost made you want to pass away.
A week ago Trinity had decided your love life was, quote: "depressing."
Which somehow ended with you, Santos and Victoria laying across Trinity's couch at two in the morning while Whitaker criticized random men over everyone's shoulders.
You'd downloaded Tinder mostly because they forced you to. And it had gone horribly.
"Okay, he's cute." Victoria had said once.
"God, no." Trinity immediately answered. "He looks like a serial killer."
Whitaker nearly fell off the couch laughing while aggressively agreeing with her.
The truth was that every single guy became disappointing after two seconds because your brain automatically compared all of them to Abbot. Which was terrible, unhealthy and humiliating.
Because sadly, none of those men looked at you the way Abbot did when he quietly asked if you were okay.
By the time your shift finally ended, your body felt ready to collapse.
You were curled up in bed in oversized pajamas, fresh out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head. The apartment was quiet except for the TV playing reruns of Love Island and the distant echo of ER voices still stuck in your brain.
You threw your phone dramatically onto the pillow beside you and the only thing you could think about was Jack.
Again.
He'd taken such quiet care of you all night. Constantly checking if you'd eaten, stopping by peds more than necessary and somehow always appearing next to you whenever things got rough. At one point he'd even stolen your chart just to force you to sit down for five minutes, Which honestly felt dangerously close to affection.
This was getting ridiculous, you needed to get over him.
He was older than you, your attending physician and probably saw you as some pink disaster he had to keep alive during night shifts.
Maybe the girls were right.
Maybe you actually needed to make your dating life less depressing with someone normal. Someone your age. Someone who wasn’t Jack Abbot.
With a tired groan, you grabbed your phone again and reopened Tinder.
Biggest regret of my life.
You kept swiping left almost immediately. One guy was holding a fish while quoting Finding Nemo, another wanted "a gym girl to match his vibe" and one of them genuinely had an anime body pillow in the background.
God, this was pointless.
You were halfway through silently judging the entire male population when your thumb suddenly stopped moving and your whole body froze.
No. fucking. way.
Jack Abbot smiling at the camera while sitting in a golf cart, sunlight hitting his face just enough to make your heart do something deeply annoying.
"Oh my God." You whispered to yourself, sitting upright so fast your neck almost cracked.
You genuinely felt like your soul was leaving your body. Because first of all, you couldn't believe Jack Abbot used Tinder. And second of all, if he was showing up for you, that meant his age range included yours.
Your thumb hovered over the big red X. Obviously, you were swiping left. You shouldn't even be considering this. He was your attending, your older ridiculously hot coworker and HR would absolutely have a heart attack over it. Definitely was a left swipe.
Was. Because your phone slipped slightly in your hand at the worst possible moment, making your thumb swipe right.
Your breathing stopped.
For one horrible second you stared at the screen with the exact same expression as that meme Whitaker always sent of the dog sitting peacefully in the sunlight with his eyes closed waiting for death. Just pure acceptance before disaster. Then suddenly confetti exploded across your screen and a Bright green letters appeared.
IT'S A MATCH! 💚
You stared blankly at the phone, genuinely couldn't believe what you were seeing. Maybe you were already dead and this was heaven specifically designed for you.
The buzzing pulled you out of your thoughts and a notification appeared almost immediately.
Jack Abbot: "Still awake?"
God. You covered your face with both hands thinking if this was definitely heaven. Actually no, maybe this was a nightmare and you slipped in the shower earlier.
Your phone buzzed again.
Jack Abbot: "I know you are. You should be sleeping, Shortcake."
Your stomach flipped violently.
You: "this is actually so embarrassing!! i should be sleeping."
The typing bubble appeared instantly, then disappeared and then appeared again. Like he was carefully choosing his words.
Jack Abbot: "Damn. Tell me it wasn't an accident."
You physically buried your face into your pillow.
You: "it was, i'm really sorry."
Another message appeared seconds later.
Jack Abbot: "And here i was thinking my favorite nurse finally stopped looking at me like just a coworker."
Your heart stopped.
Jack Abbot: "You really know how to get an old man's hopes up, shortcake."
What the fuck was happening? And why was he flirting like this? Wait, was he flirting? Maybe he was joking or maybe he finally lost his mind after too many night shifts.
You didn't know what to reply. Probably the smartest thing to do was ignore it and pretend this never happened. But on the other hand... the mistake was already done, right?
This couldn't possibly get worse.
Before you could overthink it, a reckless thought took over and your fingers moved faster than your brain.
You: "what if i said it wasn't a mistake?"
The typing dots appeared almost immediately.
Jack Abbot: "Then i'd say this is finally my lucky day."
You stared at the message while your heart beat stupidly fast inside your chest.
Jack Abbot: "See you tonight, pretty. Sleep well."
Summary: Thanks to an administration error, you find yourself confined to the same hotel room as Dr. Jack Abbot in Boston for the weekend.
CHAPTER 1: Robby drops a bomb on you on a Tuesday. You spend the rest of the week worrying about it. (2.6k words)
CHAPTER 1: FUTURE TRIPPING
When Robby stalked you down one Tuesday afternoon as you exited South 18, you almost collapsed onto the floor at the reason.
You shut the door, leaving your eight-year old patient and her mother to wait for the labs you just ordered. “Me?” you squeaked, your voice climbing to impossibly high notes.
He delivered the news so casually, oblivious to how earth-shattering it was to you.
“Yes, you,” Robby repeated with a confused sigh. He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. He was nearing eight hours into his shift and couldn’t spare the patience to be redundant. “Why do you sound surprised?”
You tightened your grip on the clipboard. “I—just, aren’t there other residents?” Better, more capable ones, you wanted to say, but you kept your mouth shut.
He quirked an eyebrow, lips pulling up to one side in a bemused manner. “You sound like you don’t want to go.”
”No, I absolutely do, Dr. Robby, I’m just… pleasantly… surprised.”
“Not your most convincing moment, was it then?” he remarked. “What happened to sounding more confident like we discussed? I’m not saying turn into Dr. Garcia overnight because that would freak me out, but you need to speed it up. Spend more time around Dr. Collins, Dr. Langdon, even Dr. Mohan.”
He folded his arms and you immediately braced for impact—his posture was a surefire sign he had some criticism to dish out. Just had to get comfortable first, you supposed. “You are more than clinically competent, your charting is perfect, flows well, but you need a face to show for it. Fellowship is competitive. Attending positions are competitive. If you want the part, you have to act the part. It’s not going to be handed to you, do you understand?"
You nodded, swallowed the criticism or advice or however you chose to interpret it. Eight hours into your shift and Dr. Robby had already dealt a sucker punch and knocked out a tooth. Nonetheless, you attempted to end the conversation on a positive note. “Are you coming, too?”
Robby stretched out his arms and turned the other way. “Nope. Those days are behind me. You young kids go have fun, maybe learn something if you aren’t huddled around the bar the whole time.”
Ah, classic Dr. Robby emotional whiplash. After beating your confidence silly, he walked away like you’d exchanged pleasantries over Sunday brunch.
But in some twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome, you tried your best to keep in step with him down the corridor. Unfortunately, Dr. Robby was tall and his strides were long as a consequence. “Then who’s coming with me?” you near-shouted at him, the boldness of your voice surprising yourself. Your inner monologue piped up again: There it is, Dr. Robby, that confidence you so desire!
”That’s still up in the air,” Robby responded non-chalantly before disappearing into a room. A sliver of his head peeked out of the doorframe. “Ask the night shift when they roll in.”
Sadly, the morning shift proved futile for any information. Over a 2-minute crappy-cafeteria coffee chug at noon, Samira divulged her plans to visit her mother in New Jersey. She was hard-pressed in choosing between family and the conference, but ultimately decided she was overdue for a visit. Dana piped in and said Langdon and his wife had anniversary plans that same weekend. An hour later, you bumped into Cassie. She let you down gently in the motherly way she does by mentioning Harrison’s baseball tournament that Saturday evening, and that no academic pursuit was going to stand in the way of her raising her son. Fair enough.
Perhaps the most interesting response came from Heather in Trauma 1 as you were de-gowning after a MVC.
“I can barely stand to be within two feet of that man on any given day, you think I’m voluntarily going to sit next to him for a weekend?”
“No?” You sucked air through your teeth. In an attempt to salvage the hope of Heather accompanying you, you offered: “But he’s not going.”
“If there’s any chance he would or change his mind,”—she dropped a bloodied glove in the waste—“then absolutely not.”
Alone in the trauma room, you were beginning to think that this invitation wasn’t merit-based at all.
Nonetheless, it was suffocating not knowing the identity of your partner-in-crime. Because as much as you wanted it to be Dr. Abbot, you wished just much as it wasn’t. So when Shen sauntered in at 6:45 p.m, iced coffee in hand and eyes on his phone, you sacked him back a couple yards. Ahmad was going to be out of work if you kept this up.
”Hey, hey,” you greeted and forced Shen to step back through the double-layered automatic doors. “Are you coming to the conference with me?”
He slipped his phone into his pocket. “I was going to, yeah.”
The door closed behind you. “Was going to?”
He equalized your assault and stepped back into hospital, forcing the door behind you to open again. “Exactly, but I made Jack go.”
And the second door, in confusion, slid open again, the sound it made was just enough to cover your choke: “Jack—Dr. Abbot?”
Shen tilted his head, straw slipping from his mouth. “Is there another attending named Jack in this department?”
”No, of course not,” you brushed the slip off. “Why not you? Why not Ellis?”
Shen set his coffee down on a counter by Dana’s workspace and shrugged. “She has some family thing going on that weekend. As for me, I dunno, I feel like Jack’s pulling a lot of hours. Now that I’m an attending, I could relieve some of his shifts.
Oh, no, no, no. Your breaths quickened. This was now becoming all too unpalatable, emetic even. Why couldn’t it be anyone but Dr. Abbot? It wasn’t because you didn’t like him. Conversely, the issue was that you simply liked him too much. He was so nurturing. Whatever Dr. Robby said about your lack of confidence only made it worse; Dr. Abbot made you feel reassured and safe.
Dr. Abbot was unfortunately also very distracting. There had been times where you asked him to repeat things because you were hyperfixated on the way his fingers danced during a procedure. You imagined those same fingers in treacherously different contexts—after all, understanding anatomy had to be a transferable skill to the bedroom, no? Oh God, you bet he was good.
And his voice. Did he realize he was a siren in human form? The hoarse whispers, the rasp that cocooned all his sentences, especially as his callused, skilled hands sewed up a site. And that day he marched in in his SWAT uniform and boots would be forever embedded in your mind. You had uttered curses interlaced with prayers, mainly for the surgical mask that you considered a heavensend for covering up your drool.
He could read you the hospital’s door-to-ballon time reports or even Gloria’s summit notes as a lullaby and you’d find it sexy. Mhm, your hands pressed to his bare chest under the sheets in his bedroom as he poisoned your consciousness with sleep. Whatever draught he wanted to feed you, you’d gladly lap up. All for you, Dr. Abbot…
This was fine. Fantasizing at work was fine as long as you kept it in the confines of your mind. Lusting after your much older attending was a bad call, but maybe there was an innate part of you that desired someone older and self-assured to fulfill the parts of you that weren’t.
“Hey,” Dana called out to you. Her voice shattered the internal trial in your mind: The People v. Is It Cool to Fantasize About Sleeping with Your Attending? Guilty, your honour. Lock her up and send her to horny jail. “You got a 39-year old with an oozing boil in East 2. Wanna take that before you leave?”
“Of course, Dana,” you responded. Before disappearing to look at something a little less palatable than Dr. Abbot’s chest, you turned to Shen. “Uhm, I owe you a coffee.” Then, you were off to handle what was hopefully your last case of the day.
Shen raised an eyebrow, perplexed. “What for?” he called out, but you were halfway down the hall. He turned to Dana and asked, “And what’s wrong with Abbot?”
Dana just shrugged and adjusted her glasses. “Robby works his residents too hard. They all start to go crazy after a while.”
Shen’s little nugget of information cascaded into a goldrush. A memo in your inbox informed you the conference was in Boston. Cardiology-focussed. Change to the atrial fibrillation guidelines, new ablation methods, and studies coming down the pipeline. A separate email confirmed your hotel reservation, meal vouchers, and link to a portal to book your flight. So, you stayed after your shift on Friday, face slumped on your palm after an intensive charting session as you mulled over flights.
Could this have been handled at home? Absolutely. But you opted not to for two reasons. One, segregation of work and pleasure was important for your sleep hygiene. Secondly, you knew Dr. Abbot was on shift tonight. You parked yourself at a station far enough away to remain in the shadows, but close enough to see him from above the computer monitor. You afforded yourself an illicitly indulgent glance at Dr. Abbot engaging with Robby for hand-off. His muscled arm was parked on the ledge. Of course, he had to wear that stupid, sexy black t-shirt that clung his broad chest and shoulders like clothing does after being caught out in a thunderstorm.
Suddenly, Dr. Abbot turned towards you. Your eyes immediately darted downwards as you pretended to type something. You prayed you weren’t assigned nights often. How the hell were you supposed to focus being around Dr. Abbot for 12 hours?
“You’re the lucky resident this year, hm?” Ellis remarked as wheeled herself over to you. “I’m bummed I couldn’t make it. We would’ve had a good time.”
“We would’ve,” you groaned, dreams of hitting up the bars on Boylston Street with her shattered. With a pained expression, you asked, “You sure you can’t change that family thing?”
“Look, I love you but my sister will kill me if I don’t show up at her wedding. And Dr. Abbot is honestly the best—well, second to me—attending to go with. He won’t bug you, and he asks great questions.”
And he’s sexy, Ellis. He’s so devastatingly sexy. You pouted. “If you say so.”
Ellis caught a glance at your screen. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Tell me how it goes and share anything cool. But get a cocktail at Pearl for me. I’ll be waiting for the Instagram story.”
You smiled. “You got it, P.”
It was unfortunate, Dr. Abbot being a deterrent to you working the night shift. You chewed on your pen as you thought about him. You vibed so well with Ellis and Shen. The park and bar down the street and a footlong tab was no stranger to the three of you. Getting past superficial niceties with the morning shift was difficult. Except for Samira. You loved Samira but her dedication to the job meant that your conversations never drifted far from cases at work. Well, except when she was a drink too far. Then, you’d shit-talk Dr. Robby for a beat or two. You both knew he meant well, but sometimes you needed an outlet and she was the only one who understood. Collins was cool, but you had a feeling she wasn’t looking for a friendship with you outside of work. McKay was on a different stratosphere because she had a kid. You had no idea what you had in common in Langdon. And Dr. Robby wasn’t going to take you for a coffee anytime soon…
At this rate, your best friend during days was going to be Brendon Park. Just two very competent but quiet people.
You shuddered.
Rerouting your attention to the matter at hand, you continued to scroll for flights. Focus and stop staring at Dr. Abbot. United, Delta, American Airlines…your eyes glazed over. Why were there so many options? In fantasy-land, Dr. Abbot would amble over and lean over your shoulder. Did he even know you were coming? Well, in fantasy-land, who cared? He’d suggest you take the same flight as him. Naturally, you’d have to be seated next to each other. It’d be really weird if two colleagues decided to sit on completely different ends of the plane, wouldn’t it?
Then the TSA would peg you as husband and wife—oh, how horrible! Then, he’d hold you stow your luggage and hold you during turbulence and you would have no complaints.
“Hey, good catch on the peds case with the juvenile arthritis today.”
You nearly launched yourself out of your chair. You turn around to where Ellis had sat, but she’d been replaced with Dr. Abbot who was standing tall and imposing, arms folded across his chest, and staring you down with an impressed smile. His biceps contracted and pushed against his knuckles. Wow.
“Robby was telling me about it at hand-off. Your kid had been refusing to go to school the past couple weeks, skipping gymnastics, and spiking a bit of a fever but insisted she was fine. Heard that once you got the overbearing mom out of the room, the kid spilled her guts out to you.”
You nodded slowly, resisting the urge to lick your lips at the sound of Dr. Abbot praising you. “With mom out of the room, she admitted she had a lot of pain in her legs, but didn’t want her mom to worry. She was a bit of… hypochondriac towards her kid. After that detail, the direction of her diagnosis was a bit more evident.”
“And if you hadn’t been there, she might’ve been discharged with behavioural counselling and Tylenol,” Dr. Abbot added.
“She even told me about her crush at school. His name’s Jack. Isn’t that funny?”
“Kids have the best intuition of who can be trusted.” Abbot placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “I’m always warning Robby, I’m going to poach you from days soon enough.”
You laughed despite the burn where Dr. Abbot’s hand rested on your blouse. How was it that you could feel his fingers through the material? “I could be convinced.”
Dr. Abbot pointed at you. “Careful, I’ll take that as a binding agreement,” he warned. “Have a good night. Keep up the good work.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek to keep from crashing out. “Good night, Dr. Abbot.” You offered him a small smile before swivelling back to the computer where your cursor was hovering over the ‘book flight’ button for a 10:35 a.m. flight out of Pittsburgh International. You wondered if he saw anything on your monitor. The flights, the conference—should you ask…?
Even if you wanted to, Dr. Abbot was being lured away by Shen and you really didn’t need Shen to judge you more than he had been. He accused you of being jumpy and weird. Hypocrite.
Dr. Abbot had to babysit you enough at work, you didn’t need him to do that at the conference. With a frown, you booked the flight. Then, you slung your bag over your shoulder and clocked out. Let your dreams be dreams, you thought to yourself. There was an inconceivable chance that anything could happen between you and senior nightshift attending, Dr. Abbot.
But you were still going to go home, crack open a crisp bottle of wine, pop your headphones in, and listen to an erotic audiobook…
And pretend it was Dr. Abbot on the other side of the sound wave.
➦ NEXT CHAPTER
SERIES DIRECTORY
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