Sound and Vision

24 YRS OLD

[seraphiism]

this isn't anything particularly new to simon per se-- has it been awhile? absolutely. with his military status, endless and ruthless missions, fatigue, and never ending nightmares, intimacy is the last thing on his mind. still, he hasn't been out of the loop for that long. probably.

so it's only natural, the way he freezes the moment he sees tears welling up in the corner of your eyes. and when you realize that he's realized? you panic just a little bit.

"--i'm fine!" you blurt out, completely disregarding that you're nearly folded like a pretzel, pressed beneath the weight of him. and you are, really. you may have underestimated his size, just a tad bit. it's not that it hurts-- it's a different kind of ache and burn in that stretching sensation as he slowly presses into you. "you're just a lot bigger than i thought."

a pause. he stills. doesn't pull out, doesn't speak a word. the only way you know he's mildly amused and no longer concerned? that subtle raise of a brow that makes you bust out laughing because this is all a little ridiculous ; you're sure you'll feel this all too well tomorrow morning.

"i'll stop."

"absolutely not." you reply instantly, earning a semi-impressed look from him. he doesn't think he's ever heard you respond that quickly. "just give me two seconds to adjust. not my fault you're that big."

stubborn, he thinks, in every single aspect of your life. he shakes his head for a moment, one hand braced against the bed, the other running up and down your side in quiet comfort as he allows your body to adjust to the feeling of his.

a gentle squeeze of your hip, then reverence in the way he leans down to kiss your forehead.

"...'s not my fault either, dove."

[whimsyunicornxd]

Father’s Day.

Early morning rays filter through the sheer curtains, basking the bedroom in a warm glow of the sun. The mattress seems to swallow you whole, molding to your body, begging you to stay naked in the comfort of your sheets instead of waking up for the day. Simon sleeps behind you peacefully, finally back from a mission just in time for his holiday.

It's the third Sunday of June, Father's Day, and just before you are about to sneakily get out of bed to start the breakfast tradition, Simon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls your back against his chest. Your body relaxes in his hold, the warmth of his skin spreads throughout yours, and his calloused fingers draw circles on your lower belly which leaves goosebumps in his wake.

"Mornin' lovie," he says, voice low and rough with sleep, his breath hitting the back of your neck before he buries his face in the crook between your shoulders.

"Happy Father's Day Si," you reply, placing your hand on top of his while snuggling closer.

His cock immediately rises against your ass, hard and ready to go even after just waking up, and you have no shame when you grind against him. He groans, pushing his length towards you, pulling you closer to feel more of your skin on his. Your legs open ever so slightly when his hand trails lower, and two of his fingers run through your folds, teasing you before bringing them up to your clit.

He rubs slow, tight circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves, making your hips rock back and forth as you begin to crave the feeling of soft pleasure, all while drawing out quiet whimpers and moans from your lips. He kisses your nape, moving along your shoulder, up your neck, across your jaw until you turn your head to give him access to your mouth. His kiss is deep and claiming, raw and passionate, and he continues to grind against you.

"Let me put another one in you… haven't had you pregnant in years," he says in between kisses, his fingers working your clit faster the more your legs spread for him.

Your pussy clamps down on nothing from the promise in his words, slick leaking from your entrance as desire continues to build inside you, and you can't help but nod and agree to anything he has to say right now. He laughs softly, kissing you again and again, moving his hand from your clit just to better situate himself.

He wraps one hand under your body, pulling you closer by your waist, positioning it to where he can rub your clit while moving the other hand to lift your leg. He slides his cock against your folds, gathering your slick, coating his length in your arousal to make it easier to push inside. His tip leaks precum, the head red and swollen with need, and you move your soft hand down to smear it with your thumb before guiding him to your entrance.

"Goddamn," he curses, his tip slipping inside of your wet walls, your pussy instantly giving way to his familiar length when both of you let out a rough moan of approval.

Simon sinks in all the way, his cock nudging against your cervix, and he rests there, feeling the way your walls flutter around him while trying to adjust to his size like you have to every single time. Your fingers grip the sheets, trying to steady yourself from the feeling of being so full, and you bite your bottom lip to muffle the sounds of pleasure that threaten to rip free and wake up everyone in the house.

"Si, please," you beg, rolling your hips back against him, silently asking for him to move, for him to do anything he wants to you.

His hand moves from your clit, moving to press down on your lower belly, and the sensation leaves you feeling euphoric from how deep inside you he sits. He groans from feeling himself there too, his cock twitching in the depths of your pussy just from the thought alone. One finger traces the lines of your stretch marks, silently worshipping all your body has done to give him his children. You let him, giving him the time to be there with you, giving him the time to think back on everything that has happened to make him the father he is today.

"I wouldn't be anything without you," he whispers breathlessly, his fingers finding your clit again where he rubs tight, quick circles while he pulls out just to push back in again.

His cock bullies your insides in the best way. The veins and ridges of his length slide through your walls, molding to him, welcoming him in the rawest way possible. He angles his hips to hit your sweet spot, and you do everything you can not to cry out for the man behind you. He hits your cervix, knowing just how much pressure to apply to make it pleasurable for you. Simon doesn't go too fast or too slow, his pace is meant to build your orgasm steadily, to build the anticipation.

"You feel so good," he praises, rolling his hips against your ass over and over again, pinching your clit between his calloused fingers and rubbing at the same time.

You moan quietly, rocking back and forth against him to meet every thrust while spreading your legs even wider than the way he has you positioned, begging for more. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, your other hand cups your breasts, toying with your sensitive, hard nipples to relieve the ache in them. Your head digs into the soft pillow, drool dripping onto the fabric from where your mouth hangs open ever so slightly on silent moans, and your eyes shut tight as you give your body over to him.

"Oh f-fuck Si," you whimper, shivers racking through your body as heat begins to pool in your lower belly,

He pounds against your sweet spot, his fingers dig into the soft fat of the inside of your thigh, his fingers work your clit with efficiency just the way you like it. You push back against him, letting him reach even deeper inside of you, and you grind against his fingers, but your body is confused on where to focus when everything feels too good. You pull, pinch, twist your nipples, searching for more stimulation while your orgasm builds and builds.

"Yeah? That feel good," he asks, growling out the words to bite back his groans.

You nod your head, it's the only thing you can do as he fucks you dumb and clouds your mind, inhibiting you from being able to form any coherent words or important thoughts. He fucks you faster, deeper, harder, thrusting inside of you with little control as his mind and body beg him to make you cum. His balls slap against your ass, squelching from the contact from how wet you are for him,

Your climax sits in your lower belly, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap, and your body begins to shake with pleasure as he continues to drill into you. He knows you're so close, he can taste the goosebumps on your skin when he kisses your shoulder, see the shivers racking through your body while you writhe, feel the way your pussy clamps down as if it never wants him to pull back out.

"Cum on my dick baby… I know you can do it," he says, encouraging you while placing his mouth on your neck, sucking the soft skin until purple bruises bloom underneath.

You squirm in his grasp, desperate to feel the pleasure he speaks of, and when your body becomes rigid and your muscles draw taut, you give yourself over to it. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his length, coating his shaft in rings of white cream. Your body trembles against his, your moans ring out in his ear even while trying to be as quiet as possible, and when you start to twitch from overstimulation he eases up on your clit.

"That's it. You're such a good girl for me."

Simon pounds into you harder, focusing on his own climax now. His hand moves from your leg, letting it hang in the air while he spreads your ass to get a better view of your soaked pussy sucking him in. Groans fall from his lips, grunts fill the air with each thrust of his hips, and the sight of you taking his impossibly large dick has him cumming instantly.

"F-fuck, goddamit… feels so good," he says, thrusting a few more times before burying himself to the hilt and releasing his seed deep inside of you.

A guttural groan rips from his throat, far too loud, but neither of you care. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out with every pulse of his length, hitting your cervix and leaking out when there isn't room for anymore. Your pussy flutters around him, milking him of every last drop of it until there is nothing left and his cock stills inside of you. It creates a mess between your thighs, one that he will happily clean up.

His body slumps against the mattress, his chest rising and falling rapidly while he tries to catch his breath, and you pull his cock out just to flip over and face him instead. Simon pulls you closer, basking in the scent of you, in the warmth your body gives off. His eyes roam your face, taking note of your afterglow, of your half-lidded eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, of your swollen lips and drool stains.

He kisses you hard, but slow, savoring the taste of you, his fingers gripping your skin as if he can't seem to get you close enough. You place your hands on his chest and push him flat against the mattress before straddling his hips. His hands find your ass, kneading the plush fat, softly grinding you against his semi-hard length before you playfully slap him.

"No more… and you better pretend to still be asleep when I bring the kids in here with breakfast," you say, scolding him for distracting you from the Father's Day activities you have planned.

"Yes ma'am," he replies, laughing softly, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck to pull you back in for one more kiss before letting you leave. "Do I get dessert after?"

His hand falls between your legs, slipping two fingers into your pussy, curling them until he hits your sweet spot and your back arches ever so slightly before pulling them back out again. He brings them to your mouth, rubbing cum against your lips, silently asking you to open for him and when you do, you clean them off while nodding your head yes and gazing down at him. He groans, and sets you down on the floor, trying to hide his hard, aching cock with the sheets and telling himself to let you go before he fucks you in bed all day.

[mapandmatch]

𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

18+ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘮𝘥𝘯𝘪

knight!simon who's assigned as your personal royal guard after years serving in the king's guard. he's notorious throughout the castle for his loyalty, silence, and for his helment, which he is never seen without. everyone seems terrified of him, only making the pit in your stomach worsen when your father announces he'll be assigned to protect you.

he approaches after the ceremony and, to your surprise, drops to one knee before you.

"i will protect you with my life, my lady." heat creeps up your cheeks.

knight!simon who's suddenly everywhere. one step behind you during your daily walks, standing at your side during court, waiting outside the dining room. even at night, he's stationed outside your bedroom door, stoic as a sentinel while the rest of the castle sleeps.

eventually, you grow tired of the silence trailing behind you everywhere.

"is it true you never take off that helmet or is that all just castle gossip?"

to your surprise, he answers almost immediately, his voice rough from hours without speaking.

"aye. it's true, my lady."

you tilt your head, suddenly finding your new guard far more interesting than you'd expected.

knight!simon who follows you to the library day after day, listening while you ramble about whichever novel you've buried yourself in that week. he tells himself he's only listening because it's his duty to remain attentive, but before long he's genuinely invested in your stories, having to straighten back into perfect posture whenever anyone wanders into the library unexpectedly.

knight!simon who notices your loneliness long before anyone else does.

he realizes you linger in the gardens longer than necessary because no one comes looking for you. that you spend entire afternoons in the library because books make better company than the court. that the only person you really get to speak to anymore is him.

knight!simon who slowly grows fond of you over the passing months.

he makes sure you never leave without your coat when winter settles over the kingdom, carries your books from one wing of the castle to the other without you ever asking, keeps an especially close watch of the corridor outside your bedroom whenever he notices the sound of your bath running.

maybe one day he's bold enough to bring you a book he'd heard you mention weeks ago. another day, a flower from the royal gardens somehow finds its way onto your windowsill. sometimes he gets bold enough to speak a little too honestly, but only when the two of you are alone.

"you look lovely today, my lady."

he only says it because he loves the smile it earns him. he's grateful for the helmet hiding the way his eyes threaten to linger on you.

knight!simon who refuses to call you by your name. he may be your guard, your confidant, perhaps even your closest friend, but you're still the princess. one day you'll marry a nobleman. when that happens, he'll stand in polished armor at your wedding, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and swear to protect you while watching another man promise to love you.

knight!simon who bites his tongue until it bleeds every time your father speaks of suitors.

princess!reader who doesn't truly dwell on the nature of your bond with your knight until the day a persistent noble corners you during a banquet, refusing to take the hint. simon is between the two of you before you can even think, one gauntleted hand planted firmly against the noble's chest as he forces him back without a single word.

after that, it's impossible not to see him differently. the broad shoulders beneath his armor. the easy confidence. the relentless devotion. the way he'd sworn to lay down his life for yours without ever asking for anything in return.

princess!reader who never looked at your knight quite the same after that day.

princess!reader who replays that moment over and over each night in your head, remembering the way he forced the noble away with a strength as quiet as it was commanding.

princess!reader whose thoughts wander a little too far one night, the years of aching loneliness shifting into a quiet, burning desire for the man just outside your door.

knight!simon who shifts uncomfortably in his armor one night, the metal suddenly growing far too tight around the groin, as your soft moans and sighs drift through the heavy wooden door, his name barely more than a whisper on your lips.

────────────

› 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

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a/n: first time trying headcanons instead of a oneshot. do we hate this. did i do it. also as an aside, i redesigned my acct a little bit, so hopefully it's easier to navigate now. have a good day guys :)

[rileysangel]

Summary: Simon taking care of reader, after a long day.

Warnings: Munch Simon (briefly), Simon being romantic and having a sixth sense for readers mood, also this is my first time writing smut, so yeah.

Your day was going miserable. First you got a text from a number you had blocked multiple times, then you had a case that took an emotional toll on you and as if that wasn’t enough, you had an argument with your friends. You were so ready to go home, straight into Simon‘s arms.

Once you were done at work and with your reports, you quickly changed into some low waist jeans and a hoodie that you stole from your boyfriend. You quickly say goodbye to your coworkers and put your headphones on as you walk to the next bus stop.

"Si, I’m home!," you call out exhausted as you drop everything and take your shoes off, but you’re only greeted by silence. "Simon?," you call out again as you walk in and look around. You stop mid step and feel a lump in your throat. Infront of you was Simon, behind him a beautiful bouquet of lilies, your favourite take out dinner and your favourite sweet treat. "Hey, baby," he greets softly before he wraps his arms around you, one hand on the back of your hand and the other arm wrapped around your waist.

You can’t help yourself as you start crying into his arms, finally finding peace and comfort after a day and week like this. "It’s okay, baby, let it all out. I’m here now," he murmurs into your ear. He pulls back a little to wipe your tears and kisses you gently. "Come on, let’s get you into something comfortable."

He picks you up, making you yelp and smile through the sniffles. He carries you into the bathroom and slowly takes your clothes off, looking up at you. You swallow hard and feels your cheeks turning pink slightly; you hadn’t changed one bit. "Si, you don’t-."

"I want to," he interrupted before he started kissing his way down from your belly button. You exhale shakily and lean back against the wall as his tongue makes contact with your clit. "Fuck, Simon," you moan and look down into his eyes; his tongue thrustsing inside briefly. "Hmm, taste so good, baby, so sweet," he murmurs against your clit, the vibrations of his voice making your knees weak.

"Such a good girl, letting me make you feel better," he hums as he wraps his lips around your clit, his hand sliding up your body to pinch your nipples and knead your breasts. "Fuck, 'm so close," you gasp and moan as he starts sucking and licking faster and harder. You feel his fingers thrusting into you, curving and brushing against that one spot. Your back arches and your thighs start trembling as your orgasm crashes down on you, your moans filling the bathroom, your tears running down your face.

He cleans you up with his tongue and kisses his way up, before he captures your lips in a gentle kiss

After a warm shower, where he washes you slowly, he brushes your hair gently and blowdries it.

"Thank you," you murmured as you leaned your head against his shoulder. He places soft kisses on your shoulder and pulls you into his chest as he grumbles something into your ear, making you shiver and finally laugh.

"Come on baby, let’s eat dinner before i have a second dessert,“ he teases.

A short while later you‘ve forgotten how bad your day was, because at the end none of it matters. You were in the arms of the man who loved you unconditionally and always took care of you, but also let you take care of him.

[mcybank]

Fired, With Love – Jack Abbot

⊹ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ⊹ summary: you have a mean jealousy streak, and jack’s favorite hobby is to set it off. when he mentions an ex, he figures he’s in for a good morning. for the first time, he takes it too far. ⊹ warnings: [ wc: 15k ] angst – Lots of it im sorry but it gets resolved! hurt/comfort but it’s very obvious (i hope!) that they love each other. established relationship, age gap. insecurity spiral (age gap related), jack’s got a made-up ex named diane but she never appears on page, reader’s having a Sucky morning; she’s also a little spiral-y, very self-deprecating thoughts (jealousy, comparison, fear of not being enough in relationship), she isolates, cries in the shower, jack messes up and Immediately Knows and is making up for it, mutual fears, they are very healthy communicators eventually, jack and reader are really really obsessed with each other, jack grovels + Hey did you know this was going to be a short fic ⊹ notes: writing this felt like giving birth!!! spent hours and hours and hours on it bc i couldn’t stop writing them thank you SO much for this request! a LOT longer than i intended buut it was so much fun to write + i’ve never been in an age-gap relationship but i imagine This exact thing would fix me !! i literally have a big fat crush on this - also probs one of the last longfics i’ll be able to write in such a short time bc i’m going back to school soon :/

Last month, Jack had ran himself into the ground trying to make sure you understood that there was no mystery woman on his phone. It’d lit up with a text from an unknown number – a scammer, really, trying to paint the picture of a generous human, taking advantage of his old age ‘Hello! It has been forever! Do you still have this number, Jack Abbot? – and Jack had spent one beautiful, incandescent hour being investigated. It’d felt like being back in the military, if he was being honest. He’d last been interrogated like this at a desert, and the girl was clearly better at it, because he’d happily surrendered his phone, his passcode, his call log, and his theory of the crime.

( “It’s a scam, baby. They take advantage of the old guys. But check for any women. You’re only gonna find yourself in there.” ) 

He’d watched you bite down on a smile as you tried to keep the act going, and Jack had fed you all truths ( that he’d picked up once, stupidly, and someone asked him for his SSN; they didn’t know what a smart man he was; that he loved you, and only you; that the scammers may have the number, but only you got the man; that his passcode was your birthday, which you’d known, which you’d set ) and you’d recieved each one, nodding, refusing to let the corners of your mouth win. 

( “You’re being charming,” you said to him, sternly. “It won’t work.” / “No, ma’am.” / “It’s working a little.” / “I know, ma’am,” he said, grinning. )

Then, you’d finally decided with reluctance that he was, in fact, “Free to go,” after making note of how scammers are becoming immensely mean, using buzzwords for people Jack’s age. “Forever,” you’d repeated, now disgusted on his behalf. “Who sends that to a veteran? That’s a targeted word. I should report the number.” 

If he was honest, the least your jealousy had shown that week. Jack had never considered himself to be a ‘get an inch, take a mile’ sort of man. Decades your senior, he’d figured himself past the age where he took liberties. He asked before he took; he gave more than he got; he was, by every account, a reasonable man. You’d made a liar of him. He’d become crazy, had started finding childlike joy in small trouble; the sort a boy makes by poking a hive with a stick, except the hive was you and the stings brought him immense satisfaction. Each one, after all, was proof that somebody in this world considered him worth protecting and keeping tucked to themselves.

And you were crazier. Not about him – well. Also about him. But crazier as a baseline condition, a factory setting. You’d woken him at three in the morning by sliding one of his eyelids open with your thumb because you’d dreamt that he was texting another woman and needed to check his phone while the wound was still fresh. He’d handed his phone over, half-blind, and you’d scrolled through it sitting on his stomach. When you found nothing, you’d flopped down onto his chest and gone straight back to sleep. 

It was, frankly, a lot of crazy to be on the receiving end of, and Jack – who’d spent much too long being the most even-keeled, unbothered man in most situations – had taken one look at your little feral devotion pointed square at him and thought that yes, he wants in on all of that.

He would gladly take that your whole storm wrapped up in a package, had done just that, and was not planning on letting go. 

Being loved by you was full-contact, hands-on, and all consuming. You bit and you climbed him on the kitchen while he was holding hot pans; you pulled his face around by the jaw when you decided his attention wandered. He let you, always, going soft-eyed and pliant the second your hands landed on him, and had long ago stopped pretending otherwise. 

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had his moments, especially when it came to his girlfriend. He was, in all senses of the word, protective over you.

He’d known enough men – had been a different man through each decade – to know that you in the wrong hands would have ruined someone, like you had him.

He’d considered himself lucky to have your devotion – a thing so pure, presented with such ferocity – pointed at him. The thought of it being pointed at someone else made him sick simply because he knew how difficult it was to not fall in love with your claws. He knew how it felt to have you scruff him by the collar and inspect him for another woman’s perfume that even you knew did not exist, how it felt to be counted and guarded and kept, and he knew there was no single man alive who could feel that and walk away sane.

He’d take a bullet before he let anything happen to you and consider it a fair trade.

Jack was nothing less than smugly, bone-deep, sure of you. And a man that sure, holding a jealousy that pretty, developed habits. He’d learned (through research he’d conducted, very selfishly, for his own benefit) exactly which levers produced the show.

A waitress lingering around him for a second too long; a squeeze of your hand going tight in his, and him spending the next thirty minutes in the parking lot outside the restaurant making up for another woman’s slow legs.

Mentioning, idly, that a pharmacutical rep had been ‘friendly today’; good for a whole evening of you cross-examining everything about him, her, her tone, his response. 

He knew the difference between small provocations and the premium ones, and he deployed them the same way he planned date nights. He would’ve gone as far as to say they were date nights, impromptu, functionally; every match he struck brought him an evening of you staking your claim with both hands, and then the long, sweet business of being claimed. 

He’d never once found the bottom of it. He’d never once thought to even look for one, where the jealousy cut off and turned inward. It had never once pointed that direction. Your claws faced outward, out at the world, never once you, carrying them.

He didn’t know there was a depth where that happened. It was why he poked the proverbial bear. 

When he’d gotten off his shift at seven in the morning, tugging his bag over his shoulder, he’d leaned his hip against the driver’s door and opened your texts. Some people had a cigarette after a shift. Jack had you, delivered in installments, and he stood there in the cold biting down his smile as he scrolled through the night’s yield.

( a photo of a cat that lived outside the bar; a voice memo at 1:30 he already knew was you narrating something you’d decided was urgent; a link to a lamp with no explanation, which meant ‘buy me this lamp’ (he did, immediately, Apple Pay and its joys of quick payment); a text at 2:47 that just said that your feet were cold; and finally, a goodnight! i love you! sent at 3:15 am )

He’d thought, not for the first time, that he was genuinely a lucky bastard.

After years of pagers and reports and envelopes, somewhere his correspondence had started to include a nightly paper trail proving that somewhere in Pittsburgh, you moved through your night with him present in it. They were simply dispatches you sent because things weren’t fully real to you until he’d been notified.

A man could be told he was loved a hundred ways, but there was no proof on earth like being your first call about nothing. 

If he were a better man, he would have told you about the name that had popped up on his message thread under yours the second he’d unlocked the phone – right there, sandwiched between your goodnight and a spam text about his car’s warranty, a name he hadn’t seen light up his screen in the better part of a decade. 

Diane: Hey stranger. In town next week for a conference - would be good to catch up if you’re around. Coffee? It’s been too long. Hope life’s treating you well. 

It was a strange sort of vertigo of a past life reaching out to tap him on the arm. Diane – Jesus. He hadn’t thought about her in years; it’d been long enough that the name landed without a hook. It was a faint mothball smell of a version of himself he’d long since folded up and put away. No, he had felt near to nothing for her name for the only one that popped up in his head was yours. 

Jack had spent months getting fat and happy on your jealousy; he’d learned there was no sweeter sound than you getting worked up over nothing.

Jack had, right there in the parking lot, a plan because Diane was – he’d assumed, for you – not nothing. No, Diane had history, and it was a real, verifiable history. If a stranger’s coffee order could get you draped over him like a bodyguard, then this – Jack immediately thought – was going to be a show.

Before he’d got in the shower to start his ritual of getting in bed with you – the shower, the hygiene of it all – he found you sprawled across the entire acreage of the bed with the blanket cycloned around your legs. He crossed over and crouched at the edge of you, heart beating gratefully at the sight, because this part couldn’t wait for hygiene. 

He settled for tucking the hair off your face – two featherlight fingers, hooking it back behind your ear – and your nose scrunched in your sleep before it turned into his hand.

“Hey,” he whispered, not to wake you (secretly hoping you would, anyway), and leaned in to press his mouth to your temple that made you make a tiny sound at the back of your throat.

Your fist unclenched from under the pillow and groped out blindly to his forearm, fingers curling around it without opening your eyes. 

Jack stayed crouched there a moment longer than his knee approved of, grinning down at you. 

“I know,” he murmured, working your fingers off his forearm one at a time and folding them back against your palm, pressing them there with a squeeze. “Ten minutes.”

When he tucked himself into bed beside you, arms instinctively falling over your waist to pull you flush against him, you were half-turning to him before you’d even surfaced. You made a tiny sound, unintelligible words – something about the temperature of his hands – and burrowed closer, one leg sliding under his waist and over the mattress, your cold feet immediately seeking out the warmest available part of him. 

“You’re cold,” you mumbled, not opening your eyes, wounded.

“I know, right,” he murmured, pulling you in closer to his chest. “You, though, are warm.”

You wrapped yourself tighter around him, hand finding its way under his shirt to flatten against his ribs. “You can borrow me.”

His hand moved up your spine, thumb catching each notch, and he pressed his cold nose to your temple just to feel you flinch and swat at him, which you did, gorgeously, with a wounded utterance of his name that made his entire body feel like it’d gone under the sun. “Missed you.” 

You smiled, tipping your face up, eyes still shut as your mouth searched. He met you there, pressing a slow, morning-soft kiss that just stayed. When you finally pulled back and sighed, boneless, he cradled you to him. 

“Hey, so,” he murmured, thumb still stroking your back, “old friend of mine’s in town next week. Reached out this morning.” 

“All your friends are old.” You hummed into his chest, still processing the words, and he felt your body still in his arms. “What old friend?” 

“Just an old friend, baby.” 

You lifted your head off his chest at that, one eye cracking open then the other, the sleep burning off you so quickly. He exhaled a sigh as he watched that beautiful, familiar spark catching behind your face. You propped your chin on his sternum and narrowed your eyes at him.

“This old friend doesn’t have a name?” 

“Mhm. Does.” He kept his face maddeningly neutral, thumb still sweeping your spine, savoring the little furrow in your brows and the way your hand had started gripping the side of his waist, staking a claim. He loved you. “Diane.” 

Your lips pursed as you processed the name, as if checking everything you know about Jack in real time. Then you shook your head a little, lips curving up into what he could only consider your angry-smile. “Who the hell’s Diane?”

“We go back a ways.” He shrugged easily, that confidence of having done this a hundred times and always getting sweet, sweet you packing up in him. “Dated, for a bit. Long time ago.” 

You took in a sharp inhale, snorting softly as your hands left him completely. He tried to bite down his frown from showing.

“Dated,” you said, through a small breath with wide eyes. “You dated and she texted you?” 

“She did.” Jack laced his hands behind his head and settled back into the pillow. “Wants to grab a coffee. Catch up.”

“Well, are you going?” You were up on your elbow now, the blanket pooling at your chest, as your brows went up to your hairline in thorough dissatisfaction. 

No, he wasn’t. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d read the text, and moved on to the far more interesting business of what it could do for this morning. The coffee itself was nothing; he had no interest in sitting across a woman who hadn’t crossed his mind at all to trade summaries of decades.

You existed. There was, now, no hour anyone could offer that beat an hour of you doing anything at all. 

He had sat through watching you decide whether or not you’d return a sweater for forty minutes; trying it on over and over again, the same sweater, then tucking it into parts of your existing clothes to test it (into jeans, out of jeans, under the jacket, sleeves shoved up, sleeves shoved down, “should i just cut the sleeves off?” with the scissors already located, and he’d told you “do the crime and you can’t return it,” and watched you reconsider, setting the scissors down). You’d kept it and worn it while sitting on the couch for the rest of the day, then never again. 

“Thinkin’ about it,” Jack said, hooking a lazy finger into the strap sliding off your shoulder and tugging it back up, a tending gesture entirely at odds with the trouble he was stirring. “Just coffee, angel. She’s only in town a few days.”

“Well, your girlfriend is in town all days,” you said, swatting his hand away. “You can’t just get little catch-up coffees with women you fucking dated, Jack. That’s not – it’s not a thing people in relationships do.”

“No? But it was so long ago.” 

You’d pulled yourself upright now, cross-legged in the sheets, the blanket in your lap and the one strap already sliding down again. “Doesn’t matter, Jack.” You jabbed a finger at his neck. “You’ve got a girlfriend. A very good one –”

“Best one I’ve ever had,” Jack agreed, catching your finger and kissing the tip of it, entirely pleased. “I like her. Love her, even.”

“Then why think about it at all?” you asked as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheek. 

“Just surprised, baby,” he said, shrugging. “We go way back. Before your time. It was – a real thing, for a while.” 

Your eyes quickly flickered down to his chest, mouth opening, then closing again. “How long were you together?”

He clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he genuinely tried to reel back the memory. It was funny the way time did that.

“Couple years,” he murmured. “Give or take, three. Yeah. Around three.”

Your eyes had gone slightly wide as you looked at a spot on the blanket with your bottom lip tugged between your teeth.

“Three years,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, huffing slightly through your nose. 

Your eyes flicked up to him, and Jack’s hand went still against your spine. They eyes were wide, glassed, and lost, blinking up at him with some unguarded confusion. You looked at him the way you did when a word went missing on you mid-sentence (your fingers snapping restlessly at the air like you could catch it, ‘you know the one, Jack, the word – the – the thing,’ while he supplied guesses just to watch you swat them away), except there was no word being hunted now. 

“That’s – a long time, right?” you asked him then, tilting your head to the side, looking at Jack like he had some sort of conversion chart on what three years were ought to weigh. 

Jack’s eyes landed on your fingers tugging closer to him on the blanket, not landing on him. They stopped an inch short of his ribs, curling back into themselves. 

His eyes went from your fingers, to your face, which was still waiting for his answer. He sucked in a small exhale, buying a second, though he couldn’t have said for what. 

There was some low-grade, humming static on his skin, and he forced himself to override it, because you’d asked him so gently, and he always answered your questions. You asked him things at all hours, in all states, with your mouth full, from the other room, half-asleep on his shoulder blade.

( What’s the worst thing you ever ate? You’d help me hide it, right? What’s your favorite planet? If we were both dogs, who’d be walking who? Am I the funniest person you know? Would you still love me if I couldn’t talk, only hum? Who taught you how to drive? ) 

He’d answer every single one thoroughly, treating them all like he would’ve a question for boards, because early on he’d discovered your asking was an act of love; you collected his answers, kept them somewhere in that beautiful head, stored him. Nobody had ever wanted his mind so thoroughly before. 

So when you asked, he answered.

It was who Jack was to you. It was maybe his favorite thing to be, just Jack. Jack and all the little things he thought about all the little things he’d given little to no thought to. 

“Felt both long and short, if that makes sense,” Jack mused, wandering back into it, because you’d asked and the memory was a harmless thing to ignite. It was cold hearth, ash-dead, nothing in it did a single thing to a single fold of his brain.

“We took some trips – did two weeks through Italy one summer.” He shook his head slightly, blowing out a short breath at that fact of his life. “And her sister’s wedding in Maine.” 

“Italy,” you said, lips curving around the little word. Your eyes flicked down to his chest, then his torso. “You went to Italy?” You breathed in softly, and your head tilted again. Jack wondered if this was where the claws came out – Italy. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Lots you don’t know about my misspent youth,” he said, lips curling in a casual smile. His fingers reached out then to catch yours and folded them in his palm, bringing them up to his mouth to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

“What was it like?” you asked, brows rising slightly. “I’ve never – I don’t really know what it’s like there.”

“Rented this Fiat, did the coast. Amalfi, Positano – she had the Italian, so she handled the talking. I just drove and pointed.” A huff moved through his chest where he’d trapped your forearm. “She’d order. I’d eat whatever showed up.” 

He waited for the strike. She ordered for you? Then your fingers would go to his throat. Nobody orders for you. What did she order? Was it good? 

Your lips had made this small shape of an ‘o’ as your eyes had snagged on him as he spoke, criss-cross and those small inches away from him on the bed. 

“What’d she – where’d you even find the time?” you said through a short laugh, shoulders coming up slightly.

“We’d come out of residency and the schedules just –” He’d left your fingers for a second to lace his own loosely over his chest in the air, two combs of a zipper missing. “Lined up.” He retrieved your hand automatically, repocketing it to him. “Traded calendars at the start of the month, find the overlap. Italy was a big overlap we got lucky with. Had a little cash for once, and somebody said to go now or never go.”

The word ‘residency’ had barely left his mouth when he heard you take in a small inhale, your lips jutting out slightly.

Now? Jack wondered dumbly. Now you’d get mad, say something territorial, something pretty and unhinged about schedules. I’ll make your schedule. He readied his face for it, schooling the grin down in advance so you wouldn’t catch him enjoying it. He also would have let you make his schedule, had you asked, even though he wasn’t sure how that would’ve worked. He’d have found some compromise between his job and you. He’d have nodded along solemnly, and asked you when it was effective.

“I didn’t know you’ve been to Italy,” you murmured, almost musing, as your eyes went to the desk beside the bed, past his shoulder. He followed your gaze to the little basket where you kept your folder of documents he’d made you organize last spring. 

“Long time ago,” Jack said, because it was. It was a very long time ago, and he felt the need to clarify that. He didn’t know why he was elaborating like he’d been accused. He hadn’t. You hadn’t accused him. “Very long time ago.”

His palm tightened over your fingers – a small, reflexive press – and got no answering flex back.

Your fingers lay there in his hand, warm, accounted for – like Jack always needed them to be – but absent. Jack found himself pressing again, interrogatively this time, you in there?

“That’s –” you started.

Jack’s eyes snapped back you again, like a dog hearing it’s name. Your mouth twisted, working like you were deciding on a seed and what to do with it.

You gave a small shrug – one shoulder, half-mast – and reached over with your other hand to roll a little lint of fluff off the blanket around your finger.

“That’s really far to go with someone,” you said, softer. “Italy. That’s like – a whole thing to do.”

“It was,” he said, absentmindedly, though, as he watched you.

There was something about the set of you he didn’t quite like, though he couldn’t have said what. The way your shoulders had come in a little? The way you seemed all gentle and docile now, when a minute ago you’d been jabbing him in the throat?

Jack prided himself on knowing you; he’d taken it up as a personal study. Your spine, usually all insolence, all sprawl, had gone considerate. Even your knees, criss-crossed under the sheets, had tucked in closer. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, feeling that need to poke at it directly.

“Mhm.” You nodded quickly and looked up at him with a smile.

His fingers immediately reached up to settle under the hinge of your jaw, as if to hold your smile there, thumb laid along your cheek.

“Yeah, I just didn’t know it was – so serious. That’s all. I thought it’d be, like, some girl you dated a few months.” You let out a little breath of a laugh. “Not an – Italy person.” 

Jack’s brows furrowed. He didn’t really know what an ‘Italy person’ entailed, but he didn’t like how it sounded in your voice. 

You sometimes said things that made him want to burrow into your mind. They were little nothings, coinages, a whole private mint going on up there.

( It feels like a July day, when it was very clearly December and you were snowed in; he’s looks like a Tuesday guy, about a stranger at the DMV on a Friday; my feet are homesick, which turned out to mean you wanted to go to the beach, and also somewhere deserted sometimes, and a hike. ) 

He never asked you to translate. Half the time, it was impossible for you to do so, anyway; the words just arrived to you whole, and he’d learned to hold them up in the light until they made sense.

They always made sense, for there was always a ‘you’ inside of them. And he’d found that whatever came from you, it was worth keeping to dig into. 

( Sometimes, it made sense days later. Like when you’d said, one night in the car, engine off, “I like you when you park.” 

He’d laughed and asked, “As opposed to what?”

You’d had no answer, but he understood, days later, that you liked Jack in-between things. You liked him with the engine off, day done, night not started, with nowhere to be just yet.

He supposed it meant you liked the little pockets of nothing that every life has and nobody claims; idling, as opposed to mid-shift, the one where there was no overarching function making him do something. He’d found he liked those little pockets of nothing, too. )

He supposed that ‘Italy person’ would turn out to mean something exact, too. 

He waited, again, for the claws. What am I, then? with a finger at his chest, and he’d catch the finger and kiss it again and tell you what you were – everything – and you’d pretend it wasn’t enough, and demand he phrase it better, and he would.

Jack would phrase it better then better than that, mouth at your knuckles, your wrist, working up the arm between clauses. 

Mine, obviously, don’t be stupid. You’d hum, and he’d say it slower – mine, ob-vi-ous-ly – and you’d call him useless, and somewhere you’d end up bickering about whether Italy even had good food. He’d take your side on, traitor to decades in under a minute, and your sulk would die of neglect without either of you watching it. 

“I don’t know what that means, sweetheart,” he said, trying to force a casual smile through a small, chuckle. He shook his head confusedly. 

Your lips pressed together as you shrugged. “I don’t, either. Not really,” you said.

Before Jack could respond, you reached over and patted his chest twice and said, “Long night?” 

It took Jack a second. He heard actual sound, cogs audibly changing gears, because you’d been in Italy, and now you were in his shift, and the border between those two had been crossed with no warning. He’d been asked this normal question a thousand times; it was a fine question, a normal one. He’d answered it a thousand normal ways.

“Uh, yeah – middling,” he said, hand now coming to find your waist where you sat and tugging slightly, getting you back down into him. “Don’t wanna talk about the shift, though.” You landed against his chest and his chin fell to your head, some unscripted instinct in him kicking in. “Wanna talk about you.”

“Me?” You laughed slightly. “Nothing to report here.” 

“Disagree.” His hand started running over your spine, pressing his mouth to your hair for a second, breathing you in. “Missed you today,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Listened to your voice memo twice on the way back.” 

“Really?” 

His arm tightened around you, bring you up closer to his face, where he could reach your temple without any work. He pressed one, then another, and another kiss against them slowly, mouth lingering against your skin on the last one as he waited. For what? He had no idea. 

Your hand traveled up from his ribs to his jaw, cupping it, then running your thumb against the stubble once against the grain, the way you liked. It usually came with commentary (you’d make such a good beach, Jack; this is my favorite texture on earth; Jack, keep it like this always) and tonight he got none of it.

Jack turned his mouth to it on reflex and pressed a kiss to the middle of your palm, and felt your fingers curl slightly on the contact, gathering the kiss like you were keeping it. 

“Love you,” you murmured. “Go to sleep, Jack.” 

“Love you, too,” he said.

He couldn’t ignore how you’d practically shut off right in front of his eyes. So, he asked, “You tired?” he asked, feeling some base need to clarify.

“Yeah,” you whispered between your faces, and you did sound tired. Tired, Jack knew how to work with. 

“Good,” he murmured, softer, relieved to hear it was that. “We’ll be tired together, then we won’t be tired.” 

Your breath billowed softly over his mouth, something like a laugh, and his hand slid down to your arm to find your hand, tucking the whole laced knot of it down between your chests where it lived. Your head ducked slightly to go under his, burrowing in his neck, and he smiled as his chin came to rest at the top of your head. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, with all of the command he could muster whilst three-quarters gone himself. “We’re gonna sleep the whole day away.” 

You did. Sleep – that is. Or stayed in his arms until his breath went long and even and unmistakably out. When you were sure – when that deep untroubled weight of him told you he was really under – you extracted yourself out of the bed.

You didn’t want to, but sleep wasn’t coming easy with Jack tonight. It sucked; sleep always came easy to you with Jack. Getting out from under him, too, wasn’t easy. He slept like he meant it now, all of his weight poured over you, one heavy arm slung across you like a seatbelt. 

You lifted his arm by the wrist, an inch at a time, and slipped out from underneath it. He stirred and made a rough sound of protest and reached for the warm gap you’d left, patted once, then again, searching, and you winced at the sight of it.

You hurriedly fed your pillow to his arms and watched him gather it against his chest, watched him settle, thinking it was you. 

You should have gone outside now, like you’d planned, and instead you leaned in over the mattress, drawn back down by some law you had never once repealed.

Because – even now – you couldn’t leave Jack Abbot undecorated, you weren’t functioned that way.

Every time you left his vicinity, you’d paid a toll at the door; a kiss to the knuckles, the shoulder, the one time you pressed his closed eyelid so gently he’d told you about it during breakfast, thinking he’d dreamed of it, that it’d felt nice.

You picked the stubbled jaw and pressed the smallest kiss there for half-a-second, and he hummed just as you leaned away. His arms pulled the pillow tighter.

You felt heat build up behind your eyes at it. Jack was, somehow, reassuring you unconsciously, four fathoms down. You blinked at the ceiling, because this was just Jack sleeping with a pillow. Normal girls do not cry about things like this. 

When you successfully made it to the kitchen to make some coffee, which you didn’t end up making, you scrolled through your phone absentmindedly for a few minutes.

Your teeth were digging into your lower lip, and you were sure they could’ve left a permanent dent on them because of how long you’d been sitting on the countertop next to the coffee 

You were being mature. You were being so very mature about this.

Any second now, the maturity would kick all the way in and you’d feel it; the maturity, the security, the calm, grown-up ease that’d let you hear about your boyfriend’s beautiful doctor ex-girlfriend and their beautiful accomplished Italian holiday and simply nod. Maybe you’d be glad he’d had love before you, had something great enough it’d taken a tour across oceans.

You wouldn’t be this.

She was three years to your year.

You’d been counting since the bed, some sick little voice in the back of your head clicking away – that’s longer than you, so much longer, it’s double! and then one more!

She got a whole coast and you? Every time you tried to set the voice down, it just picked itself back up and started again.

You had – after a year – found the one proof that you’d always been, cruel-to-yourself, looking for. Jack Abbot had lived a life before you, several lives, and he’d had love.

So much time she’d had with Jack.

When you reached for your enormousness, for the claws, for the whole arsenal, you found your armor completely empty.

She predated you; you had no way to be big at her. You couldn’t bodyguard Jack from his own past, though you wished he’d have been a bodyguard to it from you. It was an insane thing to wish. All he did was answer your questions, because you’d come knocking.

An unfair, childish, foolish part of you wished he’d lied and decided the truth was too heavy for you and carried it himself. 

She had Jack, and she let him go. You could hardly let Jack go for the length of a shower. You’d have died.

What did she know that you didn’t? What was it like, being a woman who could afford to lose him? She’d walked away from Jack and was whole; if you’d lost Jack, there’d be nothing left.

You knew it was dramatic, that it didn’t work that way. It wasn’t true, but it sure felt like it. Jack had filled your life completely, and you didn’t ever want that space ever again.

Nothing about that is romantic. You’re just a girl who bet everything she had on the first big thing she saw. 

Jack had lived a whole entire grown-up love – the real kind, the serious kind – with her.

Your cruel brain wondered if there were others. You’d never heard about Diane before, what was one more name he’d never mentioned? He had decades you knew nothing about.

It all happened before you’d ever set your eyes on him and thought he was the only man that existed. It had happened before you’d seen him and thought he could be the one, then wished that he would be the one. He’d had that before.

You’d always known that, abstractly. But the idea of years and years of Jack being loved by great women who understood his work, women his own age, women who’d been there for parts of him you never got to meet. That a door swung open all the way tonight. 

You were the latest in a line you didn’t even know the length of.

You’d never even thought about Italy – it was so far away, and you didn’t even think you’d said the country’s name out loud until tonight.

Italy was – you always thought – a thing that happened to other people. It happened, you understood, to Jack. Not your Jack, another woman’s Jack, back when he was somebody’s whole future instead of their past.

He had been loved over there. He'd been to Maine with a family who’d probably thought he was the one.

You were holding the frayed end of a rope whose length you’d never wanted to measure, because you’d assumed stupidly, sweetly, that the rope started when you’d grabbed it, that Jack began the night he met you.

Stop. You’re being crazy – like always. A part of you always had known Jack liked getting a rise out of you, and you liked giving him one. Get a rise out of him, the petty, young part of your brain supplied. 

You laughed softly to yourself, clutching your arms around your waist as you folded over, forehead dropping to your knees.

With whom? If you looked for ammunition, you found no Diane.

The guy before the last guy whose last name you couldn’t even remember anymore; a handful of small-time relationships that had lasted one season and ended not because they were wrong but because they were nothing.

You had no great, grown love in your belt that you cold hold up to the light and make Jack ache over. 

You had Jack. Jack was your Diane and Jack was your Italy – your three years, your coastline, and your entire globe, probably even more – the biggest love you’d ever had by a distance so vast it was hardly a competition.

Jack knew about your entire life and every supplementary information about you that held no weight on you, or only very little.

Jack knew about your first pet’s name, and its cause of death, and the movie you still couldn’t watch because of it. He knew your worst subject’s grade and, worse, the teacher’s name, and had once gotten angry at that man on your behalf.

He knew the reason you hardly talked to your family; he knew it all by now, because you’d kept handing out pieces over this year, and somewhere around the eighth month you’d realized he knew the story completely now. 

He’d learned it all, greedily, like each fact was worth having. You’d hand him a dusty nothing – a camp story, a recurring dream since seven, your opinion on cilantro – and watch it get written down somewhere behind his eyes. Weeks later, he’d produce it at the right moment. No cilantro, she hates it.

It had felt like Jack had opened your junk drawer and thought of it as treasure.

Your life was small and short enough to fit into his hands entire. It was a carry on. He held all of it and had room left over for more. You just didn’t have any more to give him.

Jack had finished reading you.

You’d been collecting him, too, greedy in your own right, thinking you were getting, at the very least, to the hallway. Now, you were wondering if you’d only just walked up the porch to the door.

You could produce Italy in your brain now; Jack against some sun-warm railing over water; Jack driving a little car on the wrong side of the road with confidence; Jack looking longingly at a woman who was speaking a language he couldn’t understand, holding him up.

Some parallel-Jack, out in the corner of your mind, who’d married the doctor.

Jack who was, right now, in some other version of this morning, drinking coffee, happy, whole, entirely fine. Jack, who was talking about some case from a journal – in his fluent doctor-language with someone who never needed the glossary – never pausing to translate English into – well, English. He was never smiling patiently and having to shrink his work down to a bedtime-story size like he did you. That Jack’s wife could meet Jack in the dark after his bad shifts instead of standing at the edge with a flashlight, calling in.

You couldn’t even imagine parallel-Jack lonely with something missing at his table. Your imagination – which loved him, which had only ever been able to love him – refused to even draw him sad. It kept handing you Jack complete; a whole finished Jack, out there in the corner of your mind.

This Jack’s completeness had to require your absence. It needed you to put yourself out of this world and into the crevice of your mind that hated you.

You had to widen your eyes on the floor. Your heels knocked the cabinet.

No. No. Your Jack – the real Jack – was thirty feet away and had never once been anything but certain of you.

Jack had never once not been certain of you. You were sitting on the countertop in his sweatpants right now. Your fingers were curled into the cotton of the pants, holding it like it was his hand, because Jack himself suddenly felt like too much to deserve.

You were getting homesick of him, getting jealous of women in your own head, grieving trips that had already happened, creating an entirely one-girl production in your mind that was only cruel to you, and the man who’d done nothing to put it there.

Go to him, you tried to tell yourself. Go to Jack. Wake him up. Talk to him.

He never turned you away. You had come to him with nothing, a whole lot of nothings, and he had never once turned you away. 

( You’d had a terrible dream that your childhood house was empty. It was the whole dream. You’d walked through it, room-by-room, and everyone was gone and the furniture was gone and your voice didn’t work. It was classic dream-physics. You’d woken up with shaky breaths, body tensing up over, well, nothing. Over the fact that the wallpaper was gone. You’d lain there for four minutes being reasonable about it, then you’d poked Jack. 

Poked him once, then again. Then again – his hand caught your finger, eyes still shut, reflexes working. He folded your finger in his fist and kept it there, on his chest as one eye dragged open, looked at the little digital clock, looked insulted, then looked at you. 

“What?” At your silence and the sight of your small pout as your body went still, both his eyes opened, everything in his face shifting around not making this worse. “What happened?”

“Bad dream,” you said, and because he’d wait all night without asking, you added, “My old house. Everything was just gone. It’s stupid, it’s not even –”

“Not stupid.” His arm had come up to haul you down onto his chest in a drowsy motion, your ear landing conveniently over the slow bass of his heart as his hand rubbed over your skin. “Empty house,” he murmured, clicking his tongue. “Yeah. That’s not a great one.”

He always agreed with you. Then, he added, “This place has got everyone we both need in it. Go back to sleep.” )

Your mind had, finally, gone quiet. Finally. Even it knew overkill when it saw it. 

Fuck, maybe you were fucking crazy. Jack should have gone running. If he had any sense, he’d have looked at you and walked calmly in the other direction. He hadn’t. He had stayed.

This morning your enemies included a hypothetical, a memory, and Europe al-fucking-together. 

He hadn’t let you go, you had to remind yourself. He’d kept you. Had, a few times, put a foot on the door to keep you there.

You slid off the kitchen counter to make your coffee, almost distantly. You made it this time, too. By the time the machine started its slow gurgle, you’d forced yourself to wrestle the whole thing back where it belonged, blinking your eyes clear and dry. It was the deal you’d made with yourself, you supposed, when Jack had said Italy and that she was a doctor, just like him. 

You weren’t going to be the crazy, young girlfriend who spiraled over an old flame. You were going to be so graciously secure about all of it that Jack would never, ever know the morning had touched you at all.

You’d nearly convinced yourself of it, too, as you settled on the couch with the mug on the little glass table beside you as you scrolled through your phone. Then, you’d heard the bedroom door, and the soft knock of crutches against the floorboards as Jack shifted his weight. 

You felt your heart drop at the sound of it, and had to force yourself to look up at the ceiling for a few seconds before he materialized, because you had never – not once – felt that feeling in your body in the three-sixty-five and a few more days you’d loved him.

No, you had to tell your body. We don’t feel this way for Jack. There’s no need to start now.

He came around the corner a second later, crutches under his arms and squinting against the light, hair flattened up on one side of his head from all of forty minutes on the pillow. His eyes swept across the room quickly and landed on you, face easing slightly.

“There you are,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He stayed there for a second looking at you, head-to-toe, checking. “Woke up to a pillow,” he said, one brow going up, dipping his chin at you in soft accusation. 

“Jack –” You pushed yourself up off, padding over to him on instinct, because you were you, it was now nine in the morning and he’d hauled himself out of bed after only one tiny blink of sleep after his shift. Every single step he was taking on those crutches was a step he shouldn’t have been taking. “What are you doing up? Go back to bed –”

“Could ask you the same, baby. You’re never up this early.” When you got close enough, his eyes immediately came down to yours and stayed, moving over slowly. Then, he flicked his gaze to the entirety of the living room behind you.

“You get lonely out here? Something wrong? Should’ve come got me.” he fired off at once, so quickly that your mind had to catch up to process it.

“Not lonely. Nothing’s wrong. You needed sleep – ” 

False. False. True. You were a liar more than half the time today, and you knew you were making this bed all by yourself.

“I need lots of things.” His hand came up off the crutch grip – balancing himself there on one – and reached out to you, knuckles first, dragging down your cheek slowly as his head tilted to look at you. The touch was so, so tender it almost undid the whole act you had running. “Sleep’s like – fourth.” 

You leaned into his hand before you could stop it, and his face flickered for a second – relief, there and covered – and his thumb pressed in to hold it, keeping it. 

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you said into his palm, because half-truths were easier to say to his palm. “You can, though,” you said quickly. “You worked all night. I’d already slept before you came home.” 

He appeared to weigh this, and when your eyes finally moved back to his face, it was tilted slightly to the side, lost. Like a dog, hearing a new sound. It was a new sound, you realized the second it left you. It sounded like exactly what you had decided you were going to be – reasonable and considerate – and you had never once been reasonable about Jack going to bed. Sending him off to rest, so generously, without you, sounded – to you and him both – like another person’s girlfriend talking. 

He took in a small breath, a chuckle dying in his throat, and his head dropped closer, the stubble catching in the light.

“Counter-offer?” he murmured. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, settling there. “Couch. Both of us. Nobody sleeps. Nobody does a single thing.” 

“Like gremlins,” you murmured. 

The crease in his brow lost a little bit of its altitude. “Exactly like gremlins, angel,” he said gravely, instantly. 

Your lips moved hesitantly, and your hands came up to his bare chest, pressing slightly. “You’ve been up all night, Jack,” you said through a short laugh, fingers skating around the breath of his chest to sit at his ribs, trying to turn him. 

“Stop it – please, no.” He stayed put, eyes flicking down to where your hands had come up and lips twisting in, what you could only describe as a snarl. “I’m not tired.”

It was such a bald, indefensible lie that you visibly shook your head at him. The evidence was all over his pretty face, the pretty, lying face. The curls were silvering mess flattened on one side and standing at attention on the other, and you had to physically stop your hands from going to them.

The morning stubble had come in along his jaw in that salt-and-cinnamon scatter you’d once spent a full minute petting against the grain while he sat there letting you, patient as a trained dog. Still, tired lived well on him. Everything lived well on him. You’d told him once, and he’d thanked you, because he’d found himself tired a lot and hadn’t quite found a way to ease it. He’d tried.

“Jack,” you tried, voice warming a touch.

“What?” he drawled, shaking his head at you now, like he was deciding to show how scandalized he was now by all of this. “I’m not allowed to sit with my girl?”

He started moving to the direction of the couch – crutches finding their rhythm – without giving you any time for defense. “Man works a night shift and isn’t allowed to sit with the prettiest thing he’s ever seen?” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Come sit.”

You trailed after him, because what else could you do? Dig your heels in, tell him no? That would’ve been a tell the size of five fucking houses. The second you were in range, his arm left the cushion and hooked over your waist mid-step and hauled you onto his lap. Your yelp was swallowed by the drop, and you landed sideways across his thighs with his arm already snaked across your back. 

“Your leg, Jack – ”

“My leg’s thrilled.” His other hand collected your knees and folded them up toward his stomach, tucking you in closer, arranging you into the compact bundle he preferred, until you were sitting in the wide, warm bowl of him with nowhere to look that wasn’t him. His hand then came up to your back and pressed, instructively, until your cheek gave up and landed against his shoulder. He let out a long, slow breath at the contact, chin coming to rest on your hair. “There we go.”

You breathed in a lungful of air as you settled against him, his presence like fire and water over you right now. You were so scared of someday losing this, this exact thing. His chest hair scratching at your cheek; the weight of his head – carrying so much – on your head; the way he smelled like your soap because you’d asked him to once and he’d never gone back, and now this man walked around his emergency department smelling like pink fruit all day and let everyone at work deal with it.

It was so, so unbelievably simple to be with Jack, to be in this flowery presence of this gruff man, being his. Jack had come along and he’d made you put everything down – the checking, the second-guessing – and you had, you’d put everything down, and dumped both arms around his neck instead. 

“How do you wanna use our nights off today, hm?” he asked softly, moving his head to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. 

This was your event. You knew that was why he was asking, dangling it, because the planning was half the having for you and he’d learned to just hand you the whole day and watch you go. You always had opinions.

Before you’d tucked yourself into bed last night, you’d thought maybe you and Jack would go to the diner whenever you woke up, breaking fast in the afternoon like degenerates. 

Maybe the flea market afterwards, because Jack, at a flea market, haggled in such a nice, slow voice that made grown sellers fold like the lawn chairs they were selling. He’d followed you around from table to table for two hours, never once questioning why you were suddenly looking at doorknobs. You could’ve looked at gravel, and he’d have carried it. Then you’d come home, couch, a game on, his head in your lap – heavy, trusting, king of some small kingdom – while you messed with his curls.

It all seemed so unbelievably wrong now. It seemed nice at the same time, the same as before. But the diner. She probably never made him eat at diners. The flea market; she went to Positano. You had no idea what Positano even looked like, exactly. It was probably the most beautiful place on all of earth and Jack had stood in it, years before you existed to him, being well-loved, and you’d spent this morning secretly hoping it was ugly. 

You pressed your cheek harder into his chest and he hummed, appreciatively, and adjusted his arm to noodle you.

She got this, too.

You had to stop yourself from groaning at your own voice, from yelling at it altogether. The thoughts were just pushing you closer and closer to him, your cheek nuzzled against his chest, shifting slightly like the bare contact of his skin could just scrub it all out; your cure and disease were Jack. Every awful, awful thought sent you burrowing closer into his exact chest that had caused it, and he kept receiving you, warm and obliging, having no idea he, right now, was both your wound and bandage. 

You just wanted your day back. You couldn’t tell anyone how insane this was, least of all Jack. You’d have crawled inside his ribcage if it zipped.

You knew that Jack had been trying to get under your skin – you knew that he liked it – but you’d figured this game was one that was built for you to win. Every round was just Jack setting up an excuse to spend the afternoon demonstrating with his mouth, his eyes, his face, that there was no contest to even worry about.

Because you couldn’t very well go to Positano today, and because you suddenly felt like a kid handing over a macaroni necklace to someone who owned diamonds, you said, “I don’t know,” into his chest. “You decide.”

His thumb paused on your skin for a second, then it resumed.

“Me?” he murmured, chin tilting for a second to press his lips to the top of your skull again. “I wouldn’t have the first clue, angel.” 

“Try,” you said. 

He huffed slightly. “Alright, then. Bear with me – first day on the job. We stay here till noon, then the diner with your jams. Then that stretch by the river you like, lemonade from the good cart guy.” He squeezed your arm and pressed another peck to your head. “Home by dark and it’ll be the best outing in the world.” 

It sounded so perfect. You pressed your whole face down into his chest, even as you thought about how his outings were once grander, with people who’d done grander. With a doctor, no less. “Sounds perfect.”

For a moment, the two of you just breathed there. It may have been the fact that when it got quiet when you were with Jack – instead of quiet with just yourself – things seemed a little easier, but you found yourself saying, against him, “Jack?”  

“Yes?” he said instantly, chin lifting off your head and you felt his attention come down on you, whole and immediate, like he was summoned.

“Are you gonna get the coffee?” you asked. 

“Huh?”

“With her,” you said. “You know –”

Your words cut off as you shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid all over again. Saying it made it real again, and now you’d brought the topic to the couch. It happened on the bed, and you’d carried it to the kitchen, and now it was on this lovely couch. You were going to taint it all with it.

“You should probably go. To catch up.” You lifted your head up to meet his eyes, forcing your voice even. “I don’t mind.” It felt like it’d come out with steel; you almost winced at your own words. 

Jack blinked at you, then his head tilted, and the softest, most confused grunt left him. 

“Baby,” he started gently, amused, almost, reaching for the joke in it at first. His knuckles came up to brush against your cheek for one second. “I’m not going anywhere near that coffee – you’d have me chipped like a dog by Tuesday.” 

It was a gift, you could see his words wrapped and extended – him invoking your domestic insanity, holding it up like the reason the sky was blue – and all you had to do was accept it. The morning would become the, in all senses of the word, usual.

You would’ve preened at the portrait of you, and now you heard it from the morning’s new ears – he’s got an ex who speaks Italian and you think it’s fun to threaten him with 24 hour surveillance. 

“I wouldn’t, though,” you said quickly.

When his knuckles paused on your cheek, questioningly, you continued, “You should go. I won’t be mad at you.” Your lips pressed together for one second. “I promise.” 

Jack’s hands went to your hips and his jaw shifted from side to side, as he looked away from your face for a second. “Yeah. Okay. I’m not grabbing coffee with another woman.” 

“She came all the way. You guys are old –”

“Stop,” he interrupted with a laugh – disbelieving and no humor in it – as his head reeled back.

“Stop it – I don’t want this.” His hands flexed on your hips, then came up to wave in the general direction, then fell back down. He looked at you really, really upset, or baffled, or both. “Who cares how far she came? People fly places. I don’t want to have coffee with anyone.”

You shrugged, letting your head drop into his chest again. “If that’s what you want. You don’t have to do it because of me.” 

“I am absolutely doing it because of you.” His arm came around you, bringing you back close to him. “I’m not going ‘cause my girlfriend exists. That’s a whole reason. It’s a great one. So don’t talk me out of it.” He pressed his lips to the top of your skull. “Not your reason to give away. And you can get me chipped, if you like.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you even say to that? You felt him nod over you at the silence, felt some hesitance creep into his body, as he pulled you in. 

“Actually,” he said after a moment. “Let’s put a pin in the plan.” One hand lifted off you and made some small motion, you couldn’t see it but you felt the absence where it had been, before it came back. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Next week. River’s not goin’ anywhere.” His arm resettled around you, snugger than before. “Today we’ll stay in.” 

“Jack –”

“Blanket, couch, girl.” He counted your day off your spine, three soft taps of his fingers. When you made a sound of protest, his said into your hair, quieter, “I’ve got all I need. I’m not feeling the outside today. That okay?”

“No, it’s not – let’s go. I’m just tired right now. I’ll be up later.” 

You felt him breathe, then, the gust of air pooling into your hair.

“Then come to bed,” he tried weakly, and he sounded so broken you wanted to cry. You could hear him knocking at the door of you. “Sleep. Let’s sleep together, if you’re tired.”

“Not sleepy-tired,” you said, and heard how little it made sense even as it came out of you.

Then, you pushed yourself up off him, palms to his chest, trying to keep the motion casual. “I think I just need to wake up properly. Move around a little.” You stood, angling your face away, blinking fast as you looked at the dark TV screen. “I’m gonna get in the shower, if that’s okay?”

When you tried to look over your shoulder, he’d straightened up, palms falling down to his sides on the couch as he looked up at you. 

“Course it’s okay,” he said, hands following up then to settle for your hand, thumb passing over your knuckles. He gave your fingers the gentlest tug and pulled his head back, catching your eyes for a second before you could look away again, and the look on his face was so, so soft. “Do you want breakfast?” 

You nodded quickly. “Yeah – thanks.” 

He made a small sound, then pressed his lips to your knuckles, then let your fingers go one at a time. You made it four steps down the hallway with his gaze heavy on your back, and you couldn’t stand it.

There was a great, large, incessant bug in you that couldn’t stand Jack back there with his worried face and scared smile. So you half-turned over your shoulder, your eyes down at the baseboard, and called out, “Love you, Jack.” 

You’d told Jack you loved him at full speed, into his mouth mid-argument, into the phone before you’d even said hello, at grocery stores, at funerals, at red lights, six times a day minimum. It was the surest sentence you owned. This time, it went out like a paper boat, pushed onto the water with two fingers, and watched all the way across. 

“Love you, too,” he called back warmly, after what felt like a hundred years.

Jack had once spent a very, very long time to get you to believe that even if you held onto something good loosely, it won’t run away. He’d had to get you to believe that even if your grip on him loosened, even just for a second, even for a month, he would still be right there. Why was he feeling the need to hold you so tightly now? 

He set your plate at your spot, and his at his. He poured the coffee, saw the first coffee you’d abandoned on the counter, full and stone cold, and stood there looking for a second longer than the mug deserved.

He’d put on his prosthesis after plating the food, a part of him too large and hopeful – instead of its usual, content, un-worried hum – expecting you to come out of your shower wanting to do something, the diner, the river, after all, trying to change his mind.

He’d hoped you’d come out wanting to be carried somewhere on his back. He wanted to be ready, he always was now. He kept himself pre-approved for whatever you thought of next.

The inside of your head was a busy little harbor, boats coming in at all hours, and he’d been granted a standing spot on the dock. You’d let him become the first to hear about octopus, cats, furniture, which part of your body felt cold, warm, or lukewarm. A year of receiving your pretty cargo and he’d never once been bored. 

He, decades your senior, had seen the world be made interesting again by you just narrating it at him. He had the sneaking suspicion he’d follow your voice wherever it went, into traffic, a dock, into old age, and the shower.

The water kept running. He wasn’t the kind of man that’d track your showers, but years of working in emergency and emergency-adjacent situations had honed up his internal clock eerily well, smoothened out his pattern recognition.

He had to tamp down the urge to deploy it, to use this innate, terrible, awful instinct in his brain on you – you, who he felt more than monitored, who he’d only ever read with love, no grains of salt, no instruments. 

You were the girl who rearranged things in his cabinets by feeling and left in it a system he still couldn’t crack and refused to fix. Opening a drawer looking for a spatula and finding your hair ribbons had become one of the small startling joys of his one life.

He’d been a clinician for so long, and you’d built with him a corner of the world where he was just a man, holding a girl, and being completely in love with her.

Jack, bring me the towel even though it’s right there. Jack, come look at this bruise. Did I not wash out the conditioner out properly? Jack – Jack, Jack, come and just sit with me while I shower.

His knee bounced under the table, and he stopped it. 

Your eggs had gone cold, glossy, and began settling into themselves. The toast had lost its heat, and the jam sat unopened with its little lid on – the grape, the good one – and the jam was a small purple fact that he could not find himself liking to sit across from. You’d have opened it by now and started walking the length of the place, spoon in your mouth, talking. 

A year of you had taught him what mornings looked like when they were going right. He knew this one had gone wrong so quietly and terribly, that he’d been able to hold you the entire time it was happening. 

It was the bitter feeling of the surge he’d had in his chest this morning at the thought of your instincts.

He’d read a woman’s name off his screen and come home with it like it was a match to your pretty fire. He’d carried it into bed with you, and all Jack knew was that at this morning, his girl had been in his arms so sweetly, and minutes later, her fingers were hesitant to press into his skin. The only thing that happened in between was his own mouth, having fun. 

Jack wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he was walking to the bedroom now, to the ensuite bathroom. A year ago, this hallway had been a hallway. Now, it was a museum of you mid-motion, and he moved through it with his heart going at a pace he hadn’t earned sitting down, past the bed still holding the shape of the forgery you’d left him in, a pillow. He had to look away from it like the sun. 

He told himself that the bathroom door being closed was normal. Steam, privacy, nothing; all of it were real things. 

“Hey,” he said to the door lightly, knuckles going in two soft taps. It was the same knock he used with the you in the bath going pruny as he was happily serving you wine. “You fall asleep in there? S’been a minute.”

He tried to force his lips into something close to a smile even though there was a door between you right now.

Perhaps it was because Jack – even now, even morbidly confused – knew you, and knew that the door would be locked before he confirmed it with his shaky fingers. 

( You, who talked to him through the glass of the shower, sat cross-legged on the counter while he shaved – you missed a spot, no, the other spot, how do you have a medical license, genius – and stole his coffee between critiques and made him laugh hard enough he’d nicked his jaw and you’d gasped like the injured party, then kissed it before pronouncing him stable.

You, who had once flung the shower door open mid-rinse to tell him that you’d figured out what you both were in a past life. He never got to hear the answer. You’d seen him standing at the sink in his towel and lost the thread altogether, and the past lives were never mentioned again, and Jack had walked around for the next twenty-four hours unreasonably pleased about being distracting at his age to you. 

A door had, simply, never existed in your relationship. )

The key was right there. He’d put it there himself, two summers before he’d ever met you, the day the door had swung shut at its own draft and locked an empty bathroom. He’d forgotten it existed, but his hand went up and found it first try, blind, and came down holding this tiny cold thing. 

His fingers were unsteady fitting it in, which was new. He’d threaded needles into people in moving vehicles. Now, in his home, his fingers trembled over a privacy lock like a first year, because on the other side of the door was the whole of his one life, in falling water, hiding from him – him – and every second the key took was a second you sat in there believing you had to do so. 

“I’m coming in,” he said to the door, softer than an announcement this large should’ve been, like some part of him was afraid of the wrong reaction at your response to it. “Just me. I’m coming in, okay?” 

His chest caved – folded in on itself, turned over – because there you were, on the floor of the shower, curled up under the pour of the water, your knees to your chest and your arms wrapped around them, your face hidden down against them. His girl – the loud one, the strongest person he’d ever let himself love – made small and quiet and hidden on the floor of the shower. He had seen you in this place a thousand times and never once, not ever, like this.

“Oh – baby. No, hey –”

Your head snapped up at his voice, and just that sharp little movement of you made him tilt back slightly. Your face – wet and swollen, eyes red at the rims, gone raw and young and caught in a way he’d never seen it – did something terrible when it saw him in the doorway. It crumpled then hardened, both at once, a door slamming behind glass, and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your eyes like you could take back the last thirty seconds if you were quick enough about it.

“No,” you said quickly, the word cracking out of you with a sharp edge under the thickness. Your hand came up between you, a flat little barricade under the steam. “No – get out, Jack – I told you I’ll be – please, get out –” 

You didn’t push him. This wasn’t a thing that happened. You pulled – you reeled him in by the shirt, you climbed into his lap, you fought tooth and nail for every inch of distance he’d tried to keep, whose entire love was a set of hands hauling him closer, closer, closer.

He had spent all this time being pulled by you, gladly, helplessly, and he did not have – had never needed – a single instinct for being pushed. 

“Hey – hey, no – don’t –” His hand came out to the glass, pushing slightly. “It’s just me. It’s me. Look –”

“I don’t want it to be you right now,” you said, and the words were so awful and completely jagged.

You turned to face away, like you were trying to push yourself out of his sight entirely. “Please. Please, just go and get out. I don’t want you here – please, Jack.” 

“No, don’t ask me that,” Jack said immediately, voice breaking clean in half as his eyes went glassy and desperate. “It’s me – you don’t hide from me – we’re not that –”

“Please,” you said, voice barely audible over the running of the water, and his nose burnt as he caught sight of you shaking. “Please, just give me a minute – a minute. I’m – I’m asking you to leave.” 

Jack’s hand hung empty in the air as he looked down at you, heart in actual pieces on the tile, and he understood – quietly – that the only thing you were begging him for was the single thing he’d have rather died than do, to turn around and leave you crying. 

So – because you’d asked, because pushing past a plea like that would only carve you open worse, because loving you had never once meant taking what he wanted when it wasn’t what you needed – he made himself.

“Okay,” he said, voice coming out in ruins. “Okay, baby. Okay. I’m going – I’ll go.” He reached up and took your towel off your rail and set it closer to the shower. “I’m right outside. I’m not far – I’ll be right there and you come get me the second you want me, you hear? The second.”

You stayed silent, so Jack, clumsy with grief in a way his body never was, made himself turn his back on you. At the door, he paused, eyes pinching shut to make himself not look over his shoulder. Instead, he said, “I love you.”

He pulled the door behind him, left it breathing half ajar with the steam sighing out through the gap, and pulled himself to sit at the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom. Like you were going to run from him, like some part of him needed both feet under him and the door in his eyeline needed to be ready. For what? He couldn’t have said. To catch you, he supposed. To get you the second you’d let him. To not be caught sitting down when you finally opened the door and needed him standing. 

He sat there with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands pressed together against his mouth and waited, and it was the longest ten minutes of his recent life.

Every second of it was stretched unbearably, because he was learning there is this particular hell in loving someone past all sense and being made to sit on the other side while they hurt. He didn’t know what to do with this feeling, had never had to think it was a possibility between the two of you.

When the door opened, Jack was on his feet before he’d decided to be. There you were, towel-wrapped, hair dripping onto your shoulders, face swollen and turned just slightly away, eyes on the floorboards. You crossed your arms over your chest, gripping the towel closed.

“Hey,” he said, breathing through it, his voice half-ruined, shaking. He caught it and hauled it down a register by force, into the very low, sure place his voice lived when everything depended on it.

He made himself stay planted – made himself open his arms instead of using them, wide, a whole doorway of him – while every muscle strained against its leash, because his body had exactly one theory about you crying and the theory was to go, and he stood on that theory with all his weight. 

“Come here,” he said instead, begging with a steady voice, a whole vacuum sealed into two words. 

Your eyes climbed as high as his chest and gave up there, arms tightening. You shook your head dimly, water flicking. He nodded to himself, made himself stay standing, without letting an ounce on his face where you’d have to carry it. 

“One step. That’s all I’m asking.” His arms turned palm-up at the ends of his open arms, still, though nothing behind his ribs was. “You don’t have to talk. Or explain anything. Not tonight, or ever. I’ll die curious – but I’m standing here figuring out I don’t work right until I know how you feel in my arms and I haven’t known for hours and I am asking you –” His voice strained, and the words came out bare, “ – Please, I am asking you to come let me hold you.” 

You let out a small sound, eyes pinching shut, and he watched a whole war happen on your face. Jack thought, uselessly, hopelessly, that he’d have stood there through a winter or as the building came down, holding a door ajar in himself for as long as doors took.

You crossed, though. Your body came to him hard, all at once, like you were dropped from a height, and Jack caught you with one arm crushed around your towel-wrapped back. The other flew to your wet hair, his palm rounding the whole back of your skull, pressing you into his heart, gathering you in and in and in, past where space existed, trying to find one more setting past where proximity itself existed. He let out a sound that was – dangerously – close to sob into your hair, finding himself completely undone for the first time in a very, very long time. 

“There you are,” he murmured, rocking you slightly as his mouth pressed to the top of your dripping hair. “I’ve got you. Got you now.”

You shook against him, and Jack winced at the feeling of it, gently reeling both of you down onto the edge of the mattress, then back, then over, until he had you sideways across his lap, your knees folded over his thigh, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms locked around you like a cage. The towel gave up at under your shoulder, so he pulled the corner of the blanket up over the bare curve of it – wrapping you precious – and then his arm closed the last of the circuit and locked. 

For a while, he simply let his hand move up and down your spine while you cried into his throat, and every shudder that went through you went straight through him, too. He pressed his lips to your temple and left them there and rode it out with you, breathing slow on purpose, loud enough for you to borrow the rhythm off of his nose, an old medic’s trick he was running on the only patient he’d loved past all sense. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, with your tears running down his throat and pooling at his collarbone,

Jack thought, helplessly, that even this was somehow yours and somehow beautiful; you cried like you did everything, with your whole body, holding nothing residual, generous, so generous, even in grief. You’d never given him a partial anything, and Jack tightened his arms around the full, shaking entirety of you and thanked the universe, genuinely, that when you’d finally fallen apart, you’d walked the few steps and done it on him. 

When your crying wore itself down, Jack made himself stay silent. The questions, fully formed, seventy versions of them and redrafted since the kitchen, he swallowed, because he had a feeling he had pushed enough for one simple morning. He’d pushed this morning smiling. He held you and let the question live in him like a swallowed stone and, apparently, he was less subtle about it than he thought.

Your voice came up out of his neck, waterlogged and small, as you said, “I know you want to ask.” Your fingers moved faintly against his chest, a fidget with no strength in it. “It’s okay. You can.” 

Jack had to close his eyes at your first full sentence being a door held open for him; you’d crawled out of your own wreckage to check on the driver. 

“I do,” he said into your hair, honestly. “But I’m not gonna spend your turn. So here’s mine first.” 

He felt you go still against him – attention gathering, a tiny tilt of your head at his collarbone – and he breathed in heavy, big enough to lift you where you lay, to pay up. 

“I got really scared today,” he said, voice going into a whisper as he leaned down to talk to you. “I woke up to you not in my arms and my whole chest felt – wrong. I do this for a living, I’ve got all the words. It wasn’t – wasn’t sick. It felt wrong, you not being somewhere you’re supposed to be. First time in – forever, if I’m being honest.” He tapped you skin twice, to hold himself. 

“And when I found you, I couldn’t reach you. And now – seeing you –” He felt you stiffen up at that, and he nodded in understanding, skipping over. “I’m thinking of getting rid of all our doors.” His hand kept moving down your spine, and he faced your head then. “Bathroom’s the priority. Bedroom might be load-bearing, but. Front door stays. Everything else is beaded curtains by Friday.” 

You made a small sound against his neck, and Jack had to stop himself from crushing you into the tightest hug at the bridge of a laugh. He pressed his mouth to your temple for a few seconds instead. “Another thing while I’ve got the floor. Telling me to go get coffee with an ex – don’t do that again. I’m not gambling with you. I’ve only got one of you. So, I’m never going to coffee with anyone else again.” 

“You’re allowed to cry,” he said, setting the joke aside. “I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t do it with me knowing about it. That’s mine, and I’m gonna find it and fix it if it takes me the rest of my life.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you protested, sounding wounded. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “That’s mine. That’s what I felt today. You don’t have to give me yours.” 

His arms adjusted, and some helpless, incurable corner of him – the one that had flirted with you through every disaster you’d ever handed each other – added, “But, if you wanted to trade, I can make it worth your while.” 

You laughed at that again, and the two of you stayed silent again for sometime. Your fingers crawled up his chest, up over his collarbone, curling loosely around his neck, your palm settling in like you needed contact to speak. 

“You went to Italy,” you said. 

Jack’s brain did one, full lap around the words, and came back with nothing. He did the only thing he could when you handed him a coin he couldn’t read, which was holding it up to the light and keeping his voice soft and not dropping it. 

“I did,” he said, carefully. “Long, long time ago, baby.”

“Was it nice?” you asked, the words coming out so small. In the same breath, like a small dam breaking, you added, “Do you miss it?”

Jack never had to look for a trap in your words, not like this.

There was none now, either. You’d asked about Italy like you asked him about bad days, ready to receive whatever came back, your thumb doing a nervous sweep against his neck like you were comforting him in advance. You’d found the one grief in the world with his fingerprints on it and your first instinct was to ask if he wanted it back. 

For an ugly second, he thought he could have lied. No, it was overrated, beds were weird, bad food. You’d have heard it, and Jack thought that it would’ve taught you that you couldn’t survive the truth. 

“It was nice,” he said quietly, hands moving up and down your spine. “I was young. Younger, anyway. Whole trip was –” He exhaled, shaking his head as he tried to hunt for the honest size of it. “It was a trip, baby. It was nice.” 

He pressed his lips to your hairline. “I don’t miss it. There’s nothing in there to miss. Like –” He clicked his teeth, searching for the words. “Driving past a house I used to live in. Half the time, can’t even remember which window was yours. You just keep going, ‘cause everything you own’s at the new place now.” His fingers tightened on you. “Think if I’d known what this was, back then, I’d have kept missing this, there.” 

Your breath shifted against his throat, and you nuzzled your face into his neck.

“What’s got you worried?” he murmured. He closed his eyes, letting his head lean to rest against yours, palms moving from your waist to your nape, then down. “I can get us to Europe by Thursday, just say the word. I’ve got PTO and miles I’ve been sitting on for years. I think they were for this.” 

“I don’t wanna go to Italy,” you said, smiling against his neck. “I think this is something I have to get through myself. It’s not anything you’ve done to me.”

Jack felt that familiar twist in his chest. It’d come to him for the first time today, and it kept coming up and up and up, and he couldn’t help but want to claw at his own mouth for his selfish, cruel little game, for every grinning careless word he’d dropped on you like they weighed nothing. And now you felt that you had to deal with it yourself, like it was yours to carry alone, off in a corner, someplace he couldn’t get to. Because he had done this. 

You were, simply, acting like the two of you weren’t the two of you; you had spent a whole year proving to him that ‘by yourself’ was a thing that, now, never existed. 

He drew you back, fingers threading through the back of your hair, trying to physically take you back from wherever – whatever – this by yourself was. He put your face in the light, wet-lashed, trying so hard to keep it together, and his thumb swept the damp while his own face did whatever it was doing, open and scared and thoroughly past the point of keeping it in check. 

“You don’t have a ‘yourself’ anymore, sweetheart. I don’t have that anymore. You woke me up at three in the morning to tell me how you fell off the monkey bars in third grade – remember? You didn’t think twice about it.” His forehead came down, brushing your nose with his. “And now you’re gonna sit here and tell me this – the saddest thing that’s crossed that pretty head all year – this one you’re keeping alone?” 

“Jack–”

“What is going on in that head of yours?” he interrupted, words soft but pointed, suddenly having given up all pretense of coaxing and gone straight to needling.

He watched you open your mouth as you took in a breath, and maybe it was the closeness or the way his thumb kept moving along your jaw, but you said, “I don’t know if I’m the real one.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, feeling heat build up behind his eyes as he looked at you with a pained, confused expression.

“I don’t know if I’m the one you do it for real with, Jack, or if I’m just – the young one. The one you get before – or after – I don’t even know how it works.”

Your hands came up between you, aggravated at yourself, at him, at the lack of vocabulary. 

“You’ve done so much. You’ve got countries. Experiences. So many of them. And I’ve got –” Your shrug came out tiny. “– you. You’re my biggest everything. You’re my Italy and I feel like I’ve been with you for three years and my – you’re all of it, Jack. I’m terrified I’m just the person that came after your big thing.” 

You blinked, and Jack’s fingers reached up to catch the little tear falling over your lashes, his own eyes blinking furiously. Jack wanted, so badly, to reach to you and press your kiss to your mouth to stop this, to to kiss this whole wilted garden you’d created in your head out of you.

He shook his head. “I hope I’m not your – her,” he said, a wince in the words, finding it difficult to even get them out. “Or your Italy.”

“You are –” you said, with so much conviction, chin coming up, ready to fight him for the honor of it, “you are – that’s what I’m telling you –” 

“I’m your Jack.” His hands tightened on your face, voice coming out slightly cracked. “I’d forgotten about this woman until this came up. I don’t want you to forget me. I’m your Jack and I’m the luckiest man for it everyday. So you pick a better word soon, and don’t take that title away from me.” He shook his head. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

You bristled slightly, your eyes shining into his as they went wide, the whole of you locking up at the words. He tapped his palm gently against your cheek once, then again, frowning as he thought he really ought to tell you this more, for a girl who kept a running tally of everything else.

You’d created a museum out of things he’d said, and somehow this one, the biggest one – the luckiest man of it – he’d been rationing. He’d been handing it over in the glances and over eggs, assuming it was arriving, that a girl who read him so fluently was taking what he’d said to you over and over again, so simply because it was just a fact. 

Never again. He’d tell you daily now, remind you of it while making you look him in the eyes. 

“I tried to make you jealous,” you said, the words coming out through a sad, shameful laugh. Something in his chest broke hearing you confess it like it was a crime. “I’ve got nothing, Jack. You won’t care about Sam, or Dave, or – I don’t even remember one’s name. That’s all. You had a doctor you went to Italy with.” 

His eyes fluttered for a second, the muscle in his jaw clenching as his fingers ran over your cheek. The nature of it all was too backwards. Jack had made a very sad sort of peace with himself – he’d known what he was – and somehow, at the end of all that, at the bottom of the ninth of his whole entire life, you’d walked into it glowing like something confiscated from heaven. You’d looked at the full of him, and decided you wanted him. You, dished out to him probably because of some fate-giver who’d been asleep at the desk, who had let the single best thing walk out to him.

If a single one of those guys had stayed awake one more hour, asked one more question, been at the right angle to see who was sitting across them, you’d be – Jack grimly, awfully thought – somewhere else right now. And Jack never would have known; he wouldn’t have known to miss you. You’d have been long gone and loved properly, early, by someone with the sense to do it. 

Jack would have worked his nights and run the bay, choosing every day to enter a new crisis, and never known the whole time that the best thing that would ever happen to him had happened to somebody else instead, on time, the way it properly should have. It was their loss, and he was going to make his entire life out of it. 

His arms moved before the thought even finished, hauling you in impossibly closer, resettling the whole, true warm weight of you against him. “Stay right here,” he murmured.

You did. Your lashes stuck wet in little points and your fingers resettled on his neck. You were wearing his shirt, drowning in it. Jack had been the steadiest set of hands in many rooms, he knew it without vanity. But nothing in his skill set covered you; steady hands didn’t win a girl who lit up rooms; being good in a crisis didn’t earn a woman who made every ordinary Tuesday feel like a celebration. He’d spent so long getting excellent at the exact things nobody falls in love with – triage, containment, blood – and you’d walked into his life and fallen for him anyway, for reasons he couldn’t successfully point to, and he’d stopped asking why out of superstition. You, he was not in the mood to reasonably place; Jack knew when a person was handed one, that they should keep showing up for a miracle, quietly hoping it stayed. 

Jack, falling apart at every seam of him, eyes hot and jaw aching, huffed. It was one, soft breath of a laugh, and your eyes snapped up to his, betrayed, and he shook his head fast, thumb pressing to your cheek to stay with him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, shaking his head softly, thumbs framing your face to tilt it up. “I promise. I’m laughing ‘cause you’ve got no idea what I’d give to have your problem.” 

You blinked at him, mouth curved into a frown. That one, he was sure, was aimed at him. His hands were shaking slightly against your jaw.

“I mean that I am very, very glad that you’ve got no Italy to wave at me. You think I want you to have another big grown love in your pocket? Some guy you crossed the country with?” His hands tightened on your face, eyes shining. “It would ruin me. I’d never sleep again. And I’m sorry for waving mine at you this morning, because I didn’t think it’d make you not sleep.” 

He held your eyes through it, taking his medicine looking at you. “I said it ‘cause I love you jealous. It makes me feel nice to know you care about me.” His lips curved into a sad smile. “I didn’t think what it’d do when I brought this up. I will be very, very sorry about that for a long time.”

When you smiled softly, eyes hooded as you looked down at his mouth, he nodded to himself.

“And I had a nice trip with a woman a hundred years ago, and it ended, and I have zero photos of it. That’s a thing that happened to me. You are not a thing that happened to me. You are what it was all for. All the years, the whole time, all the wrong turns. That was just me taking the long way to find you. You are my biggest thing – biggest one that’s ever happened to me – and I want you to know some pretty life-changing things have happened to me.” 

You stared at him, mouth open, tears going uncaught now, because Jack had gone completely still, needing you to see all his years on his face at once. 

He huffed, mind flicking through this haze of memories. He could reach back and find the years, the apartment, and it all came as nothing. He’d loved women, had meant it completely, with everything he’d had on hand, and he may not have been wrong. And now he can carry the tender knowledge that a person can feel absolutely certain there is everything to be felt and be off by a whole magnitude; he’d stood inside his biggest feeling and called it the biggest and had simply, innocently, not met you. 

“And since you told me yours,” he said, quieter, eyes going down because he found he couldn’t quite hold your gaze for this.

“I know what it feels like to think you’ve found what good love is, and then to find out how it is to love someone bigger. That the thing you could’ve sworn was everything was just – nothing, in the grand scheme.” 

He turned his face to the side as he held your face, suddenly finding the enormity of this simplicity pressing at the back of his eyes. Everything – he was sure of it – had just been the longest drive over to you.

“But you got this first. You’ve got nothing to check it against.” His thumb swept your cheekbone, and his eyes came back to you. 

“I know how big this is because I’ve got my whole life to look at it against. And you just have to take my word for it.”

He tugged his lip between his teeth, searching your eyes with question, checking whether the words were pushing through, whether they had the gap to push through. Your face was tilting toward him, listening with every feature at once; he could see the whole war playing out on your face you had never once been able to conceal from him. You had no poker face, at least to him, you didn’t.

“This is the one,” he said, nodding just barely. “There was never a morning I woke up and had to think about anything before you. You are the reason I know what you think is the big thing is small.” 

Your breath stuttered, and your chin trembled once before you caught it from gritting your teeth inside your mouth. 

“And sometimes –” He nodded, more to himself, as he forced himself to continue. “– I have felt a similar thing. I see you, and I wonder if you’ll think about some guy your own age, out there somewhere. Standard legs. Normal hours.” He shrugged. “No years of the stuff I’ve carried. And I think, someday, you’ll look over at me and think you settled for the –”

“That’s crazy,” you interrupted, the words shooting out of you instantly. Your fingers flew up to grip both his wrists. “That’s crazy, Jack – I don’t want – I would never. There’s no guy, I don’t want standard legs. I want your legs – leg – fuck, Jack.” Your voice broke off as you let out a small, pained groan. “I would pick you over any person who has ever lived.” 

“Yeah, see,” he murmured, a small smile coming up as he let the weight of your words land on him. “Can you see how it sounds crazy when it’s coming at you?”

He brushed his nose against yours at your stunned silence. “I feel the exact same way about what you said. It’s crazy.”

He had to blink over and over as he settled on the weight of your words, said so simply and furiously with no build up. The biggest sentences of his life just slipped out of you, unwrapped, and you had not the first clue what they weighed. Any person who had ever lived. God, you’d waved off the whole crowded history of the species in one breath to pick a tired man in Pittsburgh.  

“Let’s go,” he murmured, wrapping you up and pulling both of you back against the cushions, resettling you on his chest. Your ear was at his heart. The blanket was up to your shoulder. “We’re gonna lie here a while now. I think we both need it.” 

“It was a weird morning.” 

“Mhm.” His hand went to your spine. “Top five weirdest.”

And he should have let it be, but there was still something sitting in him. 

Jack pressed his lips together as he once again said, “I am sorry for this morning. I was –” He breathed in through his nose, fingers coming up to your head, tapping it twice to get you to look up at him. You did, chin pressing into his chest and your eyes tired yet focused. “Immature.” 

Your lips twisted slightly, then you tugged them with your teeth once and looked away, like you were trying not to agree. 

“I was,” he said, easily, agreeing for you. His thumb traced your hairline. “Good thing for me, I happen to be with a girl who likes getting her revenge. Even when I don’t think I did anything.” 

“You do –”

“I do. I do. You’re not wrong,” he said, the opposite of a complaint in it. “You know how to settle a score. And this morning I racked up a real big one. And you’ve just been sitting on it, being gracious.” His nose wrinkled, his fingers going to cradle the side of your face. “You keep that up, you’ll start minding your business and I’ll be living with a stranger.”

At your small, hesitant smile, Jack continued, “I know you don’t like the paintjob of my truck.” You nodded at that, honest as ever. “What I’m thinking is, you key it.”

Your eyes widened.

“Go nuts on the thing. Do some drawings. Write nice words. I drive it around after, everyone sees it. And when we’re good and done with that show and tell,” he continued, fingers threading into your hair, “we take it in. You pick a new color. Any color. Change the seats if you want, too.”

“People will think –”

“People will think a woman loves me enough to key my truck. Do we have a deal?”

[idl3lane]

“I’m not your Italy,..I’m your Jack” 😭😭

Brother the way I said don’t do it when he got the text as if he could hear me lmao. Jack getting ammunition ready only to shoot them both, now they’re both crying 💀 I love that they can play fight with their jealousy except this went too far and I fear my girl didn’t react enough. Anyway I loved it. The hurt, their talk, their relationship. Jack being ready to showcase his fuck up is so— yknow? I just love him being pre-ready to grovel and coming up with it right away lol

[josie-california]

Jack mad frank can bring his therapuppy to work to use as stress relief but he can’t bring bun and pope 😞

drawbacks of having a bunny: bunnies cannot handle being away from their burrows for too long.

drawbacks of having a pope: pope refuses to be in a strange room with strange hybrids who are looking at his bunny.

[janedo33]

Sweet Romance - Chapter Four

Jack Abbot × Fem!Reader

About reader: reader loves purple, no descriptive features mentioned, reader has a personality (on the sweeter side), reader is 23, reader is a newer nurse

Content: SMAU, Swearing, Medical inaccuracy, Blood, Death (that's just a maybe, Injuries, Suggestive content, Age gap, Again butchering medical terminology and anything else medical, Takes place after/during season

note: I was gonna post this way earlier but i got distracted…

Sweet Romance masterlist

—————————————————————————

taglist: @lillianarosethorns @shawnhatosysrightbicep @lolalovesyelena @1234nla @thehockeynerd30

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Where the dead don’t follow AU - Series Masterlist

Summary: When the dead corner her, Y/N is saved by an unassuming hero. Given a second chance at life and an offer she can't refuse, will she find the light at the end of the tunnel, or is the hero asking her to follow him just another pitt of darkness she'll have to crawl out of?

Warnings (for the entire series): age gap romance, unhealthy relationship dynamics at times, sexual content, descriptions of dead bodies, blood, injuries, murder, euthanasia, death, zombies, mentions, descriptions and insinuations of humans doing the worst possible things (stealing, physical, mental and sexual abuse), big trust issues (with reason), mentions and descriptions of mental health issues (anxiety, depression, grief, panic attacks, PTSD). It's not a light read, be mindful of your triggers and choose what's best for you.

Total word count: TBD

Pairing: Jack Abbot x female!reader (Set in The Walking Dead universe)

Prologue

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four/A

Part four/B

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

Part nine (coming soon)

[hollowhuntress]

⌖the cancellation fee. — part one

jack abbot x fem!reader

➶➴ a first date gone wrong turns into a night you never could’ve planned for.

➶➴ content: [mdni], age gap, getting stood up, alcohol consumption, flirting, protective jack, doctor kink/medical innuendos, praise/authority dynamics, kissing, explicit sexual content & phone call during sexual activity.

wc: ~6.1k

it had been a while since you put yourself out there, since you’d made the conscious, agonizing decision to try dating again. you had awful luck with the apps—full of ghosting, half-hearted small talk, and endless dead ends, but with your tiring, unpredictable work schedule, you almost had to rely on them. there just wasn't time to meet people organically anymore, and you were so exhausted by the end of every shift that the thought of going out alone felt overwhelming.

tonight was supposed to be a low-pressure reset. you were meeting your date at a place you had picked out yourself: a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked away on a quiet side street. cheap booze, sticky tables, touchtunes humming in the background—it was entirely low-stakes and comfortable enough to make you feel like you had some control over the night.

you had sent a rapid-fire string of photos of your outfit options to your best friend earlier that afternoon, waiting anxiously with your phone clutched in your palm until it buzzed with a stream of absolute praise. they loved the mini skirt, the form-fitting top that hugged your waist, and the heels that made your legs look impossibly long. you didn’t plan on drinking much, considering you drove yourself.

you pushed past the door of the bar, the chill of the evening fading as the low hum of the room wrapped around you. it was seven on a weeknight, so the place was sparse, but it was public, warm, and blissfully laid back.

you sat at a small table near the middle of the room, smoothing your skirt down beneath your thighs, your chest tight with a mix of anticipation and residual work stress. a few moments later, a tired-looking waitress came by, shifting a tray under her arm.

“kitchen closes in an hour.” she gave you a casual heads up, setting a cheap laminated menu with a sparse, greasy selection on the wood in front of you.

you skimmed it over, your eyes mindlessly trailing past the fried appetizers even though you already knew what you were going to order once your date arrived. you looked at your phone, checking the lock screen, and saw that ten minutes had passed with no notification.

no big deal, you thought, your thumb rubbing over the dark screen before you put it face down. he’s probably just finding parking.

you were soon back on your phone scrolling through social media feeds you didn't even care about, feeling the artificial light of the screen burning your eyes. time slipped away without you even realizing it—you looked up at the clock in the corner of your screen and thirty minutes had suddenly passed. your date still hadn’t shown up. you skimmed the bar, trying to mask the rising knot of cold anxiety sitting heavy in your stomach. two men were sitting at the far end of the bar on stools. a few people were eating quietly in the booths near the back.

you let out a harsh breath, a bitter wave of embarrassment washing over you as your nerves spiked into full-blown mortification.

okay, i’ll give it some more time, you convinced yourself, tapping your nails against the glass screen, desperately trying to keep your face neutral so no one in the bar could tell you were spiraling. he hadn’t texted you a cancellation, and you had been actively texting earlier that day—so you knew he knew the time, and he definitely hadn’t forgotten. he was actively choosing to ignore you, and you’d be damned before you reached out to him.

unable to take the suffocating, exposed feeling of sitting alone at a four-person table any longer, you stood up, pulled your purse strap over your shoulder, and walked over to the bar, sliding onto a stool at the far end, leaving a couple of empty seats between you and the two men. you sat there, crossing your legs tightly, waiting until the bartender finally walked down to you with a damp rag in hand.

“what can i make ya?” she asked, wiping down the laminated wood in front of you.

“just a sparkling water with lime, please.”

she let out a low laugh, shaking her head knowingly. “alright, that i can do.”

she turned her back to get your drink, pulling a glass and dropping a wedge of lime over ice. while she poured, your eyes naturally wandered, trying to find anything to anchor onto so you didn't burst into tears of frustration. your gaze landed on the two men sitting a few stools down, drinking bottled beer and talking in low, easy tones.

one had his arms crossed over a black t-shirt, slumping back comfortably into the padded vinyl backrest of his barstool. his legs were spread wide, giving him a grounded, broad-shouldered presence that commanded the space around him. his greying hair curled at his temples, framing his face as he laughed softly at what the man sitting next to him said. his eyes briefly flicked over, watching the bartender make your drink, and a hot coil twisted low in your stomach at how intensely good-looking he was. the man sitting next to him was also striking, wearing a plain white t-shirt under a jacket, a black scrub top hanging casually over his lap, his dark hair messy.

you pulled your eyes away the second the bartender set the glass down right in front of you, your pulse fluttering in your throat.

“want to start a tab?” she said, sliding a small paper napkin under your drink.

“no thanks,” you said quickly. “thank you,” you added as you reached into your purse and paid for the water right then, taking a small sip.

you turned back to the booth to sit down again, needing space away from the subtle gravity of anyone right now. you sipped the water slowly, scrolling mindlessly through your phone to look busy while your mind raced. you took in all the retro neon beer signs glowing on the wood walls, trying to numb the sting of rejection. you checked the time on your screen again.

it was past eight.

you officially had been stood up.

you groaned quietly, the crushing weight of humiliation sinking in deep, and pushed yourself back up to the bar. if you were going to be humiliated tonight, you were going to wash it down with a drink.

“can i get a real drink now? something strong, please,” you said, sitting on the same padded stool. “oh, and i know it’s past eight, but any chance i could get something from the kitchen?”

the bartender gave you a sympathetic look. “yes on the drink. no on the kitchen. sorry, sug.”

“it’s okay,” you said, letting out a heavy sigh as you leaned your elbows on the bar.

she went to grab the liquor bottles. your eyes slipped to the two men again, both smiling as their conversation wound down. the dark-haired man signed his paper check, stood up from his stool, and tossed his black scrub top over his shoulder, patting the other man firmly on his back before saying goodbye.

“don’t overdo it, abbot,” he said, heading toward the door.

“oh, you know me,” he shot back, his voice laced with a dry smugness that vibrated right through your chest and sent a tiny shiver straight down your spine. he pulled cash out from his pocket. you darted your eyes away immediately, your heart thrashing against your ribs as you inspected your nails.

“here’s your drink, still no tab?” the bartender asked, setting another napkin down with your fresh glass.

“no tab, thank you,” you replied softly, your voice a little breathier than usual as you reached into your bag once more.

she turned to get the register receipt. you pulled your card out and caught the tail end of abbot talking to her before he took a long, slow swig from his beer bottle, his broad back shifting beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

she came over to you, holding a bright red stemmed cherry between her fingers, along with a small cup of grenadine. “he paid for your drink. suggested it might be better with this in it,” she said, nodding toward abbot, setting the cherry down gently on your napkin, and the cup next to your drink with a wink.

your stomach coiled with a sudden, sharp heat, the intoxicating rush of unexpected attention making your pulse race in your ears. your eyes trailed slowly over to him. he was smiling, looking straight ahead at the rows of liquor bottles, his strong jaw set in a quiet, steady confidence.

your eyes turned to the dark mirror lining the wall behind the bar, and you caught him briefly looking at your reflection before his eyes shifted and locked directly with yours through the glass. the sheer weight of his focus made your knees feel weak under the bar.

you held your glass up slightly, turning your body toward him, and nodded in his direction. “thank you,” you mouthed quietly, the words barely escaping your lips.

he patted the empty, padded stool right next to him, his gesture smooth and unhurried. he was still leaning back against the backrest, entirely relaxed, taking a slow swig from the beer he had been nursing.

your chest tightened with a thrumming nerve that made your stomach flip. just a quick thank you—finish this drink, and go the fuck home, you thought to yourself, trying to rationalize why your body was reacting so violently to a complete stranger.

your heels clicked sharply against the worn floorboards as you stood up. you pulled your skirt down an inch, slipped your purse strap securely over your shoulder, and grabbed your glass from the bar—pouring a splash of grenadine into your drink, and dropping the bright cherry right into your glass.

“hi,” you murmured, settling onto the padded stool beside him and resting your hands in your lap, trying to stop your fingers from trembling.

he was even more attractive up close: the way his crow's feet crinkled deep at the corners of his eyes, the rough grey stubble lining his sharp chin, the subtle scent of cologne clinging to his skin.

“jack,” he said, sitting up straight, turning his broad frame to face you directly, giving you his absolute, undivided attention.

you felt completely exposed under his gaze, every nerve ending under your skin firing at once as you gave him your name.

“are you waiting on someone?” he asked, his eyes skimming down to your lips for a split second before trailing down to how you crossed your thighs, turning slightly toward him.

“i was, but he stood me up,” you huffed out, a trace of bitter annoyance returning to your voice, though it was rapidly being eclipsed by the heat blooming in your lower belly.

“first date?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his gaze lingering on your face with an intrigued, thoughtful expression.

“probably last time i try for a while,” you muttered, staring down at the dark liquid in your glass.

he nodded slowly when you said this, his fingers absently catching the band on his left hand, spinning it around his knuckle.

are you fucking kidding me, you thought to yourself, a sudden drop of ice crashing into your stomach, instantly souring the excitement. first stood up, and now you’re sitting at a bar flirting with a married man on a weeknight.

he paused, sensing the sudden, sharp shift in your energy. he looked back up, reading the emotional wall you just put up. “widower.” he nodded toward the ring, clearing the heavy air before you could pull away completely.

“oh, i am sorry—” you breathed out, the cold panic in your chest instantly dissolving into an awkward, genuine sting of sympathy.

“it’s alright,” he said gently, taking another quiet swig from his beer, letting you off the hook.

your eyes darted to his bicep muscles flexing under the fitted black sleeve, noticing how his skin was dusted with faint freckles that ran down to his wrist. your eyes then moved down to his tactical pants, taking in the fabric and utility pockets, your mind wandering to what he did when he wasn't sitting in a bar.

“long day?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation back onto safer ground, desperate to cover up how fast your breath was coming. “i don’t typically see military men in here.”

“typically?” he smiled, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling in a way that made your heart skip a beat. “i am a tactical medic.”

you grabbed your drink, stirring in the syrup, watching his eyes follow the movement.

“a tactical medic,” you repeated softly, rolling the words over your tongue. the alcohol gave you a sudden spike of bold confidence. “does that mean you come with instructions, or should i just try the drink like you suggested?”

jack's gaze darkened just a fraction, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “i'd start with the cherry.”

holding his eyes, you reached your fingers down into the ice, your skin tingling as you grasped the stem. you slowly brought it to your mouth, parting your lips just enough to wrap them around the sweet fruit, pulling it slowly from the stem. you didn't break eye contact for a single second, taking a small sip of the drink right after before you began chewing it, your mouth flooding with sugar and alcohol.

jack's mouth fell open just a fraction. his chest rose on a deep breath, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to your lips and staying locked there.

“you have good taste,” you noted quietly, the drink clearly improved by his suggestion.

“yeah. i do.”

the tension in the small space between your stools turned agonizingly thick, suffocating and hot. jack's gaze slowly drifted down, dragging past your neck to take in the tight fit of your top over your chest, watching the shallow, rapid pace of your breathing. you looked at the silver dusting his hair, thinking about the obvious age gap between you two—how much more experienced he was—and the solid weight of him sent a sudden, throbbing rush of heat straight through you.

the physical reaction was so sharp it took your breath away. you involuntarily pressed your legs tighter together, desperately pushing your thighs together to squeeze out the ache pulsing between them. jack's eyes shifted downward at the movement, tracking the tight slide of your legs before returning to your face.

feeling exposed and overwhelmed by the intensity in his expression, you tried to break the spell. you dropped your chin into your palm, letting out a sharp sigh and resting your elbow heavily on the bar top. “i can't even focus right now. i am literally starving.”

jack turned his upper body fully toward you, his eyebrows pulling together in a sharp line. “did you really just put away a strong drink on an empty stomach?”

you rolled your eyes, turning your head away slightly and letting out a quiet, dismissive hum. “you're not my doctor.”

jack’s jaw tightened, a dangerous, low spark lighting up his eyes as he leaned an inch closer, his presence completely enveloping you. “no. but i could be.”

the silence between you hung taut, stretched so tight your skin felt like it was humming with electricity.

“come on,” jack said smoothly, his voice dropping into a quiet, non-negotiable command as he reached into his pocket and tossed another bill onto the wood. “let's get out of here. there's a burger place two doors down that stays open late. i'm getting some food in you.”

you let out a dramatic, exaggerated groan, taking your sweet time picking up your purse as if he were making your life miserable, even though your heart was practically hammering against your ribs with sheer thrill.

you slid off the stool, pulling your skirt down, but the second your heels hit the pavement outside, a sharp ache shot up your calf muscles. you winced, your knees buckling slightly on the uneven concrete. before you could lose your footing, jack extended his arm out to you with easy, unbothered grace, switching positions so he was closest to the street.

“here,” he said, his voice steady as a rock.

you didn't hesitate, wrapping your hand tight around his forearm, feeling the rock-hard muscle and radiating body heat. touching him made your stomach drop all over again. the chilly night air did nothing to cool the intense flush burning across your cheeks and neck as he guided your steps firmly down the sidewalk, keeping you anchored against his side.

inside the brightly lit burger joint, the heavy smell of grease and grilled meat filled the air, instantly making your stomach rumble. you walked straight up to the counter, mindlessly unzipping your purse and pulling your wallet out to order.

after you gave your order, jack stepped right up beside you, his hand gently coming up to the small of your back. “go sit down,” he said softly, his tone leaving zero room for argument.

you looked at him, opening your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes sent you right over to a red vinyl booth. a few minutes later, he returned carrying a red plastic basket lined with waxed paper, loaded with hot, fresh fries, setting it down right in the middle of the table. in his other hand, he carried a large fountain soda and a cup of ice water.

“this all you wanted?” jack asked, raising an eyebrow as he slid his broad frame into the seat across from you. “just fries?”

you nodded and looked at the two cups he set down, resting your elbows on the table. “why the two drinks?”

jack scooted both cups closer to your side of the table. “drinking only water with fries is criminal, but you need it. took a guess on the soda.”

you grabbed the paper wrapping around the straw, tearing it off in one quick motion and dipping it into the cup before taking a long, satisfying sip. you looked at him through your lashes. “you're good with drinks.”

jack let out a quiet huff of laughter. his eyes followed your hand as you squeezed ketchup into the basket, then drifted to your mouth when you took a bite. “how'd you get to the bar tonight?”

“i drove.”

jack's mouth fell flat. his entire relaxed posture stiffened instantly, the casual warmth evaporating into pure, strict seriousness.

“well, i’ll drive you home then.”

“what, no?” you laughed, leaning back against the vinyl booth and crossing your arms over your chest, trying to hide the sudden flutter of nerves in your stomach. “you could be some sort of creep.”

“a creep that buys your fries, huh?” he smiled, the crow's feet returning to the corners of his eyes, though the underlying authority in his posture didn't budge.

“yeah, the worst kind there is.”

he laughed softly, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated across the small table, but his tone turned completely serious as he looked straight into your eyes. “i just don’t like the thought of you driving tonight.”

the food was helping ground you, along with the water. you stared at his face, taking in the genuine concern etched into his brow and the calm, unwavering authority he carried without even trying. it made you feel safe in a way you hadn't felt in a long time.

before you could say anything else, he added, “my name is jack abbot. i am the night-shift attending physician in the emergency department at pittsburgh trauma medical center. i also volunteer as a tems provider for the swat team on my days off.”

you looked at him, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you digested the sheer weight of his title. “today was your day off?”

“yes,” he said, absolute and unwavering.

“how old are you, dr. abbot?” you asked, reaching out to eat another fry while his eyes tracked your hand.

“i’m fifty,” he said, his eyes scanning your face, waiting for the hesitation or surprise.

you rolled your bottom lip in just a fraction, lightly nipping at it with your teeth as a sudden wave of heat curled deep in your belly. his mouth tugged upwards, catching the subtle reaction instantly.

“how’s your creep-dar reading now?” he asked, leaning forward slightly over the table, invading your space, and casually stealing the last fry from your basket.

“oh, it’s lighting up like crazy, old man,” you joked back, pushing the basket slightly toward him to keep from reaching across the table and touching him.

“well, i can assure you that this old man only has your safety on his mind,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and completely grounded.

you looked at him, feeling the persistent ache lingering between your thighs, making your knees tremble beneath the table. you finished your water before you stood up from the booth, smoothing down your skirt once more.

“let’s go before i change my mind,” you said, your voice softer now, laced with a quiet, breathless edge.

jack stood up quickly, his massive frame tensing as he swept up the trash. he moved right behind you toward the door, his hand coming to rest lightly against the small of your back again—a warm, steady pressure through the thin fabric of your top that made your skin prickle.

he guided you through the cool night air back to his truck, anticipation eating away at your insides with every step. your chest felt tight, your pulse humming in your ears as you tried to read his signals. you couldn't tell if this was going where you desperately hoped it would, or if he was just truly giving you a safe ride home like a gentleman who enjoyed flirting.

he opened the passenger door for you, the clean, crisp scent of leather and cedar hitting you the second you stepped close. your eyes skimmed the organized cabin, spotting a black trauma jump bag tucked neatly under the back seat alongside a pair of neatly folded scrubs.

relief settled quietly through you. before you could reach for the belt, jack leaned right across your lap. his chest completely blocked your view, his broad shoulder brushing against your front as he grabbed the seatbelt tongue, pulling it across you and clicking it securely into the buckle across your thighs. a slight, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he lingered for a fraction of a second before pulling back.

he shut the door with a solid thud. as you tried to catch your breath, your eyes landed on his hospital badge sitting face-up in the center cup holder.

the driver’s side door swung open, breaking your gaze, and jack slid into the leather seat. he turned the key, the engine roaring to life before turning his eyes to your face.

“where am i taking you?” he asked, his voice smooth and low in the dim dashboard light.

“um…” you said, your train of thought completely stalling out. your mind raced, your thoughts scrambling as you stared at his profile. this was so far from how you thought your pathetic tuesday night was going to go.

“everything okay?” he asked, raising a brow as he watched the desire war across your features.

your mind pondered how you could possibly prolong your time with him, desperate not to let the night end at your front door. before you could come up with an excuse, jack leaned his hand over the console. the cool back of his knuckles rested gently against your forehead, checking for any sign of flush.

the sudden, intimate contact made your eyes flutter shut, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your chest rose deeply.

jack’s expression washed with quiet intensity. he slowly dragged the back of his hand down the side of your face, his thumb tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, before sliding two thick fingers down to press lightly against the side of your neck, finding your carotid artery.

“awfully quiet,” he stated bluntly, his eyes holding yours as his fingertips felt the hard, rapid flutter of your pulse against his touch. “why is that?”

you looked directly into his eyes, watching as his gaze involuntarily darted down to your mouth, tracking your shallow breaths.

“i’m not sure, dr. abbot,” you whispered, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the frantic beat under his fingers. “walk me through your diagnosis.”

his hand flattened against the warm skin of your neck, his fingers snaking into your hair to cup the back of your head. he pulled you in slowly, his mouth hovering just a fraction of an inch against yours, his lower lip dragging tantalizingly over your bottom lip with a deliberate, heavy friction.

“yeah?” he asked breathlessly, the low rumble of his voice vibrating against your mouth.

you nodded, unable to speak, before you leaned in and pressed your lips firmly against his.

the kiss turned eager instantly, a raw, hungry friction taking over as the restraint snapped. it was evident that it had been a long time for him; he let out a low, guttural groan from deep in his chest that vibrated right through you, sending a sharp, throbbing pulse straight to your core.

as the heat flared, your hand moved up, sliding the shoulder strap of your seatbelt neatly behind your back so you could lean your entire torso further over the console toward him. your mouths moved together effortlessly, filled with months of built-up ache and desperate heat, entirely unhindered by the diagonal restraint.

jack pulled back just enough to look down at your swollen lips, his eyes heavy with hunger. he moved in and licked your top lip once in a short, upward motion before pressing a soft peck against them. he repeated the motion, dragging the wet tip of his tongue slowly across your bottom lip this time, the excruciatingly slow torture making a soft whimper break from your throat at how he was toying with you.

“fuck,” he groaned out against your skin.

he pulled back again, his gaze dropping to take in the way your body was bent over the console—taking in the full length of your bare, flushed thighs. his jaw tightened before he pulled you back in, dragging his lips down your jawline, his grey-dusted stubble scraping deliciously against your neck.

“how about—” he started, his mouth trailing up the sensitive skin to your ear, “we go—” he caught your earlobe gently between his teeth, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch, “—to my place?”

you nodded eagerly, starting to pull back to let him drive, but jack’s grip tightened on your waist, keeping you anchored right where you are. he gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an unyielding intensity.

“i need words,” he said.

you held his gaze, the thrilling weight of his focus giving you a burst of bold confidence. you leaned back over the console, resting your palm flat against his broad thigh, just above his knee. slowly, deliberately, you dragged the tip of one fingernail along the inner seam of his tactical pants, tracing the heavy fabric upward as you looked at him through your eyelashes.

“i think that’s a great idea, jack,” you whispered, your voice thick with heat.

his head leaned back against the headrest, his eyes closing for a beat as a deep, rough breath escaped his chest.

“put your seatbelt back on correctly,” he softly commanded, his voice dropping into a low, non-negotiable tone.

you didn't hesitate, reaching back to slide the shoulder strap back over your shoulder and locking it securely across your chest. jack shifted the truck into reverse, pulling out of the parking lot and merging into the quiet late-night traffic, heading toward his house.

you sat eagerly in the passenger seat, your pulse hammering against your ribs, watching his strong hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. before you could even settle, his low voice broke the quiet hum of the engine.

“spread your legs,” he ordered calmly, not even turning his head yet. “been pulling that skirt down all night—let me see what it’s barely covering.”

the sudden, sheer directness of his command knocked the breath right out of your lungs. a hot wave of adrenaline spiked through your blood, and you took your bottom lip slightly between your teeth, slowly shifting your knees apart until your thighs were spread open across the leather seat.

with your skirt hiked up to your hips, your panties were on full display for him, damp and revealing the clear evidence of your arousal against the thin fabric. jack’s gaze darkened as his eyes darted off the road for a split second, taking in the view of your covered pussy before snapping back to the windshield, his jaw ticking hard with a slight groan.

“jesus christ,” he muttered.

your phone suddenly rang from inside your bag on the floorboards, the loud, jarring chime shattering the silence in the cab.

jack shot you a quick glare, his jaw set.

“it could be my—my friend worried,” you managed to say, your voice trembling as you reached down and zipped open your bag, glancing at the glowing screen.

your heart dropped into your stomach.

“oh, it’s my date,” you said softly, setting your bag back down on the floor.

“put it on speaker,” jack commanded, his voice smooth and deadly quiet.

against your better judgment, you swiped the screen to accept the call, placed the phone on the center console, and brought your hands back to your lap.

“hey! i am so sorry—” the voice stammered out from the speaker, full of rushed, hollow excuses.

his fingers tightened around the steering wheel in the dim dashboard light.

“are you still at the bar? i can be there in ten minutes.”

jack’s eyes flicked over to you, sharp and possessive in the glow of the dashboard. his right hand slid off the steering wheel, dropping between your thighs to press his broad palm firmly over your soaked panties, holding you open.

“n-no,” you managed to gasp out, the word trembling on your breath as his fingers began to draw slow, punishing circles over your core. “i’m not there anymore.”

“oh,” the guy paused, sounding slightly offended. “well, can i still see you tonight?”

“tell him you’re busy,” jack stated in a low, gravelly whisper, his thumb pressing directly into your clit, making a high-pitched, needy breath hitch in your throat.

your stomach flipped upside down at the sheer audacity of his demand, the thrill of being caught and handled sending a fresh wave of heat over his hand.

“i’m b-busy,” you repeated breathlessly into the receiver, your voice tight and shuddering as you reached over and hung up the call quickly letting out a moan.

your eyes darted to his bicep on the arm holding the wheel, the thick muscles tensing with every minor adjustment he made to the truck. your gaze wandered up to the soft grey curling at his temples, the visual of him driving you to his place making the heavy ache between your legs throb almost painfully.

jack left his hand planted firmly between your legs, unmoving, as the truck finally turned down a driveway, pulling into the garage of a secluded house. the automatic door shut behind you, plunging the cab into dim twilight, and jack cut the engine.

only then did he pull his hand away, making your back arch fully off the leather seat with a soft, helpless whimper.

his eyes tracking the rapid rise and fall of your chest as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “let’s get you inside, sweetheart.”

➶➴ a/n: no one judge my shitty photoshop of abbot in the banner, pleaseeee. this was supposed to be one part, but apparently i don’t know when to shut up, so if y’all want it, i’ll finish up part two. i hope you enjoyed part one! xo, lenora

[abbotappreciation]

Cherry, Silver, and a Summer Night

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader wordcount: 5.2k summary: its the night before you start your new job at the PMTC and your at a loose end. Deciding to take advantage of not knowing anyone in a new city, you head to your local bar and unexpectedly hit things off with the silver fox sitting at the bar. One casual encounter later, you learn the consequences of not fully vetting the person you sleep with when you walk into your new job and are faced with the man you let fuck you into blissed out oblivion as your new boss.  contents/warnings: Smut, MDNI 18 +, no use of y/n, widower jack abbot, piv, protected sex, oral (m and f receiving), one night stand, jack abbot is a bit of an ass in this soz, one night stand, strangers to coworkers, nurse!reader, jack abbot misses his wife, canon divergence jack abbot has a son and isn’t a great dad, its a bit of a i can fix him set up. authors note: if you think you may have read this before you may have! my old account imabbotbeliever was deleted and i am reposting my old work! hi guys!! I’m back, the past few weeks have been crazy, i work two jobs and have a family event this week so i really needed to lock in but wanted to get the start of this story out there, sorry if it seems a bit rushed at the end, idk what to do with the ending bc i want to carry it on a bit more! Let me know what u think of this, I have an idea of how to continue it on so lemme know if you want to read more of it.

Jack Abbot was one to keep to himself, dating is most definitely not on his radar; apart from the odd few casual encounters since his wife died, he kept people at arms length. But god, Jack was at the end of his tether this week. His residents were playing musical chairs with the dayshift, making it hard to feel like he had a reliable team day in day out; his right hand man was preoccupied with his death trip; the heat of the Pittsburgh summer seemed to turn people in to idiots with the night shifts being particularly grueling; and SWAT had one too many close calls recently, including Jack himself getting caught in the crossfire.

Hell, that’s only the professional aspect of things; his garage door had decided to kick the bucket; the main bathroom’s faucet was constantly leaking, waking him up at regular intervals; he’d broken his favourite mug, the one that has green and yellow flowers that his wife used to drink from every morning; and to top it all off, their son, had decided to stay in his college town five hours away for the summer, going essentially MIA, dodging Jack’s calls for the past two weeks. He couldn’t even blame him for it, Jack had no right to want to hop in his car and go and drag him back home to visit, not when Jack essentially became a work obsessed shell of himself in the five years since his wife died. He couldn’t be mad at him for not wanting to spend his mother’s fifth anniversary with Jack, who at the best of times could barely say her name to him and refused to acknowledge the fact that he replaced his wife with his work, rather than focusing on his son. It was something he was working on getting better, mainly in an effort to mend his relationship with his son, but Jack had thrown himself into work in the lead up to tonight, hoping and praying that today wouldn’t feel so suffocating, but it really wasn’t much use.

Normally, Jack wouldn’t be on his own nursing the end of a glass of whiskey; at the very least Robby would be with him, or even better, he would be at home watching a movie in complete silence with his son, but to him, both had abandoned him and left him with no real option other than to attempt to get completely blind drunk. So, here he was, sat at the bar on a Tuesday evening, pathetically staring into the half drank glass of whiskey that he was tipping around in his hands, like a pathetic cliqué, you may as well plaster a sign to his head that say ‘sad old widower right here’ to his forehead. But Jack’s brain wasn’t focusing too much on how he appears and is much more focused on drowning out his thoughts as much as possible, pushing the thoughts of his dead wife right to the back of his mind. Jack hadn’t planned on making the night of his wife’s fifth anniversary a night that ended with a casual hookup, that was, until you walked into the bar, fresh evening summer air surrounding you as you sat at the free stool beside Jack. 

When you walked into the bar, you really hadn’t planned on even talking to someone, nevermind flirting with anyone; you’d barely been in Pittsburgh for a week, boxes still donned your apartment, your scrubs, text books and the odd piece of cutlery unpacked, the essentials mainly. In need of a change, you’d taken up a position as an ER nurse here in Pittsburgh and at a loose end the day before your first shift, you decided to scope out the local bar scene. Not normally one to go out drinking alone, you shared your location with your friend back home, threw on a casual jumper and jeans and did your make-up to help you feel a bit presentable and popped your book into your bag and headed out the door. Heading to the local, according to google and tiktok anyways, designated cosy bar, you take in the soft light of the warm summer evening that is cast over the bar. Even though it is midweek, the small bar is crowded, with tables of couples softly speaking under orange lighting and red velvet booths providing a level of intimacy to the bar. You walk around for a moment, peaking around the corners of the bar looking for a free table where you won’t feel too exposed on your own, but as it seemed like half of the Pittsburgh population decided to do something similar with their evening, you took the last free seat at the bar. Ordering a glass of chilled white wine, you pull out your book and get comfortable for the evening, enjoying the liberty of reading in a bar where no one knows you. As you settle into your book, the world melts away from you, stress of starting a new job tomorrow evening dissipating completely. Completely engrossed in your book, you don’t notice Jack’s intense stare at first, sure, you didn’t notice the fact his eyes landed on you the moment you walked into the bar. His mind had been pulled from the rumination spiral by the sight of your hair, if he wasn’t thinking straight, Jack would have taken a double glance to make sure you weren’t his late wife walking through the door. Not that you looked particularly like her, it was more just the fact that your hair was the same, soft curls falling around your shoulders, half pinned up, just like hers used to be, making him unable to keep fixating on you as you walked around for a minute looking for a table before settling on the stool beside him. After a few minutes, and a nagging feeling that someone is watching you, you look up from your book, and catch Jack's diverting gaze. He had tried not to stare at you, ordering another glass of whiskey and pulling his phone out, but he just couldn’t help himself, internally berating himself for being such a clique tonight. With a slight smile you acknowledge Jack, and the fact that you caught him staring, catching his eye, and return to your book. In what seems like a constrained attempt to get your attention Jack murmurs a gruffed 

“Solid book choice sweetheart” 

Looking up again with more purpose, you take in the sight sitting beside you, eyes widening slightly at the state of the man sitting beside you. Silver hair speckled with remnants of auburn curls along his forehead, sticking slightly with the humidity of the evening, fierce hazel eyes that bore into you, but really your eyes are drawn to the smirk plastered across his face and the buff arms practically bulging out of his dark cotton polo shirt. In a feeble attempt to cover up you ogling at him, you cough out a soft 

“Oh? Erm thank you”

Returning your attention back flustered slightly at the sight of the silver fox beside you, spending the first moment or two regulating your breathing, you hardly notice the fact that he wasn’t done chatting with you. He lets out a soft cough grabbing your attention as you set your book down to take a sip of your wine. 

“Well sweetheart, what do you think of it so far”

A set of firm fingers toy with the edge of the cover, subtly breaching into your personal space, his second whiskey making him a bit more bold. You look up at him wide eyed and cautious, 

“Oh - sorry - I love it, only a few pages in but still” taking a beat you add on hastily “I take it you’ve read it”

Shifting in your chair slightly, you turn and face Jack committing to the conversation, you two exchange names, chatting about books and Pittsburgh, as you sip your wine and his whiskey, eyes darkening with a thin layer of desire emerging from the otherwise innocent conversation. Internally you fight with the angel and devil on your shoulders, should you throw caution to the wind and flirt with a random stranger or should you try and be a tiny bit responsible and at leave now. When Jack asks you what a pretty girl like yourself is doing sitting in a bar on her own you you decide to be a little bit truthful, smiling sweetly replying in you attempt being the operative word here at flirting 

“Oh you know, at a bit of loose end, being a night owl and new to a city it seemed like a better option than a club, what else is a girl to do”

“Ah a night owl? Seems like we’re birds of a feather here sweetheart.”

Jack takes the opening, reading your slightly flirty tone and expertly complements your hair, your smile and your eyes, causing you to blush head lowered in a bashful stance as you look back up at him and reach out in a moment of boldness and touch his thigh, 

“You don’t look half bad yourself” 

You cringe at your words, but they seemed to work a treat, with Jack gulping down the rest of his whiskey and murmuring

“Well, sweetheart, I don’t normally do this, but I was gonna have one more whiskey back at home, if you’d want to join”

You blush at the offer, knowing exactly what he means, and deciding that, yeah you're a big girl now, you should have your fun, and agree to go back with him. The heat of the summer night surrounds the pair of you as you get ready to head out; Jack grabs your bag and places it softly on your shoulder offering you a hand as you walk out if the bar. Leaning into the night, you wrap your arms around his neck and leaning in for a deep kiss while you wait for your uber to arrive, desperate to break through the awkwardness of an uncrossed physical barrier. 

Once you make it to Jack’s you barely make it through the door before he is pushing you up against it, Jack crowds your space, lips landing messily, engulfing your brain. You barely get a second to become aware of your surroundings; the soft hum of the washer going in the background, the stale smell of takeout lingering in the air, shoes kicked at the foot of the couch, a coffee table covered in papers, and for some reason what looks like to you a tactile vest like the police wear, the sight of it in the dark reminding you that you don’t even know what this guy does for a living. In the moment of clarity, you push Jack away from you slightly, his face forming a look of confusion and slight panic that he had pushed it too far, watching you fumble at your bag and pulling out your phone. Mumbling a quick explanation about your friend having your location and if he didn’t want the police at his door you’d better text her a quick update. Laughing softly at you, impressed by your attempt at a safety plan, Jack pulled away fully giving you enough space to reply, but not once did he take his eyes off of you, phone pocketed once again, your eyes dance along his silhouette, taking in the buffness of his frame, your hands absentmindedly tracing up his arms pulling him back into your space, taking charge, you press yourself into him, mouths seeking messy kisses and start pushing him further into the space. With a skill of a man who seems like he’s done this a million times over, Jack slides his hands down your back as he deepens the kisses with an open mouthed groan, and uses the leverage of his hands groping your ass in the back pocket of your jeans to turn you around as you get closer to the couch, letting your knees buckle as they hit the armrest of the couch, giving Jack the prime opportunity to crowd your body fully once again. You lie flushed to Jack as his hands roam under your jumper, tugging at the hem to pull it off, with a swift removal of your jumper and a sloppy row of kisses placed on your jaw, Jack returns his attention to your mouth, tongue seeking yours as his hands grope and pull at your tank top, searching for your nipples to sit pinched between his fingers. Pulling away for air again, your hands reach down to the buttons of his jeans, one sliding down slyly, as you return the intensity of his gaze, hand reaching down over the growing tent appearing and you let out a soft moan at the sensation of his hard length twitching at your touch. You grind the palm of your hand against his crotch slightly, eliciting a deep moan from Jack which causes your core to heat even faster, with your panties feeling like they are getting wetter by the second. Looking over Jack’s shoulder as you undo the button and zip slowly, you ask about the vest laying on the table behind him, barely able to steady your voice as you get your first real tactile feel of his hard cock. 

“Is that a bullet proof vest, you're not a cop are you?”

Jack, taken aback by the question, barely able to focus on anything else but the feeling of your soft hands dancing across his boxers lets out a deep groan and a slightly broken answer. 

“Fuck - ugh - ts’ a hobby ok m’ not - god - a cop”

It’s been too long since someone has touched Jack like you are right now, his brain is short circuiting like a teenage boy, willing himself to not blow his load right now as you pull him out of his boxers, he does not want to solidify the sad old widower image tonight. You take Jack’s cock fully in your hand, giving him a soft stroke and use your other to help maneuver his hips quickly to the side so you can get out from under him and change the position to sitting in between his knees on the ground. With you both settled down you reach back to his hips and place your hands on either side, taking the tip of his cock into your mouth. Focusing on the tip for a few seconds, you swirl your tongue around the tip, paying close attention to the underside of it and shaft lapping at it quicker in response to the soft moans and slight bucking of hips coming from Jack. Closing your eyes, you prep yourself quickly with a deep breath and take the thick shaft fully into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you bobble up and down his length. As a firm hand reaches for the top of your head your eyes flutter open as you attempt to take the full length of his cock into your mouth, staring up at his desire making your eyes feel heavy. The cotton polo he’s wearing is pushed up slightly on his stomach, revealing a sexy silver happy trail on his firm stomach, as your eyes trace the hair up his stomach along with a hand dancing up his side, you hum happily in response to the deep moans croaking out of his throat, sweet ‘fuck mes’ and ‘oh god babys’ spill from Jack’s mouth as on hand fists in your hair applying a light pressure onto your head and the other reaching up to his now damn silver curls, pushing them out of hsi face. You choke slightly on the thickness of his cock as his hips thrust slightly into your mouth, his large hand running down to the side of your face, guiding your mouth off his cock as he pants a desperate

“Fuck sweetheart, gonna make me cum, s’ good to me”

As you let his cock out of your mouth, you lean back on your heels, hands leaving his body and wiping the string of spit coating your mouth and chin away. Suddenly, feeling the exposure of your tits hanging out of your tank top you go to cross your arms across your chest. Jack coo’s at the sight of your sudden modesty 

“Oh sweet girl, don’t get shy on me now, look so good with your tits out and my cock down your throat.” 

Normally, the filth running out of Jack’s mouth would make you cringe and hide your face, but hearing it from him makes the heat in your stomach pool, letting out a moan, your hips buck slightly against your own thigh as you lean your head back towards Jack’s crotch. A hand reached for under your chin and with a tsk and a stroke of your cheek he gestures for you to stand up. Standing together, he takes your hips in his hands and walks you backwards towards the bedroom planting wet open mouth nips along your exposed neck and collar bone. Before he pushes you down onto the bed, he pulls the tank top off and your bra fully, taking your nipples fully into his mouth, swirling his wet tongue and nipping greedily at each before focusing on taking off your pants; using his teeth to pull at the front of your panties, mouthing at your clothed core. As his mouth reaches your clothed pussy he hisses out

“So worked up that I can taste it through your panties sweetheart, so good” 

Committing to pulling your panties off, you sigh at the sensation of the cold air hitting your soaking pussy, you don’t really have time to fully adjust anyways, as Jack’s mouth begins to work on you, hot tongue licking flat firm stripes from the bottom of your pussy up to your clit, sucking softly until you moan. He makes light work of bringing you to the edge quickly, lapping firm circles around your clit while intermittently licking down into your cunt, sucking at all the right areas that have your chest heaving. 

“Oh fuck baby, s’ good, ,oh fuck”

You can barely get a full sentence out as he slips a finger into your pussy, hooking it up and pressing into the soft velvety walls that make you go crazy. Humming in response to the sound of your moans getting louder and your legs hooking around his back, Jack latches his mouth onto your clit, alternating with great precision he sucks and swirls his tongue around your clit causing you to keen out, with knot in your stomach dangerously close to snapping 

“Oh god, fuck, feels s goo - oh fuck m’ gonna cum!” 

Before you can finish your sentence your hips are closing in around Jack’s face grinding tightly as you ride the wave of your orgasm out, his hands gripping at your thighs in an attempt to keep you still as he tries to lap at you throughout your orgasm. As you come down from your orgasm, Jack slides from between your thighs, praise spilling from his lips, complementing your sounds and body as he slides his pants and boxers off fully. Grabbing your hips, he pulls you up the bed resting his knees between yours mouthing at your stomach as he reaches into the bedside drawer and pulls out a condom. Whispering in your ear, he guides you to lie on your stomach, tucking a hand under your waist he raises your hips and ass up until you get the idea of the position he wants you in. As you settle into your chest flat on the cool sheets ass in the air, Jack leans down groping at the plushness of your ass and coos into your ear as he slides his cock into you 

“Oh god yeah, such a good girl - fuck” 

Setting a steady rhythm, he pushes into you deep, his cock filling you to the hilt. Jack knows that he should be a bit more of a gentleman and at least fuck you with you on your back, but he just can’t resist the idea of looking at your hair, even through its slightly subconscious he knows his brain wants to remind him of his wife. In an effort to push the guilt to the back of his brain, he fully focuses on you, a hand gripping at your hips as he fucks into you with a rough rythm, cooing your name and grabbing your hair in a soft bunch at the nape of your neck he moans out

“Such a sweet girl for me, you feel - fuck - so fuckin’ good”

As Jack drives into you, the pleasure makes your back arch slightly, the feeling of his cock inside you makes your walls flutter and squeeze around him. The feeling of him pulling lightly at your hair makes you keen his name sweetly back at him breathless, with your hips pushing back to meet his thrusts. As Jack pushes into you, sounds of your wetness and his cock echoing obscenely around the room, he knows he won’t last much longer, his thrusts losing a touch of control. As Jack nears closer to finishing, he lets go of your hair and crowds around you once more, hand snaking around to your front and finding your clit. Moans spill from your mouth, hips bucking into his touch trying to get a bit more pressure to speed your release. Jack takes the sounds as encouragement, fucking into you deeply, rough thrusts and load groans letting you know just how close he is. With a loud ‘fuck’ and teeth bitting at your shoulder Jack collapses on top of you, hips jutting into yours as he cums, his body weight resting onto you as he chases his high. Not forgetting the woman beneath him, he pushes your hair to the side and nips at your neck until your a panting mess from the overstimulation of your clit. For a few moments you lie there both in silence, apart from your erratic breaths, and take in the post sex feeling; Jack is the first to move, pointing to you the way to the bathroom, and he heads out the door without a word. It is only then you notice the prosthetic, too caught up in the moment to fully take stock of the man you slept with, after you come back to the bathroom, Jack is sat at the end of the bed, removing the prosthetic, he gestures, without really looking at you, to a glass of water and an old tshirt sitting on the bed. 

“Theres a shirt if you want, not gonna kick you out, you can stay if you want”

You hum a polite thanks in response and slip your panties and the old shirt on, too exhausted to think about getting a uber home now, you take him up on the offer, sliding under the sheets keeping a marked distance away from him as you drift asleep. 

In the soft early morning light that seeps slightly through the curtains, you wake up and take stock of your surroundings; clothes scattered around the room, squinting your eyes trying to find your bra in the darkened room you sigh quietly, slightly embarrassed by the fact that you’ve slept in so late. Luckily, Jack, is still asleep on his front with his back to you, his freckled back rising and falling in time with the soft snores coming from him, you pull your arm out from underneath his back, cringing slightly at the closeness you just had with your one night stand. You slip out from his bed and gather your clothes in silence and exit the room, Dressing in the hallway, you look around at the photos that are scattered along the walls, as you pull your jumper over your head you notice the wedding photos and photos of a small child that line the way. Bile rises in your stomach, realising not only have you slept with a man that is more than likely nearly fifteen years older than you, judging by the photos of him at his wedding, but also a fucking married man. You gather the rest of your things and rush out the house without another thought. Your heart is racing, you should have known that pulling a one night stand in your first fucking week in the new city would have been a bad idea, the shame rising though your body like a fever. You thank god that Pittsburgh is a big place and that you probably won’t have to see him again, but for the rest of the morning your mind is brought back to the idea of his poor wife, maybe you should have left her a sign of something, but it was too late and you were definitely going to avoid that bar and man like the plague. As the evening rolls round, you get yourself ready for your first shift, water bottle filled, hair plaited neatly away from your face and it’s game on as you pull into the staff parking lot. The fluorescent lighting in PTMC is doing nothing to aid the lingering hangover you had as you walked into the ER. Eager to make a good impression on your new line bosses, you’d downed as much coffee, electrolytes and greasy diner food as you could until you felt that you could hide your shame around the night before and fake professionalism until you made it. You make your way to the ER and are greeted by the night shift charge nurse Lena, introducing herself as your main point of contact as you work the night shift and she shows you around the ER after you get settled in and changed out of your civies. You exchange pleasantries and an odd war story from your last job at a hospital in your home town as you make the rounds with Lena. Turning the corner to head back central, Lena points to the man in front of you with his back to you. A pit of dread starts to form in your stomach before your brain has a chance to fully catch up with the dots that are connecting in your body. Lena calls out to the man in front of her.

“Ah, Dr.Abbot! Just the man I’ve been looking for, meet our new RN, joining the dark side from New York”

As he turns to smile at you and Lena, Jack’s stomach turns, acidic bile rising in his chest as his mind catches up to the sight of you walking in tow with Lena toward him. God must be playing some sick trick on him right now, as if he’s trying to teach him a lesson about fucking your way through grief, why else would the woman he had face down in bed last night be the new night shift RN. As you get closer, still deep in conversation, Jacks eyes scan your badge for confirmation, reading your name and th bile rises quicker, because yes, the woman who he purposefully fucked on her stomach because her hair reminded him of his dead wife’s is indeed his new co-worker. As if it was something out of a movie, it feels like time has slowed down to just the two of you in the room as you come to the same realisation practically at the same time, watching him glimpse at your badge, you clock why the man in front of you looks so familiar. Because its the man you let fuck you into blissed out oblivion last night; the man Lena is now gesturing to you as the night shift attending, aka, your fucking superior. Suddenly, no amount of coffee and greasy food can combat the sick feeling rising in your stomach, as your mind conjures up wild stories of how you slept with your married attending and how every single person here will find out you're a homewrecker. You try to hide the surprise on your face, which is mirrored on his as Lena introduces you both. Your face feels bright red heat flooding at the embarrassment of it all, but miraculously Lena doesn’t notice, she simply continues on introducing you both as you pay no heed to anything except the way his posture visibly tightens as he takes you in. Your mind, now spinning with ways to try and fix the fact that you slept with your boss, tries to refocus on what Lena is saying to you. Saved by the bell, or rather the pager, Jack pulls the phone from his pocket and with a curt nod turns and briskly walks away from you. When you turn to look at Lena, you try to joke, in an attempt to cover the clear tension that was still handing in the air

“God, is he always like that, huh, who pissed in his cherrios?”

Lena smiles at you sweetly, hand patting you maternally on your back as you continue your tour around the ER. With a considerate whisper Lena leans forward, gesturing for you to come closer. 

“Well hon, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s better to be armed and aware, he’s not usually like this, we’ve just caught him on a bad day, his late wife’s anniversary was yesterday so we’ll give him a pass”

And with that it’s as if all blood drains from your body, the beeping of the machines and the sound of your pulse rushing through your body drowns out the further explanations coming from Lena. Not only have you essentially fucked your boss, you were his rebound for his dead wife, right now you can’t fully decide if this is worse or better than being a homewrecker. Panic swirls through your brain as you excuse yourself and ask where the bathroom is, locking yourself into the stall, you pull out your phone and place your head between your thighs trying to regain some composure, shooting off an update of the clusterfuck that is your life to your friend back home, you head back out and splash some water on your face and whisper to yourself that it’s ‘game on’. Leaving the bathroom with a new facade of calmness, you swing around the corner, naturally bashing right into the back of Jack, beet red again he stares down at you with his chin ticked up. 

“Huh, we should start callin’ you cherry with how easily you blush” 

You try to stammer out a sentence, looking to try to address him properly, but you are too taken aback by his cockiness in the workplace; treating you with the same level of smugness that he did when he was buried deep inside of you. You gulp and stare back, unable to form a coherent thought, Jack tsks at you, pointing toward a patient's bed, asking you if you wouldn’t be a doll and help him with a case. Your pulse, still racing in your ears, you remind yourself that it is a simple professional request and nod tightly and head off with Dr. Abbot, trying to push aside the fact that you now have a better understanding of what last night might have been for him and head in through the curtains, starting your shift. Mentally, you’re brain is still focused on sorting out the cluster fuck that is your life as you take the patients blood pressure, this whole situation really was going to be a whole lot harder to deal with than you thought. 

꩜ thank you for reading! | reblogs, likes, comments are always appreciated ꩜

[s-writing-s]

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐩 | 𝐉. 𝐀.

summary: you’ve been able to see ghosts since you were a child, but years of bad experiences have taught you one thing: keep it secret. people don’t take kindly to the things they can’t explain. then you meet jack—a highly observant doctor with a ghost of his own, and what begins as an unlikely friendship slowly becomes something more. but trusting him means risking the one thing you’ve spent your entire life protecting: yourself.

tags: hurt/comfort, angst, romance, fluff, flirting, explorations of grief, supernatural elements, mentions of an ex, reader doesn't take good care of herself

word count: 18.3k

a/n: my baby is finally finished! i've been working on this for months now and tbh i could probably keep doing it. there's just something so interesting about this theme and how two people are affected differently by death. this fic was inspired by the show ghost whisperer and i see reader's abilities as somewhat similar to melinda's. as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! i really hope you guys like it! <333

The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist

You hate hospitals with a deep passion. 

They're too loud, too bright, and too crowded. Waiting rooms that make you feel like tinned fish, packed together beneath harsh fluorescent lights and the constant hum of voices. It's not even a busy night, and you're still counting down the minutes until you can leave. 

There's a man with a clenched look on his face that suggests why he's choosing to stand despite the unusually empty seats. A woman nearby desperately hums to her wailing child, rocking her back and forth against her chest with a feverish gleam on her face. A man coughs wetly into his mask while a group of drunk girls giggle away in the corner. 

It's a relatively empty waiting room considering it's the E.R—if you don't take the other people into account. There's a woman in a white gown wandering through the room before disappearing into a wall. A man with a gash on his head sits in one of the chairs, patiently waiting for his turn that will never come. Only the occasional flicker of his form reveals his true state.

It's only been half an hour, but from where you're sitting, you've already spotted five ghosts. And the longer you wait, the more they'll feel the pull of you—previous experience unfortunately lets you know that. So, if you can help it, you stay away. 

But midnight ideas involving a ladder, a light bulb, and an unexpected vision hadn't proven to be a good combination. You'd been on the third rung, reaching overhead, when the familiar sensation hit. Your body had locked, your vision hazing as your mind left your apartment, and by the time the vision released you, your foot had slipped, and you'd fallen hard onto the ground. You'd blinked back to a shattered bulb beneath your palm and a sharp flare of pain where your head had clipped the coffee table. This was, unfortunately, an injury too severe for you to fix yourself. 

Now it's three a.m., and you're holding a soaked dish towel to your bleeding hand as you try to avoid eye contact with the spectres drifting past. It takes another twenty minutes of staring insistently at the ground before your name is called and you're led into a room. 

You sit on the crinkly paper, tapping your fingers against your pants as the door shuts again. Another five minutes pass before the door opens again, but you don't mind. At least, it's quiet in here—no ghosts following you. 

"Hi. Sorry for the wait." A man in black scrubs steps inside, smiling at you kindly. "I'm Dr. Henderson." He's got one foot on the rolling chair, about to sit down when the door opens again. 

"Crus." An older man interrupts, one hand on the door as he holds it open. He nods out towards the hallway, greying curls falling slightly forward at the motion. "Head to Trauma 1. You can assist with a lumbar puncture." He turns to you with a charming smile. "I'll take over here."

Heat rushes to your cheeks when his intense gaze lands on you, and you quickly avert your eyes. Instead, you watch as Dr. Henderson's face lights up. He sends you an apologetic smile, clapping the other man's shoulder on his way out. 

"Sorry about that." The door shuts behind him as he finally steps fully inside and draws the curtain. "I'm Dr. Abbot." He picks up the tablet left behind and scans your chart quickly. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he drops down onto the chair. 

"So," he says, eyeing the towel around your hand and the dried blood on your temple. "How bad did the other guy look?"

You blink. "What?"

Dr. Abbot gently tips your head toward the light to inspect the cut. His gloved fingers are surprisingly warm against your skin. "Whoever hit you got a decent shot in. Still, it's nothing we can't patch up."

"I didn't fight anyone."

"No?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he turns his attention to your hand, carefully peeling the towel away. His gaze flicks down to your heart-patterned pyjama pants. "I don't know. You look like you could be hiding a professional boxing career."

Heat creeps into your cheeks as you realise he's teasing you. "Oh. Ha."

His grin widens, and you find yourself watching the way his eyes crinkle. "So, what happened?"

"...I fell off a ladder."

His eyes flick up to yours. "Strange hour to be climbing ladders." He shifts your hand back and forth, testing your grip.

You shrug. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," he says. "That, I get." He rolls the chair back to gather supplies once he determines it isn't a severe cut. "There's a bit of glass stuck inside, so I'm gonna give you a shot for the pain, pick out the pieces, stitch you up and then send you on your merry way. Sound good?"

You nod, glancing down at your hand, expecting your stomach to roll, but feeling strangely detached from it. You guess you've seen worse in visions before. A surprising positive, you suppose.

He pulls off his gloves, throwing them into the trash behind him. As he leans forward to grab a new sterile pair, the chair suddenly rolls forward beneath him. The wheels squeak as it turns to face you, and Dr. Abbot's hands shoot out instinctively, landing briefly against the plush of your thighs to steady himself.

You both freeze. His eyes flick down to your thighs, then back up.

"Sorry," he says, pulling away immediately.

"No, that's—" You swallow. "That's okay."

Dr. Abbot rubs the back of his neck before turning back to the task at hand. The room suddenly feels too warm. Something metallic flashes beneath the fluorescent lights, drawing your attention to his wedding ring. He's married. Of course. A man like that doesn't go through life without attracting someone. You look away before you can wonder why that thought bothers you.

You focus on the ceiling tile above him instead. A faint crackling sound brushes against your ears before disappearing. Your attention snaps to the corner, but no one is there. The sound comes back, like an old radio searching for a station. Your skin prickles, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise in warning.

You're not alone, but no one appears. No one speaks. It's just that crackling sound, continuing for another minute before it disappears again.

Dr. Abbot reaches for your hand again, oblivious to it. He administers the shot as you try to look around the room without him noticing.

"So, what were you doing on the ladder?" he says, breaking the awkward silence. He moves to clean your forehead as he waits for the lidocaine to set in.

You huff a laugh. "Putting in a new light bulb. I've been putting it off for weeks. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn't have waited that long." Your chin lifts, a sense of pride filling you when his lips twitch. You get the feeling that he isn't that easy to get a reaction out of. 

"Not handy, I gather?" he says as he finishes placing the butterfly stitch on your forehead.

You glance down at your hand. "What gave it away?"

He huffs a laugh.

The saline feels odd, but not unpleasant, and you barely notice as he plucks out the glass pieces. The silence that settles over the room is comfortable, and for a moment you believe the ghost has left you alone. Maybe it has finally decided you're not worth bothering. But as Dr. Abbot dresses your wound and turns to write follow-up instructions on a notepad, the crackling starts again. Then, his pen flies off the desk.

"Oops," he says, not sounding particularly surprised. He ignores it and turns back to you. "The stitches are self-dissolving, but come back if there's any swelling or irritation." He hands you the note, his mouth curving into another teasing smile. "And no more fights, at least until you're healed."

"No promises." You grin. "Thank you."

He gives you a small nod. "You're welcome."

You slip off the bed, clutching the note in your good hand. At the door, you glance back without really meaning to. He's still looking at you. For a second, neither of you says anything, then you leave. There's a slight pull, almost as if something is trying to keep you in the room, but you push forward without placing much thought on it. Whatever ghost is trying to communicate can find you tomorrow.

The bookstore Cordelia's is located next to the park and has been yours for almost three years. It's small, but you've managed to make the most of the space. Tall shelves line almost every wall, some of them old enough that you constantly worry they'll fall apart at the slightest touch. There's a little reading nook tucked beneath the front window, two mismatched armchairs beside a low table, and a counter near the register that has been scratched and dented by years of use. The bell above the door has a slightly different ring depending on how hard someone pushes it, and the floorboards creak in places you've long learned to avoid. 

It's comfortable. Warm. The kind of place where people come in intending to browse for ten minutes and somehow end up staying an hour. 

Ethan is similar in that way. He never dreamed of working in a bookstore, and somehow, he's gone from a part-time worker to being here more than you are. He's always liked books—even has a minor in English literature—but he'd always imagined himself doing something more. Maybe teaching or being a famous author—something that involved people knowing his name. Definitely not standing behind a counter for eight hours a day arguing with customers about whether a particular first edition was worth what the internet claimed it was. And yet, he loves it. 

He hadn't at first, but that was before his roommate started haunting him.

Ethan had been drawn to the store, and you'd found him overwhelmed in the back row, head in his hands. Somehow, without even meaning to, he had divulged it all to you, and you hadn't been even a little bit unnerved by the strange things he'd told you. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't suggested he was imagining things. Instead, you'd asked him what his roommate's name was, and then you'd revealed your abilities. 

You were able to see and speak to ghosts.

Ethan had laughed at first—right up until his bathroom mirror had smashed in his face and the pieces spelt out his name on the ground. After that, he was a true believer. And with his roommate crossed over, Ethan put his plans on hold to follow you. He'd offered to work in your store, which was closed more often than not with you out dealing with your ghostly companions. He'd expected it to be temporary. It wasn't.

The bookstore came with its own companions. Lydia and Delia, the couple who had owned the store before you, who had apparently decided that death was no reason to leave. It had taken Ethan a while to get used to them. It had taken them even longer to get used to him. Now he can't imagine the place without them. Even if he does wish they'd stop throwing the books they dislike at him.

Still, it's nice to have some company, even if he can't see them. Especially since he never knows exactly when you'll be in or for how long. He knows it's one of those days where you disappear for hours when you enter the shop with two coffee cups and an already apologetic smile.

His attention immediately catches on the stitches on your forehead and the white dressing covering your hand. "What happened to you?"

You shrug casually. "Ladder. Light bulb. Ghost. It was an accident." 

Ethan's brows pinch together. He reaches out, fingers catching lightly beneath your jaw in an attempt to get a better look at the cut, but you duck away before he can inspect it properly and push one of the coffees into his hand instead.

"I think I figured out who it is. Is it okay if I—?" You tilt your head towards the door.

Ethan worries his lower lip for a second. It's not the first time he's seen you hurt by a ghost, but he still doesn't like it. He knows better than most how casually you treat your injuries. If it weren't for him reminding you, you'd forget to eat during cases. "Be careful. This ghost doesn't seem too happy with you."

"This was just bad timing." You brush it off. 

He stares at you. You stare back. Eventually, you sigh. "...Fine. I'll be careful."

"Good." He nods. "Call me if there's anything."

You hum, already halfway across the store again. "Sure. Thanks!" The door slams shut behind you.

Ethan sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He knows you can take care of yourself. It's just that the two of you have very different ideas of what that means.

He steps behind the counter again and slumps down onto the chair. A few boxes are waiting to be unpacked and placed on shelves, but they can wait until he's finished with this cup. He's got at least another hour until the first customers filter in, so he leans back and grabs his notepad. His novel won't write itself. He stares at the blank page, then writes two words. Deletes them. Takes a sip. Writes another sentence. Deletes that too. He sighs. Maybe he should've stuck with teaching.

The bell rings again, barely a minute later. 

"Forget something?" he calls out, still staring at his paper while chewing on the end of his pen.

"I don't think so."

The male voice makes him look up.

Ethan shoots to his feet, notepad clattering to the ground. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else." He bends to pick it up, cheeks burning with embarrassment, before his flustered gaze meets the eyes of an older man.

Scrubs. Tired-looking. Handsome. 

The man looks around the store, almost confused, as though he's not entirely sure why he's here. Seeing that, Ethan's customer-service persona finally clicks into place. "Looking for anything special?"

The man hesitates, frowns, then shakes his head.

 "Okay. Well, we've got a bit of everything." Ethan gestures to the aisles. "Give me a shout if you need anything." He logs onto the computer to give the man some space to explore, but keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.

The man wanders slowly between the shelves, fingertips occasionally brushing over the spines. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. Eventually, he stops at one of the displays and picks up a book. "How long have you had this store? Don't think I've seen it before." 

"Oh, I'm not the owner; she's out at the moment—" The light flickers above him, and he looks at it with a frown. It's not like Lydia or Delia to interrupt when there's a customer. "It's been here for about three years now."

The man nods, puts the book down, then takes a step toward one of the aisles. A book flies off the shelf next to him.

Ethan freezes. The man doesn't. His shoulders rise, tensing, but not in a way that suggests surprise. It's more like resignation. Another book flies from the shelf on the opposite side. Then another. It lands directly in front of him.

Ethan's certain now. There's a ghost attached to this man. But it's the man's reaction that unsettles him most. He barely reacts. No startled jump. No nervous laugh. No frantic glance around the room. He simply looks down at the books, bends down, picks them up and puts them back.

Ethan watches him carefully. He's seen people react to ghosts before. He knows the usual responses. Fear. Confusion. Denial. This man looks like someone who's seen this before. Before Ethan can say anything, the stranger nods at him and hurries out of the store. 

Ethan stares after him, waiting for something else to happen, but the store is quiet again. "If you're still here, I can't see you, but my friend can," he calls softly. He looks toward the aisle. "She'll be back later."

He waits for an answer, but nothing happens. No books fly out. No lights flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. Even after years of seeing you interact with ghosts, he can't help his instinctual fear when he's alone. At least when you're around, he has an idea of what the ghost wants. On his own, he's completely clueless about their intentions.

He looks toward the door again. Who was that guy? 

Ethan wanders over, fishing out the books that had been pushed half-hazardously back between the others. His fingers brush the spines, reading the titles, then he crouches to retrieve the last one. The theme is clear, but the one that landed closest to the man says it best.

The Art of Dating.

Ethan stares at it. "Well," he mutters, putting it back on the shelf. "That's subtle."

It's close to midday when you enter the store again, but instead of this morning's excitement, there's a dull headache throbbing behind your eyes. It sits stubbornly at your temples, refusing to ease no matter how much you rub them. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep that's finally catching up with you, the hit your head took last night, or the disappointment of your visit, but either way, you feel drained.

"Hey, how'd it go?" Ethan calls from somewhere between the shelves. He emerges a moment later, a book tucked beneath one arm, and takes one look at your face. "Bad, huh?"

You don't bother pretending otherwise. "Yeah..." You sink onto the plush chair behind the counter, letting your head fall back against it with a sigh. "I'm gonna try again tonight. Maybe I'll get a read of something."

Ethan hums, leaning his elbows against the counter. He studies you for a moment, his expression telling you he's considering arguing before apparently deciding against it. "I'll come with you."

You close your eyes and shake your head. "You don't have to."

He shrugs, completely unconcerned with your refusal. "It's good research for my book."

Your eyes open again. "Oh! How's that going? When can I read something?"

"I'm nowhere close to that," he groans, his head dropping dramatically. "I've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours now."

You blow a raspberry at him. The sound earns you a look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Lunch then?" you suggest, sitting up slightly. "We could try that new place down the street?"

He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. "Yes, I'll go get it. Some fresh air might get rid of my writer's block."

You lean back again, closing your eyes once more as he heads toward the door. You hear him rummaging around for his wallet, then the soft jingle of the bell as he pulls the door open. "Oh," he calls out, the door halfway open. "Some man came in earlier with a ghost attached to him. I told it you'd be back later."

"Did you get a name?"

"No, he ran out before I could ask. He was in scrubs, though, so maybe a doctor or nurse?" He shrugs, then shuts the door behind him, leaving the store quiet again.

Scrubs?

You frown. For a second, your mind supplies the image of Dr. Abbot before you can stop it. The kind man from last night. His warm fingers against your skin as he'd examined your forehead. The crooked smile when he'd teased you about fighting someone. The flash of his wedding ring beneath the fluorescent lights.

You shake the thought away. The hospital is across the park, and you've never seen him here before. The chance of him coming into the bookstore afterwards is low. It was probably just an odd coincidence.

You let your head fall back against the chair again.

"He was real handsome, too," a warm voice croons from your right.

You don't even open your eyes. "You say that every time a man walks in here."

"I do not," Lydia protests. You crack an eye open, finding her beside one of the shelves, arms folded across her chest, looking deeply offended by the accusation. She turns her head to Delia. "Do I?"

"...You do," Delia says, wincing when Lydia turns to glare at her. "But"—she points a finger at you—"this time she is right."

You roll your eyes before closing them again. "Mm," you hum. "I'm not looking for anything." You settle deeper into the chair. "You know that."

There's a pause before Delia clears her throat gently. "Honey, maybe it's time to—"

"No," you cut her off, opening your eyes just enough to look at her. "But thanks."

You close your eyes again before she can start arguing, effectively ending the conversation. The two ghosts sigh in unison. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Lydia moves, followed by Delia's faint scent of roses. Then a rush of cool air brushes across your skin, signifying that they're gone.

You let out a slow breath as the bookstore settles around you again. You know they're trying to help. You know they have the best intentions. But Lydia and Delia have been together for decades, including the years after death. They've managed to find the kind of love that survived everything—life, death, and apparently even the refusal to cross over. 

You're happy for them. You really are. But sometimes, when they talk about love like it's something inevitable, something that simply arrives and stays, you can't help wondering if you're the exception.

Because you've already been given this gift. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe you're simply meant to spend your life helping other people find their way to the other side while you stay back. The thought shouldn't still bother you. You've told yourself that often enough that it shouldn't, and yet, when you do think about it a little too seriously, it aches and pulsates somewhere deep down. 

So, you try not to. And with the embers of your last relationship still burning after its fiery end, it's becoming easier to believe. Your ex, John, had made it clear how he thought you were crazy for believing in things nobody else could see. You'd loved him. That had been the worst part. You'd finally trusted him enough to open up, and that was his response. For a long time afterwards, you'd wondered whether he had been right about everything. Maybe you were too strange. Too difficult. Too much. 

You stare at the ceiling through half-lowered lashes. You don't doubt it anymore. It's easier that way. Easier to believe you're not meant for love than to risk it all again. 

You don't think you can handle it. 

Considering that you've been involved in ghost activities since you were a little girl, you should know by now that nothing is ever a coincidence when ghosts are involved. You'd seen it, following your mother around, fingers clutching her skirt as she got roped into ghostly schemes, openly parading her abilities—right up until your father had her committed when her visions took over.

You learned then and there that what she had considered a gift was best left hidden. That it wasn't everybody who understood. That, at times, it was more a burden than a gift. 

Despite having all that experience, you don't think much of it the first time you see Dr. Abbot again. You see him in the supermarket, his hand reaching for a bunch of bananas as you turn into the fruit aisle. Your eyes meet across a display of apples, and for half a second, both of you stare at each other, until recognition flickers across his face. You send him a brief, polite smile before ducking into the nearest aisle and pretending to become intensely interested in a selection of tinned tomatoes. You stay there until you're reasonably certain he's gone.

The second time could be coincidence. The third is harder to explain. By the time you see him in the park, you've stopped counting.

It's late evening, the last rays of the sunset shining across the park and through the store windows. You'd sent Ethan home earlier, telling him you'd deal with the odd technological error that had somehow deleted all your online orders and the ones you'd placed for new books. Once that is sorted, you close the shop, a little later than usual, and head home.

But rather than taking the fast way, you turn right at the park entrance, choosing the scenic—and considerably longer—route. An unexplainable feeling guides you, but you're too tired to examine it. 

You walk past friends sprawling across picnic blankets with half-finished drinks between them, couples walking hand in hand along the paths, and children chasing one another through the grass while their parents call after them. Then you hear laughter. Your attention drifts toward a group of scrub-clad people gathered beneath one of the trees, several cans of beer scattered between them. You take another step, let your gaze fall forward, and then the sight of a familiar face registers.

Your eyes snap back.

Dr. Abbot's already looking at you. His lips twitch when he sees your surprised expression, and he lifts his beer in greeting. Your mouth lifts in an unwitting smile before you can stop it, and you give him a small nod in return. A few of the people around him follow his gaze, curious eyes turning toward you. You immediately look away and hurry down the path before any of them can catch your gaze properly. You try to ignore the heat that's flaming under your skin. 

It's a coincidence, you repeat to yourself. Just a coincidence.

That assumption promptly gets thrown out when he shows up at the store. Now you're certain that something is going on. 

It's just you this time, with Ethan having been given the day off after you'd closed your last case. The death had been accidental—a slip and fall down a flight of stairs—but things had remained dramatic until the very end. Things had been thrown before your ghost was ready to listen, and the family was ready to talk. You'd been caught in the crossfire, leaving bruises scattered across your arms and a particularly ugly one blooming near your elbow.

Still, books needed to be placed on shelves and with Ethan out, you were forced to make your aching arms comply. You bend to pick up another box, already mentally calculating how many more trips you'll need to make before you can finally sit down. Maybe you should order a take-out for lunch to celebrate? 

"Do you need help?" A gruff, familiar voice says from behind you.

You huff, half amused, half annoyed. You're used to ghosts appearing without warning and asking for help at the worst possible moments, so you don't bother turning around immediately. "And how would you do that?"

Warm fingers brush against yours as he takes the box from you. "I may be older than you, but I'm not decrepit."

You gasp, your eyes snapping up to meet Dr. Abbot's warm, teasing hazel gaze. For a second, you're too surprised to say anything. "I'm so sorry, I thought you—" You shake your head and gesture toward the cart. "Never mind. You can just put that there. Thank you."

Your gaze follows the box as he sets it down, lingering despite yourself on the way his arms barely strain beneath the weight of the heavy books you'd struggled to lift just moments earlier. Without a word, he picks up the remaining boxes and sets them down beside the first.

You stare at him. He glances at you. "What?"

You smile awkwardly. "Nothing."

When he turns back, his eyes fall down the length of your arms. They narrow slightly.

You snatch the cardigan you'd abandoned on the counter when you'd gotten hot earlier and tug it on, trying to make the gesture look casual. "So, what can I help you with?"

He frowns, but decides to leave it alone as his gaze turns to the aisles. "One of our med students just landed a residency, and I offered to get the gift for her."

"And you have no idea what to get her?" you ask.

"Yeah." He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You step out from behind the counter, your arm brushing against his. The contact is brief, barely anything; still, heat sparks through the fabric. You ignore it. "Do you know what she likes?"

"Uh... She's big on social media and very into astrology." 

"Ah." You nod, moving with certainty to the cart. You grab a box cutter, slice through the tape, and fish out a book from the box. "Get her this. It's been sold out for months, and I just got it back in stock." 

You hold out a book with astrological signs circling the cover. He takes it, turning it over once in his hands. "You're lucky you came in now. I was gonna update our socials after I'd finished shelving the books. They'd probably be gone in a few hours."

He hums as he follows you back to the counter, scanning his card without glancing at the price. "Guess my intuition proved me right."

Your fingers pause against the wrapping paper, glancing up at him. "Intuition?"

"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck again. "I don't really believe in it, but I was here a few weeks ago, and I just had this feeling that I would find what I was looking for here."

Your fingers still for the briefest second before finishing the bow. When you look up at him, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I see." You put the book into a bag and hand it over to him, forcing a smile onto your face. "Guess you were right."

He nods. For a moment, neither of you moves. He hesitates, swallowing down whatever he was about to say before settling on a soft, "See you around?"

You nod, smiling. "I'll be here." 

He smiles back, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave before turning toward the door. The bell gives its familiar little chime as the door swings shut behind him. The grin on your face falls the second you can no longer see him through the windows.

He's the scrub-clad man Ethan told you about, and after all these encounters, you're forced to admit that his ghost has proved more persistent than you thought. You're just not sure what it wants.

"Handsome, right?" Lydia grins as she appears beside you.

You roll your eyes and move to roll the cart toward the shelves.

"Oh, ignore me all you want, sweetheart. You have a tell."

"I do not." You turn to glare at her.

Her smile widens as she shrugs. "If you say so." She disappears before you can argue.

A second later, Delia appears in her place, softer around the edges. She winks at you before following Lydia's path through the shelves.

Ghosts.

It's early morning when you settle onto your usual bench in the park, thermocup warming your hands as the last rays of the sunrise fade over the horizon. The air still carries the faint chill of the night, drops of dew clinging to the blades of grass. 

You take a slow sip and lean back against the bench. It's been a nice couple of days—ghost-free and able to fully focus on the store without somebody dead demanding your attention.

A blur materialises out of the corner of your eye. It was too good to be true, you suppose. 

You sigh lightly, then turn to face it. "Hi."

A woman blinks at you. Water drips steadily from her clothes, darkening the fabric around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and she looks incredibly confused. "Where am I?"

"What's your name?" you ask her instead.

"I—I'm—" She spins around, sending droplets of water in every direction. You cover yourself instinctively, even though none of it can actually touch you. "What's going on?"

"Hey, it's okay. I can help you."

She frowns. Her mouth pulls into a tight line, but just as her shoulders begin to loosen, a figure steps straight through her. She disappears immediately.

You bite back a groan. You were just about to reach her.

"Sorry..." A low voice pulls your attention away. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but... are you okay?"

You glance up to find Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, one hand half-raised like he wasn't sure whether he should approach. Of course.

You look toward the empty space where the woman had been. "Sorry. Just a second." You hold up a finger to him and turn your head slightly, pretending to listen to something only you can hear. "I gotta go. Yeah... Bye."

You turn back to him and pull out your headphones, feigning confusion. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

He studies you for a second longer than feels comfortable. His eyes move briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "Nothing. Sorry."

You smile awkwardly at him, thanking your past self for the foresight. 

Dr. Abbot leans slightly to his left, an expression of pain flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you gesture to the space beside you. "Do you wanna sit?"

He hesitates, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench before lowering himself onto it, leaving a polite gap between you. Silence falls for a second before he speaks. "My resident loved the book."

Your face brightens. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," he says, his mouth curling slightly. "I'm apparently her favourite attending now." He nods in your direction. "All thanks to you." 

"You're welcome!" You grin. "Next time you need a recommendation, you know where to find me." You take another sip of your coffee. "Is she the reason our page is popping off?"

He hums. "She did say something about posting it on her TikTok..."

You smile at the unsure grimace on his face. Clearly, he's not an avid user of the platform. "Give her my thanks, then. The store's been buzzing the last few days. The coffee corner's been packed since."

"Oh, you have coffee now?"

"Yeah! New addition. Ethan thought it would be good."

"Coffee's any good?"

You shrug. "Depends who's asking."

His mouth curls. "I am."

"Then I'll say yes."

He huffs a laugh.

Silence falls between you again, but this time it's more comfortable. You find yourself noticing that with him, silence doesn't seem to demand anything. You don't have to fill it, and neither does he. He just sits beside you, looking out across the park.

You lift the crinkly paper bag beside you and take out a croissant. You break it in two and hold out one half to him. He looks from the pastry to your face, as though checking whether you're serious.

You nod. "Take it."

The corner of his mouth lifts before he accepts it. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does. The reminder sends a quiet swoop through your stomach, though you're unsure why. 

You take a sip. "Feel free to bring your wife with you," you add. "We get lots of couples coming in."

"Oh..." His expression changes almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his hand. His thumb brushes over the edge of his wedding ring. "She passed away a few years ago."

The words are simple. There isn't a dramatic pause afterwards, no visible struggle to say them. Just a quiet fact placed between you. It explains the weird feeling you've gotten each time you've seen his ring—you must've picked up on it subconsciously.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "Don't be."

You glance at him.

He looks down at the croissant in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "I was lucky to have her."

You smile softly. It's clear from his voice just how much he loved her. "She must've been special."

His own smile appears, small but genuine. It's still wider than any you've seen from him so far. "She was."

You've seen enough death to know there's no right thing to say afterwards. Sometimes people want sympathy. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they just want someone to acknowledge that it happened and then let them breathe. So you don't try to fix it. You just sit beside him.

After a moment, Dr. Abbot takes another bite of his croissant and changes the subject. "So, was it always in your plans to own a bookstore?"

You breathe out. "No, I actually stumbled on it a few years ago." 

You don't tell him about Lydia and Delia making life hell for the new owners, or how their refusal to move on had eventually led to the place being sold to you for barely a dime. Instead, you tell him, "I've always loved books. So, it just felt right to share that love with others."

He hums, smiling slightly. "That makes sense."

"What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"

"Couldn't afford college, so I joined the army. Lost my leg." He pats his right leg, but doesn't make more of it. So you don't either. "Then after that, I entered emergency medicine. And that was that."

You glance at him. "That was that?"

He shrugs. "Seemed like a reasonable way to spend the rest of my life."

You snort. "Most people would say they wanted to help people."

"Well, I try to keep the inspirational speeches to a minimum." 

You laugh. The conversation drifts again. It's strangely easy. You talk some more about the bookstore. He tells you about some of the residents who have passed through the ER, right until a yawn interrupts his words. 

You fight back a smile. "I'd better get going," you say, standing and brushing pastry flakes from your jeans. "The store's not going to open itself." Well... it might. But the last time Lydia and Delia tried, it hadn't ended particularly well.

Dr. Abbot's eyes flick briefly to the fading bruises on your forearms before meeting yours again.  He opens his mouth, hesitates, then simply says, "Take care of yourself."

You smile. "I usually do."

"Thanks again for the book recommendation."

"Anytime," you say, smiling at him. You give him a small wave before turning towards the path. 

The tension in Jack's shoulders eases the second he steps into Cordelia's and is met by the familiar smell of paper, ink and coffee. The bell chimes softly above him as he swipes his wet feet at the mat. 

"Oh no, poor you." You emerge from the back, taking in how the rain clings to his hair. 

He waves his hand. "It's not that bad. Just a light—" A loud boom of thunder interrupts him, followed by rain pelting hard against the windows, "—drizzle. Huh." He leans slightly to his left, trying to place more weight on his good leg, but even that one is hurting today. 

He can feel your gaze on him, so he turns back to you with a charming little smile in place, trying his best to avoid letting you know how bad it is. 

"Go sit." You nod towards the armchair, an air of resolution over you as you head for the coffee machine. Somehow, you see right through him every time. 

Jack doesn't have the energy to argue. He settles into the armchair, propping his leg on the ottoman that appeared after his second long visit. He's not sure when it became tradition for him to show up after shift. It just did.

You're not even open yet, so most mornings you sit with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. It's nice. You've become an unlikely friend, someone who he looks forward to seeing after shift. It certainly beats going home to an empty apartment. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia's had become part of his routine.

"Here." You reach over, bringing him his cup. He lets his hands warm against the porcelain before taking a long sip. 

"You've done it again," he breathes out. "You really are magic."

You shake your head. "I thought we agreed not to call me that."

"You agreed. I didn't." He shrugs. "You always find the best books and, somehow, make this coffee taste good. Magic."

"Uh-huh." You roll your eyes, heading back towards the counter with your own mug. Jack rests his head against the chair, letting the quiet rustle of the bookstore and the sound of rain wash away the beeps and shouting voices still ringing in his ears.

His eyes follow you as you lift a box up onto the counter. "What'd you got there?"

You grin widely. "One of our customers left us a few boxes of vintage books." You slice cleanly through the tape. "I mean, look at this." You pull out a gorgeous green-covered book, holding it carefully in both hands, your entire face lighting up.

Jack can't help the little smile that tugs at his lips. You're cute when you're excited. He looks away before you can catch him staring, spinning his ring around. He's not sure where that thought came from.

"It's beautiful," you say, running your thumb carefully along the spine. "Look at the binding."

The bell rings again as Ethan drags himself in through the door, shaking his umbrella and leaving it at the entrance. He waves to Jack before immediately slumping down behind the counter with a yawn.

"You look like a wet rat," you tell him.

"Oh, thank you." Jack hears the offended tone in Ethan's voice as he stands up, shaking his wet sleeve at you. 

"Hey!" 

Jack chuckles quietly to himself as the two of you begin bickering.

"What's all this?" Ethan asks, finally noticing the box. A low whistle escapes him. "This might be worth a pretty penny."

Jack watches the two of you fall into your familiar rhythm. You inspect every book before Ethan checks the condition. You argue over whether certain editions should be sold or kept. Ethan reads out the occasional title with a laugh. You keep nudging books toward him for him to look at.

Jack mostly stays quiet. He doesn't mind. That's one of the things he likes about the store. He doesn't have to perform here. He can sit with his coffee and listen to the two of you bicker about books while the morning slowly settles around him.

His gaze drifts back toward you. Your hands are scratched. Again. He notices immediately. Fresh little cuts cross your fingers and knuckles, some still pink around the edges.

At first, he worried someone was hurting you. Ethan had been the obvious possibility, if only because he was the person Jack saw you with most often. But a little careful observation—and a few questions asked in the casual way only a doctor can manage—put that suspicion to rest.

You trust Ethan. Completely. There is nothing between you that suggests otherwise.

So now he's left with another question. What's happening to you? He doesn't like the thought. You've always been a little accident-prone. He knows that much. There was the initial fall from the ladder. The bruises. The scrapes. And now this. He could ask. He should probably ask. But he doesn't. Not yet. You aren't his patient. You aren't even—

He doesn't finish the thought.

Instead, he takes another drink of coffee and watches you laugh at something Ethan says. You're both leaning over the same box, shoulders nearly touching. For some reason, he finds himself smiling again.

Then you pick up another book. It's blue, covered in tiny butterflies. "Oh, this is so pre—"

You stop. Completely. The change is so sudden that Jack sits up. Your fingers remain frozen against the open page. Your eyes stare somewhere beyond the book.

"Magic?" He says it lightly at first, his eyes roaming over your frozen figure. You don't respond.

Ethan notices at exactly the same moment, but unlike Jack, he doesn't move toward you. Ethan moves toward him, stepping directly into his line of sight, and blocking you from view. "You want another cup?"

Jack frowns. "I—" He leans sideways.

Ethan shifts with him. He tries the other way. Ethan follows.

"What are you doing?"

Ethan's face is neutral, but the tightening around his eyes reveals his true position. He doesn't want Jack to see you for some reason. "Offering you coffee."

Jack looks down at his still half-full cup, his frown deepening. He shifts forward, planting his good foot firmly on the floor. Ethan still doesn't move. Jack pushes himself upright, his prosthetic taking an extra second to cooperate. By the time he's standing, Ethan has finally stepped aside.

And it's like nothing happened. You're fine. You're flicking through another book with the same casualness as before. Jack stares. "Hey, you okay?"

A smile immediately settles over your face. "Yeah." It arrives too quickly, too smoothly.

He doesn't believe you. You know he doesn't. For a second, something passes between you. A silent acknowledgement that whatever just happened, you both know it did.

Ethan clears his throat. "So, coffee?"

Jack looks at him, then back at you. "I—no. I should head home."

You frown. "So soon?"

He pauses. 

Your expression changes the second you realise what you've said. "Sorry, go on. You're tired," you add quickly. "You should sleep."

He smiles faintly. "Yeah." He looks at you for another second. "See you tomorrow, Magic."

You roll your eyes, waving him off.

The bell jingles softly behind him. Outside, out of sight from the store windows, he pauses on the pavement. He barely takes notice of the rain, his mind busy running through everything he's seen. Bruises. Scratches. Lethargy. Disassociation. The way you froze just now. His thoughts begin sorting possibilities automatically.

Anemia. Thrombocytopenia. Something autoimmune.

He discards some almost immediately. Others linger. His stomach twists. He knows better than to diagnose someone from a handful of observations. He knows better than to let his mind run ahead of the evidence. But his brain doesn't care. It keeps circling back.

Cancer.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Not again.

You've only seen Jack once this week, a significant enough break in your routine that you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You catch yourself wondering whether he heads straight to bed instead of coming to the store, whether he's been working more shifts, whether he's okay.

You'd made Ethan leave him a note after you'd missed two mornings in a row. Somehow, the two of you have never exchanged numbers, so you don't even know he's seen it. Maybe he hasn't even come by, and you've been worrying for nothing. He's a busy man, after all. 

You hope he doesn't think you're avoiding him. The last time he came by, you could see the questions swimming in his eyes. Questions you had elegantly sidestepped, but the doubt was still in his posture when he left. 

You're just not sure what to tell him. Oh, that? That was just a vision. I get those sometimes—ghosts like to talk to me through them. What? Yeah, I talk to ghosts. It's no big deal.

He'd think you were crazy. 

And you're genuinely busy. The vision from the blue book has led you through one dead end after another, the child ghost attached to it proving considerably harder to cross over than usual. Every time you think you're getting close, something changes. A new location. A new clue. Another fragment of a memory that sends you in the wrong direction.

So the bookstore has been running mostly without you. Ethan has taken care of most of the day-to-day things, with you dropping in whenever you can. Long enough to check the register. Long enough to unpack a few boxes. Long enough to make sure Lydia and Delia haven't started another argument over which section needs reorganising. Then you're gone again.

You push through the bookstore door late in the afternoon, the bell giving its familiar little chime above your head.

Ethan looks up from behind the counter, his eyes trailing over you. "You look awful."

You drop your bag onto the counter. "Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean." He closes the book in front of him and crosses his arms. "You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?"

You shrug, already heading toward the boxes stacked in the back. "I'll sleep after."

"After what?"

You crouch beside one of the boxes and start digging through it. "After."

"There's no after with you." His brows pinch together. "You can't help anyone if you're not taking care of yourself."

You ignore him, pushing aside a stack of paperbacks. "You sound like my dad."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"Still taking it."

You finally find what you're looking for. The blue book. You pull it free and hold it against your chest. You stand again and turn toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? Close the store early if you want."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Your hand closes around the door handle. "I'm sorry for leaving it all to you. I'll make it up to you."

He waves you off. "You know, I don't mind... Jack's been asking for you."

So he has been by. Not directly after shift, because Ethan doesn't open that early. He's taken time out of his day to actually come by, disturbing the little sleep he gets. You stop, the bell above you giving a tiny jingle as the door shifts beneath your hand. "What did you say?"

"That you were busy." He leans back on the counter. "He's worried about you."

You swallow. "Well, tell him I'm fine."

Ethan's eyebrows lift. "That's it?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Maybe ask why he's been asking about you."

You give him a flat look. A faint thump comes from somewhere behind the shelves. Ethan's eyes flick toward the sound, but you keep yours straight ahead. 

"Tell him I'm fine."

"You could tell him yourself, you know."

You pause. For one brief, stupid second, you're tempted. The temptation is sharper than it should be. You could stop by the store one morning, let this ghost wait a little longer, but the wide-eyed, fearful gaze of your ghost reminds you that this is a little more important.

Jack can wait. Besides, it's not like the two of you really are anything to each other. He knows what you like to eat at breakfast, the books you prefer to read, and how your mother died when you were young. You know how he likes his coffee, the way he walks when he's trying to hide how his leg is hurting, and the passing of his wife. He'd even told you how his mother passed just a few years later and how he hadn't coped well with it.

Normal things. Things friends know about each other. Nothing that meant anything. 

You push it down. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Ethan watches the door swing shut and sighs. Delia and Lydia join him from their hiding spot behind the shelves. 

It's yet another early morning when Jack heads toward Cordelia's. He's stopped telling himself he's only going for the coffee by now. At first, it had been an easy excuse. He liked the place, the coffee, the books, and the quiet.

And, admittedly, he liked seeing you. He liked the way you made the silence feel comfortable. He liked that you noticed when his leg hurt even when he tried to hide it. He liked that you never made a big deal out of it.

That last part had been easier to ignore when you were actually there.

Now it's been over a week since he last saw you. Still, every morning after a shift, he finds himself turning down the same street, parking in the same spot, and walking toward the same little bookstore with the faint hope that this will finally be the morning he catches you. His hope grows when he sees the lights are on, which normally doesn't happen this early unless you're in.

Ethan looks up when the bell rings. His smile is polite, almost apologetic. "Morning."

Jack steps farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ethan is fiddling with something in the middle of the store, adjusting one of the little displays.

Jack leans against the counter, watching him for a moment. He doesn't bother pretending he's here for a book. He stopped doing that after the first two times. "...You talk to her?"

Ethan glances over. "Yeah, she came in yesterday."

Jack's shoulders ease slightly. "And how was she?"

"Fine." The answer comes too quickly. Ethan turns back toward the display.

Jack watches him. "Fine?"

"Yeah."

Jack nods slowly. Something about it doesn't sit right. He's seen you. Not properly, but he's caught glimpses. Once through the hospital window when you'd been crossing the street. Another time when he'd been driving past the bookstore and spotted you leaving through the side entrance.

You'd looked different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. He'd wanted to ask if you were okay, but each time he'd tried to get your attention, you'd climbed into your car and driven away before he could reach you. He'd told himself you were busy. Then he'd told himself you were avoiding him. That thought had bothered him more than it should have. Then he'd wracked his mind for a reason but ultimately landed on none.

"Is she sick?"

"What?" Ethan's head turns sharply.

"Is she sick?" Jack repeats. The words sound worse spoken aloud. "I've been seeing her around. She doesn't look well."

Ethan's expression shifts.

Jack's stomach drops. "She is sick."

"...No."

Jack catches the hesitation immediately. "Then what?"

Ethan looks away.

Jack's pulse starts beating harder. "She's been exhausted. She's lost weight."

"She's busy."

"She looks pale."

"She's been busy."

"She keeps leaving before I can talk to her."

Ethan sighs. "Jack—"

Jack watches his face. He's a doctor. He knows what people look like when they're trying not to tell you something. He knows what hesitation means. His mind starts filling in the blanks before he can stop it. Bloodwork. Imaging. Specialists. Treatment. His stomach twists. He pushes away from the counter. "Please."

Ethan finally looks at him.

"I'm a doctor. I can help."

"You can't."

"Please."

Ethan's expression softens.

Jack swallows. "If it's money, I'll take care of it." The words come out before he can think better of them.

Ethan blinks. "Jack—"

"I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "I'll pay for whatever she needs. Tests. Treatment. Whatever."

He doesn't explain why. The memory is already there in his mind. A hospital room. A diagnosis he'd wanted to believe wasn't serious. A woman he loved telling him she was fine when she wasn't. All the little things he'd missed. The things he should have noticed. The things he should have done differently. He'd promised himself he'd never make that mistake again. Not with someone he cared about.

Ethan stares at him, then shakes his head. "...She's not sick."

"Then what?"

Ethan bites his lip. For a moment, Jack thinks he's going to tell him. Instead, Ethan looks down at the display. "That's not for me to say."

Jack's jaw tightens. "Ethan."

"I'm sorry."

"Please."

"I can't."

Jack stares at him. There is something desperate in his own voice now, but he doesn't really care. "You know something."

Ethan doesn't answer.

"You know what's wrong with her."

"I know she's dealing with something."

"Then tell me."

"I can't."

Jack exhales sharply. His hand curls against the edge of the counter. "She doesn't have to know I'm asking."

"Jack."

"She doesn't even have to know I can help."

Ethan shakes his head. "It's not my secret."

Jack looks away. For a moment, the anger drains out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Right. Of course. He can't demand this. You aren't his patient. You're not his responsibility. You're—

He doesn't know what you are to him. He grabs his keys from his pocket. "Okay."

"I'm sorry."

Jack nods once. "Yeah." He turns toward the door. 

"Jack?"

He pauses.

Ethan's voice is gentler now. "She's okay."

Jack looks back.

Ethan gives him a small, reassuring smile. "She'll be okay."

Jack searches his face. He wants to believe him. He wants to believe him more than anything. "Right." He steps outside, the door closing behind him.

He stands on the pavement for a moment, staring at the bookstore window. His chest feels tight. He should go home. Sleep. Forget about it until tomorrow.

He thinks about the first time you'd met. The stupid heart-covered pyjama pants. The cut on your forehead. The way you'd laughed at his terrible jokes. The coffee you'd started making exactly the way he liked it. The bench in the park. The croissant you'd split with him. The way you'd listened when he'd talked about Rachel without making him feel like he was saying too much. The fact that he'd noticed your absence almost immediately when you stopped coming around.

He'd told himself it was because he'd grown used to seeing you. That was all. Just routine. Except now he has to admit how much he misses you.

Jack exhales slowly. Because whatever you're dealing with, you're dealing with it alone. And for reasons he's not ready to examine, Jack really, really doesn't like that.

You feel like you're losing your mind. 

Your ghost won't leave you alone. She's there when you wake, when you eat, when you try to work. Barely a second passes without seeing her somewhere in the corner of your eye, hovering close enough that you can hear the quiet hitch of her breathing. When you try to sleep, she cries because she's scared. When you're at the bookstore, she cries because she's scared of Lydia and Delia. When you tell her to stay away from the shelves, she cries. When you tell her you'll help her, she cries harder.

For your own sake, you need to cross her over. Soon.

But it's not proving easy. She doesn't remember anything. Not where she lived. Not how she died. Not even where her mother is. You know exactly one thing about her. Her name is Poppy. That's it.

You've tracked down the customer who left the blue book behind, hoping there might be some clue in where they'd bought it or who had owned it before them. Nothing. You've searched. You've asked questions. You've followed every lead Poppy has given you. Every single one has ended nowhere. You're completely lost. 

One lead keeps bringing you back to the same place, though. An old house on the edge of town, where you've felt the presence of more spirits than you can count. Not the lost, confused ghosts you're used to. These are different. Angry. Territorial. The kind that makes the air feel heavy before you even cross the property line.

The first time you went near the house, something had whispered your name from inside before you'd even reached the door. You hadn't gone back alone since. You're not sure what Poppy's connection is to these spirits, but she always seems more frightened after you've been near the house. You haven't been able to figure out what they want from her.

So, trying to change your surroundings in the hopes that it might clear something up, you head to the park. You sit on your usual bench, which you haven't done in a long time, with a thermocup warming your hands. For once, there's no one around. No customers. No Ethan. No Lydia or Delia. No Jack. Just you.

And Poppy sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away.

"I miss my mommy," she whispers.

Your eyes close. "I know."

"She'll find me, right?"

You swallow. You don't know. "Try to see if you can remember something."

Poppy looks at you. "I'm trying." Her voice is louder this time.

"I know." You keep your voice gentle, trying to soothe her. "But—"

"You're just trying to get rid of me," she accuses.

"What?"

She stands. "You don't want me here."

"Poppy—"

"You don't want me!"

You lift a hand. "I want to help you."

"You want me gone. Just like they said." 

The words catch somewhere in your mind. They? But Poppy is crying again before you can ask.

"You need to cross over," you say, more firmly now. "This isn't where you're supposed to be."

Her face crumples. "You don't want me," she cries louder. "I want my mommy."

"I am trying to find your mommy."

"I want her!" Her voice rises.

You wince. "Poppy—"

"I want my mommy!"

The sound tears through you. You press your fingers against your temples. "Stop."

She freezes.

You breathe hard. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."

Poppy's lower lip trembles. "You don't want me."

The anger drains out of you immediately. You rub a hand over your face. "Wait. Poppy, I didn't mean it like that."

She's already disappearing.

"Fuck." You stare at the empty patch of grass, your chest rising quickly. You don't notice the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice speaks beside you.

"Hey."

You look up. Jack. He's standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across his face. Of course. Of course he's here now.

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes. "It isn't what it looks like."

Jack's eyebrows lift. "No?" He gestures toward the empty grass. "Then what is it?"

You stare at him. Your heart starts pounding. You can't do this. Not with him. Not after everything. You remember Ethan's words. He's not like John. You swallow. "I—"

This is much harder than when you meet the family members or friends of ghosts. You can show them proof—hand them something that assures them you aren't crazy. You can't do that with Jack. He might have a ghost attached, but his mother hasn't tried to reach out to you in weeks. You haven't seen or spoken to her. You have nothing that will convince him.

Jack doesn't interrupt. He simply sits down beside you, leaving enough space between you that you don't feel trapped.

You fiddle with your fingers. He waits patiently. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe Jack isn't like John. "This is gonna sound crazy."

"Okay."

You glance at him. His expression doesn't change, but he reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours.

With another deep breath, you finally say, "I can see ghosts." The words sound ridiculous the second they're out. You stare at your intertwined hands and wait for him to pull away. He doesn't.

When Jack doesn't say anything, you look over at him. He's watching you. His eyes are kind and curious. Not horrified or pitying like you suspected.

"I've always been able to," you continue quietly. "I help them cross over. Go into the light. Like my mom." You swallow. "Do you believe me?"

Jack nods. "I do."

The relief that moves through you is almost painful. You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. He doesn't ask for proof. Doesn't ask you to demonstrate. Doesn't ask whether you're sure. His thumb brushes over your palm, then he looks at you again.

"Would you be willing to come to the hospital with me?"

The relief stutters in your chest. "Why?"

The warmth in his voice remains, but concern slips into it. "You're thinner than when I met you. You show up with random bruises and scratches."

Your stomach sinks.

"You're tired. You freeze up sometimes, and just now you were talking to the air."

Your other hand curls around the thermocup, holding it tightly. You stare at him, tears welling up.

He squeezes your hand. "I want you to get checked out."

It's like it all processes at once, the air in your chest rushing out of you. "You think I'm crazy."

"No." He shakes his head immediately. "I think you're sick, sweetheart."

The words hit harder than they should. For a second, you're back somewhere else. Not the park. Not Pittsburgh. Years ago. John sitting across from you. A much different expression but that same certainty. You're imagining things. You're crazy. You're just like your mom.

And now Jack—

Jack, who you'd thought was different. Jack, who had listened. Jack, who had made you feel normal. Jack, who has a ghost attached to him and has seen strange things happening around him. Who acts like it isn't unusual—

He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're sick.

You shake your head. "I'm not."

"Honey—"

"I'm not." You stand so quickly your coffee nearly spills.

Jack rises with you.

"I'm not sick."

His brow furrows. "I'm worried about you."

"No." You shake your head. "You're worried because you think there's something wrong with me."

"There could be." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it all worse.

"I don't understand. You should know better than anyone that I'm not crazy. You've experienced things you can't explain—I know it."

Jack goes still.

Your eyes burn. "I know what I'm seeing."

He takes a small step forward. "I believe that you believe you're seeing—"

You flinch and move backwards. "Don't."

Jack's face changes. He realises too late what the words sound like. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm not sick." A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.

Jack's expression twists. "Magic—"

"Don't call me that." You look at him through teary lashes. "I thought you were different."

His face falls.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then you turn away. "I need to go."

"Please." His voice is suddenly unsteady.

You shake your head. "I can't do this. Don't come to the store again."

His expression breaks, and his lips form your name, but nothing comes out.  You turn around. You don't wait for him to say anything else. You walk away, and for once, you don't look back.

You hole up in your apartment after that day. Steer clear of anything that could lead to a ghost finding you. You don't go to the park anymore. Jack doesn't come to the store. Ethan checks in every day, but you keep your replies short and insist you're fine. He eventually decided to stop asking, but you feel his eyes following you in the store constantly.

Poppy also doesn't show herself again. Part of you is relieved, another part of you worries that you've made things worse. You don't have the energy to figure out which feeling is winning.

You're sprawled across the couch sometime after midnight when the crackling starts. The sound grows louder. Your hands fly to your ears. It doesn't help. The static crawls through your skull, sharp and distorted. Your vision blurs at the edges. You squeeze your eyes shut. The crackling rises. Louder. Louder. Then—

It quiets.

You slowly open your eyes. A woman is standing in front of you. She's watching you carefully. You stare back.

"Can you see me?"

You let your hands fall into your lap. "...Yes."

Her eyes widen as her face lights up. "Finally!"

That's not the usual reaction you get from ghosts.

She grins. "You have no idea how long I've been trying."

You blink as the pieces connect. "You're Jack's ghost, aren't you?"

Her smile wavers a bit. "Yes."

His mother looks younger than you expected, with kind eyes and an expression that's almost painfully patient. Frail. It's the lack of hair that surprises you most—her head is entirely bald.

"Is he okay?" The question comes out before you can stop it, even as your stomach twists.

Her smile returns, softer this time. "All things considered, yes."

You look away. "Good."

"He's worried about you." 

You stand immediately, turning toward the kitchen. "I mean no disrespect—I know, he's your son—but I don't really care."

A burst of laughter follows you. You turn around slowly.

The woman is laughing so hard she's doubled over. She wipes beneath one eye. "Oh, no, I'm not his mother."

You frown. "Then who are you?"

She straightens. "I'm his wife." Rachel.

The words move through you strangely, hollow and sharp at the same time. "Oh." You make it three steps. "Wait." You look over your shoulder. "It's been you this entire time?"

Rachel appears next to you in the kitchen. "Yes."

You exhale slowly. "You've been here for a long time, then."

She hears the question behind it. "I can't leave yet." Her expression softens. "Not until he lets his guilt go."

You turn to her fully. "Guilt?"

She sighs. "He blames himself for my death."

You lean against the kitchen counter. "Why?"

"By the time we found the cancer, it was too late. Jack thought he should have seen it as a doctor, but—" She looks down at her hands.

No one could have known. Sometimes life is cruel like that. You know that better than most. Sometimes people die. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes the world simply decides that someone isn't getting another day.

You fill the kettle. "So you want me to help him?"

"Yes..." She hesitates.

You narrow your eyes at her. "What else?"

Rachel gives you an innocent smile. "Well... We thought maybe you could help each other."

You stop filling the kettle. "We?"

"Us ghosts."

You stare at her.

"We talk."

"You talk."

"Yes."

"About me?"

"Sometimes."

Your eyes close. "Wonderful."

"I followed Jack into the park one morning and met Lydia and Delia. They told me about you. We thought you might understand each other."

You stare at her, then the realisation hits you. Your mouth falls open. "What?"

Rachel's expression turns sheepish. "We thought..."

"You thought what?"

She doesn't answer.

"You guys thought you could set us up?"

She has the decency to look embarrassed. "I—well..."

"I can't believe this. This is insane."

"We didn't mean to hurt you."

"You're his wife! Why are you involved in this?"

"His dead wife!" she counters, voice rising slightly. "He deserves more than this. He deserves to be loved. I want that for him. I want him to be with someone who understands him—and you do. You get it. You know what death does to a person. You understand what it means to carry someone with you even after they're gone. And he'll understand you if you just let him. If you give him another chance—"

Your voice is hoarse as you cut her off. "Please, get out."

Rachel looks panicked. "Please, we didn't mean—"

"Get. Out." You tell her, pointing toward the door. "I won't ask again."

She looks at you for a long moment, then she nods. "I'm sorry."

She disappears without another sound. For several seconds, you don't move, not until the kettle pings. You blink back tears, cursing out Delia and Lydia in your mind.

Maybe they'll be able to hear you. You hope so.

Weeks later, the bookstore has been quiet. Not just quiet in the ordinary sense. Quiet in the supernatural sense. No books flying from shelves. No lights flickering. No crackling static in the middle of the day. No Lydia appearing beside you with unsolicited advice. No Delia whispering things you absolutely didn't ask to hear. After your last conversation with Rachel, you'd made your feelings very clear to everyone involved. Apparently, they'd listened. For once.

Ethan is behind the counter when you emerge from the back room. He looks up, then does a double-take. "You look pretty."

You glance down at yourself. You've traded your usual jeans and cardigan for a dress, slipped into a pair of heels, and touched up your makeup. You put in one earring. "Thanks."

Ethan continues staring. "Got a hot date or something?"

"Yeah."

He straightens, the teasing tone disappearing from his voice. "What?"

You laugh. "Yeah."

"Really?"

"Is it that unbelievable?"

"No," he hurries to say. "I just thought..."

You pause. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me."

He sighs. "I thought you were in love with Jack."

Your fingers still around the clasp of your earring. For half a second, you don't say anything, then you scoff. "I was never in love with Jack." 

Ethan raises an eyebrow.

"We were friends." You grab your purse from the counter. "And now we aren't." You check that you've got your phone, wallet, and keys. "End of story." 

There is also some stubborn part of you that wants to prove to Rachel, Lydia and Delia, and every other ghost who'd decided they knew better, wrong. You and Jack don't fit together. Whatever they thought they'd seen between you was wrong. 

"Right, sure." His tone is carefully neutral. "So, where are you going?"

"Uh… that restaurant that serves that pasta dish you like—Angelo's!"

"Damn, I'm jealous." He shakes his head. "Where you'd meet this guy?"

"Hinge."

Ethan makes a face as he fiddles with a piece of paper. "I thought you were over dating."

"Boyfriends," you correct.

"There's a difference?"

"Obviously." You check yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. "A boyfriend gets to know everything."

"Everything?"

You shrug. "About me."

Ethan watches you.

You adjust one of your earrings. "A date doesn't. We can just have fun and let it be that."

"If you say so," he replies.

"You're the one always telling me to get laid."

"I didn't mean this."

You give him a warning look.

He raises both hands. "Fine. Have fun. I'm a phone call away if anything happens."

You send him a small smile and sling your purse over your shoulder. "Got it. You have my location. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow."

Your dating attempts all go down the drain. Every single one. Even if it starts promisingly enough.

The first guy is named Daniel. He's handsome in an unassuming sort of way, with dark curls, a charming smile, and the kind of manners that make you able to imagine going home with him. He holds the restaurant door open for you. He compliments your dress without making it sound like he's expecting anything in return. He even listens when you talk.

You make it through appetisers without incident, then the wine glass beside his hand tips over. It spreads over his shirt, soaking into the fabric. You don't suspect that it was anything but clumsiness until the dessert, and his plate shoots sideways, landing straight in the lap of the woman sitting at the next table.

You don't see anyone, but you know exactly who did it.

You haven't forgotten what happened by the second date, but after forty spectacle-free minutes, you've relaxed. It's pleasant. There's no sparks flying, but you don't need that. You don't want that, actually. The pleasantness comes to an end when his salad bowl jerks sideways, launching dressing straight into his eyes. And that was that.

The third, fourth and fifth go exactly the same. One man receives a drink he didn't order and has it thrown directly into his face. Another finds his phone repeatedly dialling the same number despite the fact that he hasn't touched it. One poor bloke gets locked in the restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes while you stand outside listening to him insist that the door "just won't fucking open."

No one shows themselves, but you feel their presence, that tell-tale feeling of ghosts being near. Delia's perfume drifts past your nose one time. Lydia's laugh echoes another time. You even hear Rachel's voice in between other ones that you don't recognise. It seems like your matchmaking ghosts have made all their friends part of their schemes. You can't even blame your dates for leaving. You'd leave too. 

And the worst part is that, even before the ghosts got involved, none of them had felt right. Daniel was charming. The second was funny. The third had made you laugh so hard you'd snorted wine through your nose. They were all perfectly nice. Perfectly suitable.

None of them is Jack.

You hate that your mind keeps making the comparison. Jack's dry humour. His crooked smiles. The easy silences between you. The way he's never made you feel like you had to perform or explain yourself. With everyone else, you find yourself waiting for something to click. Some spark. Some feeling that tells you this is worth pursuing. It never comes. 

By the time you finally stomp into Cordelia's, you're furious. You slam your purse onto the counter. "Show yourselves." You fold your arms. "I'm not in the mood for this." You glare toward the shelves. "I know you're here."

Slowly, three figures appear across the room. Rachel at least looks apologetic. Lydia doesn't. Delia looks like she's trying very hard not to smile.

You stare at all three of them. "You need to stop."

Lydia opens her mouth. "But dear—"

"No." You hold up a hand. "Nothing else. This stops now."

She looks offended. "We're only trying to—"

"I don't care." Your voice cracks through the room. "You've ruined every date I've been on."

Delia winces as Lydia folds her arms. "They weren't right for you."

"You don't know that!"

"They were boring."

"That doesn't mean you get to throw food at them!"

"We didn't throw food at them," she argues.

You stare at her.

"We threw the plates." Lydia gives you a tiny shrug. "Technicality."

You breathe deeply, eyes flaring. "Are you serious?"

Delia loops Lydia's arm in between hers, holding her back.

"If you do this again, I'm selling this place."

All three look at you. Delia hesitates. "Dear—"

"I mean it."

Rachel takes a hesitant step forward. "We only wanted you to be happy."

"You don't get to choose for me." You look between them. "Are we clear?"

Rachel nods first. Slowly, reluctantly, the other two follow.

"Good." You grab your purse.

You're over dating. Completely. It's not worth it anymore. Unfortunately, that leaves you with a lot of extra time to think. To think about Jack's face when you told him to stay away.

So, you start seeking ghosts out deliberately. Cemeteries. Old houses. Anywhere you hear rumours of someone who hasn't crossed over. It's easier when you're busy. If you're talking to a ghost, you don't have to think about Jack. You don't have to wonder whether he's angry with you. Whether he hates you. Whether he still thinks you're sick. It also means you're spending more time around hospitals than you used to, but you've been careful around PTMC. You tell yourself that's enough distance. 

Until the ghost in the park finds you. He's flickering badly, his form disappearing every few seconds before snapping back into place. He begs you to tell his family he's fine—that they don't have to worry about him. You promise you will.

You reason with yourself that there's no reason that you'd meet Jack. It's daytime. Jack works nights. Even if he's here, he's an attending in the E.R. You're not heading there. Ergo, you're not going to see him.

You really should have known better.

The elevator doors open, and as you step in, you find Jack already inside. His expression changes the second he sees you. Surprise first, then something softer, something that looks painfully close to relief.

"Hi."

Your breath catches at the sight of him. He looks tired. More tired than you remember. You manage a small nod. "Hi." 

You stand beside him, folding your arms and fixing your eyes on the numbers above the door. He glances at you. You can feel it without looking. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.

The ghost stands in the corner beside you, watching the two of you with open curiosity. "Is that Jack?"

Your head nearly snaps to the side. How does this random ghost know Jack? Does the entire ghost community gossip about you? You stare straight ahead. 

The ride takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of Jack standing close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you. Thirty seconds of remembering what it felt like when that same closeness had once been comforting. The doors open. You step out immediately.

Jack's brows rise when he registers the floor. Oncology. His expression changes.

"Wait—" 

You keep walking. You don't turn around.

That was just the first awkward meeting. The next time, you're sitting in the waiting room for bloodwork with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll while a ghost whispers in your ear.

You're tired. You're always tired lately. You haven't slept properly in days, and your body feels like it's made of something heavier than bone. You rub at your temple, trying to ease the dull ache behind your eyes as you listen. A familiar pull makes you look up, and your eyes meet with Jack's.

He's standing across the waiting room. His eyes travel over you. Your face. Your hands. The dark circles beneath your eyes. His expression tightens, concern flashing across his face. As he takes a step toward you, you finally regain control of your limbs. You stand immediately and leave before he can get any closer.

Somehow, he's everywhere you go. 

Hallways he has no business being in. Elevator rides that you were certain would be clear. Waiting rooms you thought would be empty. Once, you even catch sight of him through a glass door just as you're leaving. 

And every time, his expression gets worse. More worried. More confused. He tries to talk to you more than once, but you don't want to listen.

The more you see him, the harder it becomes to keep your walls up. Every time he looks at you like that, some small part of you wants to stop running. Wants to tell him everything. Wants to let him explain. Wants to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe he really would understand if you gave him the chance.

And that's exactly why you start avoiding the hospital again. Because if you keep seeing Jack, eventually you're going to stop running. And you're not sure if you can survive another rejection. 

It's another lonely afternoon again. You're sprawled across the couch in an old sweatshirt, a carton of takeout balanced precariously against your stomach. Some terrible rerun plays on the television, the kind you've seen often enough that you don't really have to pay attention. You take another bite. For once, you're not thinking about ghosts. Or Jack. You're just tired. 

The lights flicker.

You sigh. The television crackles. You slowly lower your fork as the lights flicker again. A cold gust sweeps through the room, lifting the edge of the blanket pooled around your legs.

The air shifts, and Poppy appears in front of the television. Her eyes are wide. "Help me!"

"Poppy?" You stand, moving toward her. You haven't seen her in weeks. Her hair is tangled around her face, her little body flickering so badly that pieces of her seem to disappear before snapping back into place.

She takes a step toward you. "Please."

"What's going on?"

"They're gonna get me." Her voice breaks.

"Who's going to get you?"

Poppy looks toward the front door, seeing something you can't. Pure terror crosses her face. "Hurry. They're so angry."

"Poppy, wait."  

For a second, she's gone. Then she appears beside the front door. 

"Who is going to get you?"

She doesn't answer. She just looks back at you. "Please." She disappears through the door.

You stare after her. "Goddammit." You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, shove your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and snatch your keys from the counter. You barely remember to lock the door behind you.

You hurry down the steps, shivering slightly in the cold autumn weather. Your jacket is too thin, but you don't care; you just need to find her.

You don't know what has changed, but it's enough that she was terrified enough to return to you.

Jack can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It starts small. A nagging sensation in his gut that he can't quite explain. He's spent weeks trying to convince himself that you're fine. Ethan said you were fine. You told him you were fine. He should leave it alone. Instead, by the time he's getting ready for work, the feeling has grown too large to ignore. So he calls Robby and asks him to cover his shift.

He doesn't even know what he's going to do when he gets to the bookstore. He just knows he needs to see you. There's something restless in the back of his mind. Not a thought exactly. More like a pressure, an insistence he can't quite place. It eases as he nears the store. 

When he pulls up outside, Ethan is locking the door with frantic, fumbling motions, panic written across his face.

"Hey," Jack calls as he steps out of the car.

"I don't have time to talk right now." Ethan hurries past him to his car.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing I can explain right now."

"Ethan."

Ethan keeps moving. "I'm serious. I don't have time for this right now."

"Why? What's going on?"

Ethan slams the car door, but Jack opens the passenger door before he can pull away. "Ethan."

Ethan sighs, clearly conflicted. "Just—get in or close the door."

Jack hesitates.

Ethan turns toward him, anger flashing on his face. "Get in the car or stay here. I don't care. I need to go."

A gust of wind rushes past Jack, and he stumbles into the car, more pushed than moving under his own power. For a second, he could swear someone shoved him. 

Ethan hits the accelerator so hard that Jack is thrown back against the seat. "Jesus, Ethan."

"Put your seatbelt on."

Jack buckles himself in. "You could've mentioned that before you launched me."

Ethan doesn't respond. 

"What happened?"

Ethan glances at him out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road. "I don't know."

"Ethan."

His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm not sure you want to know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ethan swallows. "I got a message from Lydia and Delia."

Jack frowns. "Lydia and Delia?" He's heard the name before in the store when you and Ethan have been whispering back and forth, but he's never put a face to them.

"The ghosts in the store."

Jack stares at him.

Ethan keeps his eyes on the road. "They said she's gone somewhere she shouldn't be. They're scared."

"How did they tell you?" Jack forces himself not to dismiss Ethan outright, even as his mind starts searching for a rational explanation.

"They wrote me a message." Ethan sighs. "I told you she wasn't sick."

Jack breathes out. "Ethan."

"No." Ethan cuts him off. "I told you. She told you. I thought you were different." His jaw tightens. "I was wrong, apparently."

Jack's brow furrows.

"She's not sick. I need you to trust me—or her, or whatever you have to trust—when I tell you she was telling the truth."

"I—" Jack starts carefully.

"No." Ethan's grip tightens on the wheel. "I need you to have an open mind, or you need to get out of this car. She's in trouble, and I can't help her if I have to worry about you."

"...Okay." Jack is silent for a moment. His worry for you wins. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere bad."

The sun has set by the time Ethan and Jack pull up to the house. The place looks abandoned from the outside. No lights. No cars. Nothing to suggest anyone is inside. Then a light flickers behind one of the windows.

Ethan's hand is already reaching for the door.

Jack gets out after him. "Ethan, wait—"

But Ethan is already heading for the front door. Jack follows, every instinct he'd learned in the army and SWAT kicking in as he crosses the threshold. He scans the room automatically, checking corners, doorways, anything that could be a threat. Then he sees you, and everything else disappears.

You're standing in the middle of the room with candles surrounding you. Dozens of them. They're arranged in a perfect circle, their flames flickering wildly despite the fact that there isn't a breeze. Your head hangs forward. Your arms are loose at your sides. You don't move.

He breathes your name out quietly.

Ethan takes a step toward you, calling out for you in a louder voice. You don't react.

Jack's pulse hammers against his throat. "What's wrong with her?"

Ethan doesn't answer. He looks just as horrified. Then the air changes, a sudden rush of cold tears through the room. Every candle flame bends toward you. Your body jerks harshly.

Jack takes a step forward, calling out for you again. 

Another shudder runs through you. Your head snaps back. Your feet leave the floor. Jack freezes. For one impossible second, he simply stares.

You're floating.

Not stumbling. Not being lifted by anything he can see. Just—floating. Your hair shifts around your face as though you're underwater. Your eyes open, two black pools staring back at him. 

Jack's heart stops. "What the fuck—"

Ethan lunges forward. Jack follows before he can think. He steps straight through the circle. The instant his foot crosses the line, something slams into him. He staggers. It feels like walking into a wall. "What—"

He pushes forward anyway. The pressure bears down against his chest, trying to force him backwards. He grits his teeth, taking another step. His entire body strains against whatever is holding him there. Finally, he reaches you. His hands close around your waist. You're cold. Far too cold. "I got you."

He pulls. For a moment, nothing happens, then the resistance changes. The pressure eases. Jack feels something tugging at you from the opposite direction, but it's no longer trying to keep you there. It's almost as though something else is helping him. "Come on."

He pulls again, and your body suddenly tears free. Jack stumbles backwards, dragging you with him. The candles go out. All at once. He doesn't stop to wonder; he keeps moving and gets you through the doorway and onto the grass.

He drops to his knees, keeping one hand beneath your head so it doesn't hit the ground. He calls your name, fingers pressing against your pulse point. It's weak.

"Call 911," he orders Ethan, without looking away from you. Ethan is already reaching for his phone, but Jack barely hears him. His entire world has narrowed down to you.

"Come on." Jack brushes your hair away from your face, his hands shaking. He checks your eyes for any reaction, but there's still nothing behind your eyelids but that unnatural darkness. He's never seen anything like it before.

"Don't do this. Come back." He bows his head over you. He thinks about the last time he'd seen you. The way you'd looked at him. The hurt in your eyes. He'd been so sure. So fucking sure. His eyes burn.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've believed you. I should've believed you." A tear drops onto your cheek, followed closely by another. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it." His hand cups the side of your face. "And I still—" He can't finish, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry." He repeats it again, and again. Until the words barely sound like words anymore.

Ethan kneels beside him. "Come on," he murmurs, taking your hand. "Stay with us."

Neither man notices the figures gathering around them. A woman with kind and patient eyes. Two ghosts who have spent years watching over you. A little girl who had been frightened into trusting the wrong people. Ghosts from the hospital. Ghosts you have helped, even if they didn't want to cross over.

They gather in silence. One by one, their hands link, until they form a circle around you. Together, they turn toward you. The darkness inside you pulsates, but the ghosts hold their ground. The air grows colder as the darkness recoils. It fights. The candles inside the house flare back to life one by one.

You arch violently in Jack's arms, and your mouth opens. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as black smoke pours from your mouth. Thick and unnatural, it twists through the air before disappearing into the darkness of the house.

Your body goes limp again.

Jack catches you against his chest. For one terrifying second, there is nothing. You're completely still. Then your chest rises with a shaky, shallow breath.

Jack presses his forehead against yours. "That's it. Come on, baby." His voice is barely audible.

Your eyelids flutter, opening slowly. They're normal again. Your gaze struggles to focus, then finds him. "Jack?"

He nods. "Yeah. I'm here."

Your mouth parts again, but before you can say anything else, your eyes roll back, and your body slackens again.

Jack immediately checks your pulse. He pulls you carefully against his chest when he's certain it's there. "I've got you." He holds you tighter. "I've got you," he whispers again.

Ethan can't remember much of the past day.

The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and clipped voices. The E.R. is worse. People moving around him, asking questions he can't seem to process. Someone taking you away from him. Jack refusing to move until someone physically makes him. Then the ICU. Monitors. Machines. A bed that makes you look impossibly small. It all blends together into one long stretch of panic and fear.

There had been a moment in the ambulance when Ethan was certain they were too late. You'd been so still. So pale. He'd watched the paramedic work on you and thought, you're going to die.

He'd thought he'd failed you. That he'd found you too late. That the last thing you'd ever hear would be him telling you to hold on. He'd never been that scared in his life.

Now he's sitting in the ICU waiting room with a cup of coffee he hasn't touched, staring at the wall. You're still unconscious, but you're alive. That's all that matters. Ethan looks toward your room. Jack is there. Of course he is. The man hasn't left your side once. Not when the doctors explained what they knew. Not when they explained what they didn't know. Not when Ethan finally went downstairs to get something to eat and came back to find Jack sitting exactly where he'd been before.

He's barely spoken. Ethan can see how he's trying to wrap his mind around it—trying to find a medical explanation for what happened. Ethan knows there isn't one. He doesn't know what happened inside that house. He doesn't know what took hold of you. He doesn't know what drove it out of you, but he knows you were dying. And he knows Jack brought you back. Or at least helped.

Ethan and Jack haven't talked about the ghosts. Not really. There hasn't been time. But Ethan isn't angry with him anymore. He'd seen Jack's face when he found you. He'd watched him walk straight into something impossible without hesitation because you were on the other side.

Whatever Jack had believed before, Ethan knows he believes you now. That's enough for him.

Ethan stands and looks into the room. Jack is sitting beside your bed, one hand resting over yours. His head is bowed. He looks exhausted, dried tear tracks still visible on his face.

Ethan knows that look. Maybe Jack doesn't. But Ethan does. Because he's watched the two of you for months. The way Jack always showed up at the bookstore. The way his face changed whenever you walked into a room. The way he'd ask Ethan how you were doing and pretend he was only making conversation. The way he'd worry. The way he'd look at you when he thought no one was watching.

Ethan glances through the glass again, watching as Jack lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.

The room is quiet when you wake. Not silent; there are always noises in a hospital—the steady beep of the monitor beside you, the faint hiss of oxygen, footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door—but quiet enough that you can hear Jack breathing.

He's asleep in the chair beside your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, even in sleep. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched across his face. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

You squeeze his fingers weakly. He doesn't wake.

Your eyes drift shut again. The lights flicker, sending different shapes across the back of your eyelids. When you open your eyes, Poppy stands at the foot of your bed.

She's crying. Not the frightened, angry crying you've grown accustomed to, but a silent, guilty outpour. Her shoulders shake as tears stream down her face. "I'm sorry."

Your heart aches. "Poppy."

She takes a hesitant step toward you. "I'm really sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

"They said if I brought you there, they'd help me find my mom."

You swallow. "They were lying to you."

She nods, tears dripping from her chin. "I'm sorry"

"It's okay."

"Are you mad?"

You shake your head. "No."

"But I hurt you."

"You didn't mean to, sweetie." You reach a hand toward her, even though you know you can't actually touch her. "You were scared. They used that."

"I'm really sorry."

"I know."

Her crying finally quiets, and you give her a tired smile. 

She takes another step closer. "I found my mommy."

Your breath catches. "You did?"

Poppy nods. "The others helped me." A smile slowly appears through her tears. "She's waiting right there." Poppy points toward the corner. "Can you see her?" 

You smile back, only able to see the light warming Poppy's face. "I can't."

"Oh. Maybe you will later?" Poppy looks toward the corner of the room, then back at you. "Can I go now?"

You nod, blinking back tears.

She smiles. And for the first time since you've known her, she doesn't look frightened. She turns toward the light and steps through. 

You breathe deeply, fingers tightening around Jack's. You take a moment before turning your head toward him. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now." 

Jack's eyes open slowly. 

"Hi," you murmur.

"Hi."

"I'm guessing you heard that?"

He nods.

You bite your lip. "Still think I'm sick?"

His face falls slightly. "I'm sorry. I should've—"

"It's okay," you interrupt. "I know it's a lot."

"It isn't," he hurries to say. "I just... I saw you getting thinner. I saw the bruises. You were exhausted all the time, and then I found you talking to someone who wasn't there."

He swallows hard. "And all I could think about was Rachel. I watched her get sick, watched her get weaker and weaker, and kept thinking I should have noticed sooner. I'm a doctor. I should have known something was wrong. So when I saw you doing the same things…" He blinks wetly. "I thought I was watching it happen again. I thought I was losing you."

"I was scared," he says. "But that's not an excuse. I hurt you. I made you feel like I was just another person who thought you were crazy." His voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry."

You have faint memories of what happened that night. Jack coming to get you. His voice breaking as he apologised. Tears on his face. But memories aren't enough. You need to hear it from him. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice. "Completely."

You study his face for a long moment, searching for the doubt you'd spent your whole life learning to recognise. You don't find it.

Jack shifts closer, careful not to disturb any of the wires attached to you. "I don't expect you to forgive me yet." His fingers tighten around yours. "I just want the chance to earn your trust back."

You stare at him for a long moment. "I missed you." The confession slips out before you can stop it.

Jack's face softens. "I missed you, too."

You look down at your joined hands. You aren't ready to say everything is okay. Maybe you won't be for a while. But you don't pull your hand away.

Three days later, after you've been discharged, Jack joins you in the store. You sit on the edge of the armchair opposite him, your hands wrapped tightly around a mug you haven't touched.

For several minutes, neither of you speaks.

You'd thought about this conversation constantly since waking up. You'd imagined telling him everything in a dozen different ways. Some versions were angry, some were tearful, some were calm enough to make you wonder if they were even real. None of them prepared you for actually sitting across from him.

"I don't know where to start."

He shifts in his seat. "You don't have to start anywhere in particular."

You look at him. He's not rushing you, not filling the silence, just waiting. There's a familiar shift in the air as space refits itself around two new forms. Lydia and Delia stand near the shelves, their expressions softer than you've ever seen before. There's an apology in their faces. No excuses, no teasing, no insistence that they know what's best for you.

Just sorry.

You let out a slow breath, then you nod. Delia's eyes fill with tears; Lydia gives you the smallest smile. You watch them disappear again, then turn back to Jack. Somehow, it feels a little easier to speak after that.

So you tell him everything. About your mother and the visions. About your father deciding that what she called a gift was an illness. About the hospital, and how young you were when you learned that some truths were safer kept to yourself. You tell him about the ghosts you've helped, about Lydia and Delia, about Ethan. And eventually, you tell him about John.

That part is harder.

Your voice gets quieter as you explain how you'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth and how he'd used it against you. How he'd looked at you like you were broken. How, for a while afterwards, you started wondering if he was right.

Jack doesn't interrupt. Not once.

When you finally run out of words, the store is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the coffee machine behind you. "That's everything," you whisper.

Jack looks at you for a long moment. "Thank you for telling me."

Your throat tightens. "I was scared you wouldn't believe me."

"I know."

You swallow. "I don't want to hide it anymore."

His expression softens. "You shouldn't have had to in the first place."

Your eyes burn, and you look away before he can see.

Lastly, you tell him about Rachel. His face settles into a quiet understanding as every strange thing that has happened to him finally falls into place. 

The air beside the window changes. You know the feeling before you even turn. Rachel is standing there. She smiles at you.

You glance at Jack. "She's here."

His expression changes immediately. "Rachel?"

You nod.

He sits straighter. "Can she—"

"She can hear you."

Rachel moves closer. For a moment, she simply looks at him. There's so much love in her expression. 

"What does she say?"

You look at her, then back at Jack. "She says you've spent enough time blaming yourself."

His jaw tightens.

You translate as Rachel speaks. "She says none of it was your fault."

Jack looks down. "Tell her..." He stops. "I should have known."

Rachel shakes her head.

"You couldn't have known. You did everything you could."

A tear rolls down Jack's cheek.

Rachel steps closer. "You loved her." You repeat the words softly. "And that was enough."

Jack closes his eyes. His shoulders shake quietly. 

You keep your voice gentle. "She doesn't want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving her."

You look at Rachel. She smiles sadly at him before looking at you.

"You're good for him," she says.

You sigh.

"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I see. And life's too short for this. Be brave."

You bite your lip. "Rachel."

"Let yourself have something good."

Jack looks at you, his eyes wide. "What'd she say?"

You keep this to yourself, breathing out before repeating her next words.

"To tell you that she knows and that it's okay." You don't know exactly what Rachel means, but whatever she said reaches something in him that nothing else has. "She wants you to keep living."

His face crumbles. "Rachel."

She moves closer to him, sitting on the corner of the armchair. "It's okay, Jack." Her hand brushes against his cheek gently. 

Jack's eyes close, his head tilting toward a touch he can't really feel. A long breath leaves him, and for the first time, something in his face seems to loosen. Years of grief don't disappear in an instant, but the fight against it does. "Okay."

Rachel's smile widens, then the light begins to gather around her.

Jack sees the change in your expression. "She's leaving?"

You nod. "She's ready."

He looks toward her. "I'll be okay."

You squeeze his hand. "She knows."

The light grows brighter. Rachel takes one final look at Jack, then at you. She mouths two words, thank you, and disappears.

Jack stares at the empty space for a long moment, then he turns toward you. He looks down at your joined hands. For years, he's carried the weight of losing Rachel like a punishment. Now, for the first time, he lets himself put it down.

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. "Thank you."

You squeeze his hand.

After that, things are slow.

Jack starts coming back to Cordelia's. At first, he asks if you're sure he can stay. You tell him he can. Then he starts bringing coffee, and you start saving him the chair he likes. Some mornings you talk. Some mornings you don't.

You don't call it anything. You don't need to. Little by little, the distance between you disappears.

Weeks later, the bookstore is thriving. Not just surviving but thriving. The shelves are stocked, the front window is decorated for Halloween, and there's a steady stream of customers throughout the day. The little bell above the door seems to ring constantly now.

Ethan is unbearably smug about it. Not just because of the bookstore and his coffee corner idea, but mostly because Jack is once again the store's most frequent customer. 

"Morning," Ethan calls from behind the counter as he spots him.

You look up from the books you're sorting through. Jack stands in the doorway, two coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other. By now, the sight barely surprises you. 

"Morning." His eyes find you immediately.

You smile. "You know, I'm gonna get spoiled enough to expect this every morning."

Jack grins. "Wouldn't hurt anyone."

Ethan makes a noise of disgust. You ignore it and grab your coat. From somewhere behind you, Lydia makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. You shush her.

Jack pauses, then glances toward the empty space beside the shelves. "Someone disapprove?"

Delia appears between the shelves, giving you an enormously delighted smile.

You roll your eyes. "The opposite, actually."

Jack lets out a pleased hum, grinning as he opens the door for you. The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of rain from somewhere nearby. You walk beside him toward the park and finally reach the bench. Jack sits first, stretching his leg out slightly as he settles. You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his. He hands you the bag, and you break the croissant in half and hand him a piece. Silence falls as you watch the people passing through the park. Your shoulder brushes Jack's lightly as you eat.

His hand rests on the bench between you, right next to yours. Your fingers touch. You glance down. Jack does, too. His pinky hooks around yours gently. A second later, his hand shifts, palm turning upward, and you slide yours into it. Neither of you comments on it.

You lean your head against his shoulder after a moment. His cheek rests lightly against your hair. For once, nothing is demanding your attention. No ghost asking for help. No mystery to solve. No fear. Just Jack. His thumb moves slowly over the back of your hand. 

You turn your head when his cheek lifts. He's already looking at you. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"

You smile. "You don't have to ask."

Jack huffs, his expression softening. He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

You don't.

His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. His hand lifts to your cheek as your eyes close. When you pull back, neither of you goes very far. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, after a moment, your lips again. 

For once, you don't wonder whether this is a mistake. You don't wonder what the ghosts think. You don't wonder what comes next. 

You trust him.

thanks for reading!! <333

[deerfawnn]

dark abyss

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader no use of y/n ) summary: jack has one night to convince you that his love for you is real content warnings: yearner jack abbot and avoidant!reader, a lot of vulnerable talking, they both have issues clearly, mention of blood, mention of jack's questionable hobbies, reader sits in jacks lap, reader is mentioned to have long soft hair, small moment of nudity ( reader takes her shirt off for a second ), reader wears jacks clothes a/n: hai my lovelies!!! i've been working on this for so so so long. truly it's annoying how long this has been in my drafts now, but i figured it was time for it to see the light!! hope you like it <3 gift credits to @abbotstudy <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3 wc: 9.4k

Today it took Jack Abbot two minutes to corner you by the lockers.

You didn't even turn when you heard the thudding of his boots on the floor. "Not even a glance my way. I'm hurt."

You turned slowly, a smile forming on your face. It was impossible not to smile when he was looking at you with the corners of his mouth quirked up.

"Hi Jack."

And it was like a caress to Jack's body and soul, after coming in hours too early and having been unable to sleep. He loved his name on your lips.

His name had always been so normal, so ordinary. Every other kid in town had been named Jack, even in middle school, he'd never felt special. The teacher resorted to calling him Abbot and the other kid Jack.

And so, ever since a kid, he's been Abbot. Everyone else got to be Jack, he had to be Abbot.

But you, you called him Jack.

He had always offered everyone to call him Jack, but no one ever did. But you were different. You had just started calling him Jack like he wanted you, the moment he asked. And it felt like he had been waiting all his life for it. Since the day he was a kid in a small room watching everyone refuse to call him and acknowledge him by his real name.

Jack took a seat on the bench behind your locker, resting his leg.

You turned and faced him with a suspicious look on your face. "How early did you come in today?" You barely hid the concern in your voice, but he saw the way your eyes flitted down to his outstretched leg. Proof that he'd been here too long, long enough for it to start hurting and need a break.

Jack looked up at you. "Early enough to get bored waiting for you."

And you shook your head, closed your locker with a frown. "Very funny," you mumbled as you reached for the hair tie on your wrist, tying your hair into a ponytail.

You barely even looked at Jack as he stared at you. He always did this. Stare at you, wait for you, complain about waiting for you, like he wasn't an attending with responsibilities. He treated you like a kid, or at least that's what you told yourself.

It was better to pretend that he was treating you like a child rather than to think that he might just be actually missing you.

"I missed you."

You stared at him. "Jack, it's too early for this."

His name again.

"Never too early for anything. You should know that by now. You work the night shift." He grinned happily at you, and you only shot him a bored look in response.

It was those five minutes in the morning when no one bothered to find Jack that he loved so much. Everyone knew where he was. Same time, same shift, Jack Abbot was always waiting for you at the lockers. Everyone knew to then look for Shen as the attending and not Jack. People grew accustomed to this strange routine.

Everyone knew Jack liked you. Hell, you even knew it and so did he. He made no secret of it at all.

You fixed your ponytail. "Seriously, what time did you come in?" Your eyebrows were furrowed in concern and the frown wasn't going away anytime soon.

He shot you a look, before his eyes darted away again. "You're stubborn, you know that?" He finally stood up, lightly towering over you as you continued to stare at him.

"Six pm? Five pm? Four?" You scrunched your nose, trying to gauge what time it was, and only at four did his lips twitch lightly.

"Jack!" you shook your head. "What was it this time?"

Jack stared at you, eyebrows lifting, as if you got the nagging out of your system yet? Because i'm not answering.

You sighed. "Great," you mumbled, your voice filled with disappointment, and Jack couldn't help the light pang in his chest at that.

You fixed any remaining loose hair around your face in the small locker mirror as Jack watched you, heart squeezing when he noticed the dark circles under your eyes. Here you were lecturing him about his sleep issues, when you just hid yours better. He knew you'd only deny it if he ever pointed it out.

So he just said something other than what was really lingering on his mind.

"Come on sweetheart. You look as pretty as ever." He placed his hand on your lower back, shutting the locker mirror and promptly ignoring your frown. "Don't want any more patients flirting with you," he muttered under his breath.

He didn't like how that was the thing to plant a smile on your face. 

It wasn't until five hours into your shift that a lull hit. You were eating one of the muesli bars Jack had forced into your hands as he passed you by, with a pinched brow.

You typed with one hand while you stuffed your mouth with food with the other.

Crus dropped on a seat next to you, sighing loudly. You glanced, a smile forming upon seeing him. Quickly breaking off a piece of your muesli bar, careful to avoid the part where you'd taken a bite, you handed it it to the exhausted doctor, but then Jack swiped in.

"Uh, uh." He handed you the piece back. "Eat up."

You glared at him, taking the piece back from his hand, fighting the urge to insult him. You stuffed the piece in your mouth and swallowed. "Happy?"

"Delighted." Jack replied, the disappointment not having vanished from his voice yet.

Crus, meanwhile, was watching the two of you with a bored look. "Trying to stop your girl from being generous?"

Another glare was exuded from you, this time directed at the younger man. "Not his girl," you muttered under your breath, not loud for anyone but Jack to hear who was just close enough, as always.

You missed the way his smile faded for just a second, before he glanced at Crus. "There's a vending machine just around the corner."

"Did she get it from the vending machine?" Crus asked, pointing at you.

"No." Jack shrugged, already walking away from the two of you, spotting Nazely from a far, in need of dire help with a difficult patient.

Crus's stare lingered on you, and you turned your head, meeting his disappointed frown. "It's not my fault," you mumbled, around a bite.

Two hours later you were drenched in blood, trying to fix something you had no idea how to fix.

Shen was trying to help you out, and in your panic, you were completely missing the slightly helpless look in his eyes. Just a tiny shimmer of insecurity as he stared down at your position, how you were keeping the blood from spilling out.

You continued to press down. "Shen?" you squeaked, not bothering to hide the desperation for help anymore like you usually did, always keen on showing your competence.

And so Shen instructed you, if not insecurely, through it, eyes constantly darting up to the nurses to confirm every sentence that came out of his mouth.

In your worry, you didn't take note of Jack, missing the moment he walked in and took over Shen's position. You didn't realize your attending was standing there until he started speaking.

"More to the right," he instructed, and despite the clinical tone, Jack was never good at hiding the soft look in his eyes that he got whenever your eyes met his.

You startled, when you looked up and met hazel eyes instead of dark brown ones. You looked back over to the younger attending, and watched him move to the other side of the bed, helping one of the nurses instead of you.

Your eyes darted back to Jack and you watched Jack's eyebrows pinch together at the lack of urgency. Cautiously he said your name and that's when you shook your head, like you were waking up from a deep sleep.

Jack was unsure if the head shake was directed at yourself or him, but you turned back around and immediately got back to work, letting him guide you through every single step.

The rest went smoothly. Everything was fine. The patient was stable, and Shen gave you "a good job," a dunkin cup already in his hand to celebrate the win, to which you responded with a distracted smile.

You didn't look at Jack or acknowledge him, and he threw you a questioning look as he followed you out of the room.

Looking up at the screen to see which patient you could distract yourself with next, he followed, always one step behind you. Like always.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you replied quietly, without one glance at him, and then you were off. Wandering in some room, which, with a look upwards, Jack realized was a simple nosebleed and a headache.

His brows drew together as he watched you greet the young kid with a smile. He looked away again, deciding not to mull over it too much. It wasn't your first time shutting down. You had a tendency of being quite shaky after a difficult case, even if it went well.

Jack rarely went home early. Too quiet, too lonely, too depressing.

But that had changed ever since he realized you took the bus. Now, he seemed to be incapable of going home late. So, he came in to work early, really early. Earlier than he used to before you moved to Pittsburgh, hoping that if he left early and came in early, that his conscience would leave him alone, let him live without the grating guilt in his chest for just one night.

He wandered to his locker, reaching for his bag and lifted it over his shoulder and waited and waited and waited. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, waiting for you.

It wasn't until Mel wandered in, startled by her attending leaning against the lockers, that he realized that you were taking concerningly long to finish up your work.

"Good morning Dr. Abbot," she smiled, polite as always.

He slowly shifted his gaze from the floor to the bright girl and nodded at her. "Morning," he greeted, fixing his bag at his shoulder, before remaining in his position.

"Uh—" Mel hesitated before Jack realized he was leaning against her locker. He'd never realized it was hers. He always left early enough with you to almost never see the newer day shift residents. "Thank you!" the blonde replied as he moved away, letting her finally start her work day.

Jack now hesitated, realization setting it as he noted that at least 15 minutes had passed of him standing here like some idiot. He turned, clearly intending on walking back into the ER when Mel hesitantly looked at him. She seemed like she was about to say something she knew she wasn't going to receive a good reaction.

And the moment she'd said your name, Mel had his full attention. He quickly turned around, hazel eyes meeting hers of the same color. "She's— she's out by the bus station. I saw her earlier."

And Jack walked out without another word, no goodbye, no nothing.

He should've listened to his gut feeling. He knew there had been something wrong. The look in your eyes — there had just been something different. Even as he had decades on you, he had no idea how to read you sometimes.

It didn't take him long to spot you, earphones in as your head leaned against the wall of the bus station.

Jack ambled over slowly. "Not up for company today?" he said, loud enough for you to hear him through your earphones.

You looked up, as if you'd expected him to be here. You plucked one earphone out, twirling it around your finger. "Yeah, I figured I'd go home early."

You looked back down at your earphones, purposely avoiding his eyes and he took note of it, never missing anything about you.

Jack walked over slowly, taking a seat next to you, not brushing up against you like he usually did. He sensed you weren't in the mood to be touched, especially not by him.

It was a cloudy morning, making it not as bright as a July day usually would be. The dark clouds seemed to form just above you as if they sensed your mood and were trying to replicate it.

You didn't bother setting the earphones back in your ears as if you knew that the attending wasn't leaving anytime soon.

"You okay?" he asked finally, deciding to just get it over with.

You hummed a small "yeah."

Jack leaned back, head hitting the cold wall behind him. He turned his head, his gaze landing on your profile. "Sweetheart."

You finally met his eyes. You had never been able to resist the sweet pet name anyway.

He leaned forward, plucking the second earphone out of your ear, before carefully rolling it the way he watched you do it all the time. He opened your bag, which was still sitting between you like a barrier, and positioned it so that the rest of your things didn't damage them.

He then grabbed your bag, lifting it over his free shoulder, before standing up and stretching out one hand. He wiggled his fingers when you waited for too long, but even that didn't help.

You continued to stare at him with vacant eyes, until you finally spoke.

"You shouldn't have done that earlier," you whispered as the wind blew through your hair, nipping at your nose.

Jack frowned, confusion in his eyes as he set your bag back down on the bench, realizing this was going to take a while.

He took a seat next to you. Again. "Done what?"

"Just—just taken over Shen. Shen's an attending too. He can show me stuff. It doesn't always have to be you." They were harsh words, yet there was nothing of it in your tone. You were speaking in a quiet tone, like you didn't mean the words, like they were a cover-up for something else. Some other sentiment you were clearly trying to hide from him.

Your eyes watched the light patter of the rain that started as soon as you said the first words.

Jack looked at your face, seeing the faraway look and tried to gauge what exactly this was about. He wasn't hurt by your words, more so perplexed. And concerned. You seemed confused, scared even, if he was reading the pursing of your lips right.

"Shen was struggling," he spoke deliberately, as if explaining something to a five-year-old child. "The guy barely knew what he was doing."

You looked up. "That's not true," you replied, almost petulant, sounding exactly like the five-year-old girl he was so mindfully speaking to.

"Yes, it is." He studied your face with careful thinned lips, careful not to convey any emotion but neutrality. "What's this really about?" Your eyes continued to track every movement of his, not being able to look away even as he tilted his face closer. "Come on. You can tell me, honey."

You finally removed your eyes. "No." you shook your head, still speaking in the same quiet voice as if you told yourself not to let any emotion show.

You brushed a hand over your face, trying to fix whatever sadness was about to expose you in the form of liquid from your pretty eyes. 

How were you going to tell him that you couldn't handle it?

Couldn't handle the fact that he was everywhere. All the damn time. He was in your home when you were cooking, and you paused to think about whether Jack liked pasta. He was in your bed, when you were drowning in sorrow and self-doubt, and you'd hear his voice from the earlier shift, how he'd told you that you had done a good job, that you had nothing to worry about. He was there when you didn't know what to watch and looked for the channel he told you about during the one time the two of you left the ER to get coffee together.

Jack Abbot was everywhere and it was killing you.

You weren't capable of handling this. Crushes for you were overwhelming, sickening, and despite the seconds of bliss, it was nothing compared to the terrifying realization that Jack liked you the way you liked him, if not more.

You liked him, and he liked you too, and now what? Grown adults go on dates together, kiss, live together, and then get married.

The mundane cycle of life.

Nothing about it was mundane to you. To you, it was a roller-coaster, nothing rounding and repetitive about it.

It felt like you'd been plunging to a drop since the day Jack had driven you home and helped you fix a shelf in your room after pulling a double shift. You had stood in your apartment door, watching him get into the elevator with a smile, and then you'd stood there and stood and stood and realized that you were in love with Jack Abbot.

You didn't look at him as you spoke. "You should go home."

Jack stared at you, not exactly used to having you shut down this badly. There had been many instances where you'd fall apart, not look at him, not see him, but he always helped let go of it, adjust to it or cope with it. Usually with hands on your lower back that traveled up to the back of your head as soon as the first tear dropped, and you were sobbing into his chest. It had always been like this.

Jack felt his heart wrench. He wasn't sure what to do and he hated feeling this helpless. "Not doing that," he said, and he wasn't telling you what he expected from you, but you knew.

He wanted an explanation, otherwise he wasn't going anywhere.

"Jack please," you whispered, now finally meeting his hazel eyes. "I just—I need a minute."

Your eyes didn't have tears in them, but you knew it was just a question of sooner or later. Even Jack knew it.

"You can have a minute in my car. Up." He finally regained his attending voice, the authorial voice that usually helped you do everything flawlessly in the ER. He grabbed your bag and walked away.

Without another word you followed to his car and watched him open the passenger door, setting your bag in front of your seat. You took a seat on the warm plush, hating how the smell of it, the smell of him comforted you immediately, making the burn behind your eyes a bit easier.

You hated how he made you feel better. You hated there was someone out there who had this much control over what you felt without knowing that there was so much control.

You hated everything.

He got into the car and the rest of the drive was silent. Jack knew he had pressured you plenty and that you were in very well need of a break. He hated being cornered just as much as you did, so allowing you to sit there silence was the very least he could do.

When he arrived at your apartment, you stayed in the car, regret now flowing through your veins. Regret and humiliation. You felt ill as you closed your eyes and sensed his eyes boring into your profile, trying to figure out how he could find out what was wrong with you without grilling you again.

"I think I'm in love with you."

You knew Jack had never, with all of the thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, expected this, expected that to come out of your mouth. He froze, his hazel eyes which had been filled with worry now turning into surprise and then dread, realization hitting him as he realized the very reason you were this sad was because you had realized your love for him.

The rain continued to patter down on the car, as Jack stayed silent.

You had to tell him. This way, he would tell you that this wasn't going to work, that you had just been a distraction at work, someone young, someone pretty to talk to while he worked the worst job in the world. You were merely a tool to him. That's what you were about to hear, what you needed to hear.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly. He worried that if the words I'm in love with you too left his lips that you'd fall apart completely.

You were barely even holding on, fingers gripping your jeans as tight as you could, your nails on the edge of breaking.

"Mhm." you nodded, lips in a thin line, as you continued to stare out front.

"You think or you know, honey?" he asked quietly, this time asking for himself. The desperation, he usually hid so well, floated to the top, exposing how much he wanted to know if what you were saying was really true to you, that you meant it, that he hadn't been imagining it.

It took you a while, thoughtfulness entering your face replacing the deep troubled sadness for just a second before your lower lip trembled. "Know."

Jack let out an exhale, unable to hide the relief in it, pressing his head against the car seat.

Minutes of silence passed. Both of you watching the rain tapping on the car, the window obscuring the view of your apartment, drifting far away almost.

"You want me to say it?"

You shook your head. No, you didn't want him to tell you that he was in love with you too.

"Okay," he pressed his lips together, as if holding the words in. He took a look at you, your shaken state, how your knees were pointing in his direction, not the door, as if your body had decided that despite your mind fighting you, you didn't want to leave, leave him.

"I'm taking you to my place, that okay?" he asked quietly, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel.

You turned your head to your window, lips quivering as you thought about the grave mistake you were making, before letting out a small "Okay."

The drive was just as silent as before, though Jack was sure that the tears were now finally streaming down your face, though you kept your face away from his view until he arrived at his house. Parking the car, he made sure to avoid looking at you until you stopped sniffling.

He quickly got out, rounding the car until he was next to your door, opening it for you like the gentleman he tried so hard to be for you.

You grabbed your bag, still keeping your eyes on the ground, but when you stood up, Jack couldn't grant you the privacy he had earlier, anymore. He needed to show you that he cared and that he was here for you no matter what happened.

Carefully raising his hands, so slowly that you had time to pull back, his thumb gently stroked the wet skin under your eye. Just as gently, he did it on the other side too, and then he let his hand wander to the back of your hair, brushing it softly away from your face, before tilting his head downwards to catch your eyes.

Your red rimmed eyes finally met his, now with the cloudy weather, brown ones. You preferred them more when they were hazel and almost green. Now they just looked as pained as yours.

"We'll figure it out," he whispered as gently as possible, fingertips brushing one more time across your soft cheek.

You didn't nod or speak, or show any signs of agreement, but Jack still decided to take your silence as a yes. He reached for your bag and lifted it upon his free shoulder, before reaching for your hand.

Reaching out just like he had earlier, but the teasing was gone, no wiggling fingers, no smile, no nothing.

It was almost comical how tightly you gripped his hand, as if you needed something to hold on to because everything else was slipping away.

The two of you remained silent as you followed Jack to the entrance of his house, letting him pull you towards the charming residence, trying to ignore how small he made your hand feel in his, and how warm.

The rain didn't even feel like it was touching your skin, all you felt was the scorching heat of Jack's hand engulfing yours and for a moment you wished this would be the only thing you'd ever feel for the rest of your life.

He somehow managed to continue brushing his thumb over your cold knuckles, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, as he opened the door.

Inside it was dark, and Jack was quick to turn on the lights, somewhere in the back of his mind, remembering that you'd once mentioned being scared of the dark when you were a kid.

He hung his bag up, taking yours from your hand without asking, before hanging it up next to his. The two of you silently stared at the bags next to each other just long enough that it was a moment, a thing, an unspoken thing nonetheless.

It came to no surprise to both of you that you were the one to interrupt the moment, quickly taking off your shoes, this time deliberately not glancing down, not wanting to acknowledge how they looked next to his.

He, still silent, walked into the living room, before turning a corner, listening to your socked feet on the floor, quickly following him into the kitchen.

Quick to turn on all the lights, he opened the fridge, and you watched him take out all the things you liked, and you let out an incredulous puff of air, making him turn around immediately.

"What?" he said, unable to resist the smile that formed on his face, upon seeing something other than grief in your face.

"How do you—just— remember everything?" you asked in disbelief.

"Doubting my intelligence right after confessing your love to me oof." He pressed a hand to his chest, grinning from ear to ear. "That hurts sweetheart."

You shot him a look, swatting at his bicep with your palm, but not quite letting go as you took a peek into his fridge.

Jack felt himself get warm by the way your hand was still wrapped around his bicep, not letting go. His eyes wandered from your hands to your profile, observing the way your nose scrunched up as you came to a conclusion you didn't like. His heart squeezed with joy when he took notice of the spark in your still red-rimmed eyes returning, the one that said you were about to insult him in your usual lighthearted way.

"No chocolate, no sweets, nothing unhealthy." You looked up at him, dropping your hand from his bicep with a startle before getting a hold of yourself again. "You have a boring fridge, Jack."

"I'll get you chocolate, don't you worry about that." He shook his head, incredulous over the fact that this was your first proper sentence in the last thirty minutes.

You didn't reply to that, and he realized too late what he had implicated. He took a look at your face and, just as he had feared, you'd shut down again, brutally reminded of what had occurred in the last few minutes.

He turned around, grabbed what he needed to make a sandwich and started cutting. "Sit," he mumbled and decided not to comment on your sorrow, nodding towards the counter next to him. You complied without another word.

You watched his hands cut the bread the way you liked it. Small pieces to make it seem bigger.

A habit from when you were a child and your mom would hand you chocolate. You would always end up tearing all the pieces apart, so you felt like you had twelve pieces instead of one block. A mind trick was what you used to tell your friends.

And, now here you were, grown and an adult watching Jack Abbot do the thing you haven't done in years, for you. Simply because you had mentioned it once. Once, during a shift, you didn't remember.

Your eyes flickered up to his face. His gray hair was as pretty as ever, had always been one of your favorite things about him, curling over his forehead, and you could see the red-brown peeking through. He looked tired, lips lightly curling downward, which usually meant he was tired.

But he never rested. He always needed to be in action doing things. Like right now.

You were probably just another thing on the list. The girl he distracted himself with during lulls in the shift, the girl he talked to in the car, so he wouldn't have to drive home alone with his thoughts, the girl he invited over, so his apartment felt less quiet.

You were a tool to keep his thoughts far away.

Glancing down at your hands, you finally noticed that you had been picking at your nails the entire time. Bad habit that you still couldn't seem to get rid of. The only growing up, the only bad habit you've overcome, was apparently not cutting your sandwich into small pieces anymore.

Feeling a prickle of pain at the top of your head, you reached your hand up, swiftly slipping the hair tie out of your hair, releasing a cascade of softness around your shoulders. You didn't notice the way Jack halted the knife to watch you. He watched you ruffle your hair with a relieved sigh, and his eyes followed every movement until they locked with yours.

You stared back, and your nose scrunched in light embarrassment.

"You're a pretty girl." He gave you a smile, embarrassed for being caught staring. Shaking his head, he looked back down at his knife. "And yet you're here making yourself sad over some old guy."

It wasn't self-pity, even if you knew that. It was a statement, even a complaint, if you thought about it for too long.

To him, you were too young, too pretty, too kind, to destroy yourself over something as simple and boring as him.

You glanced up at him noting the way he was cutting up the bread slower, clearly waiting for your reply. Maybe it wasn't all not self-pity. Maybe some insecurity did linger there.

"I think you're pretty nice for an old guy," you mumbled, swinging your legs until they hit the wood below you, and you suppressed a groan of pain.

He chuckled, not having missed what you had just done, and glanced up at you, mouth curved upwards, before looking away again.

This was domestic. Too domestic even.

It made you feel nauseous, and you gazed down at his hands, tracking the way he was carefully fixing your sandwich with ingredients you liked. You brushed a hand over your eyebrow, fingertips rubbing hard into your eyes until stars were bursting hard, replacing jack temporarily.

You wished they could replace Jack forever.

He paused his knife on the counter, setting it aside, before stepping in between your knees and removed your hands from your face.

"Not that nice after all, huh?" he asked quietly, heart breaking when your eyes met his. It seemed, that tonight, the sadness wasn't going away anytime soon.

You didn't have the strength to muster up a weak smile. Too tired and too sad as you met his hazel eyes, the eyes that knew you too well and that saw too much. You looked down at the way his fingers were still lightly curled around your wrist. His hand fit so well around yours, the perfect temperature, the perfect size to calm you down.

"Crap." you finally whimpered, and you dropped your head forwards, letting yourself fall right into the crook of his neck. Jack, without another word, let his hand lift to the back of your head, fingers curling into your soft hair as he brushed gently through it.

Jack knew you. It was as simple as that.

He knew you were scared. He'd seen your expression when you came to work one day. You had been scared of something and he saw it. He saw the way your fingers would twitch on the counter, desperately wanting to touch him, and when he let his fingers brush up against yours, you'd stay for five seconds before taking it back abruptly, like you had been electrocuted, like it had been a mistake.

Eventually he just knew. You were in love with him and you were scared.

His other hand came up to brush against your back, rubbing your shirt gently, bunching it up, lifting it until he was able to rest his hand on your bare waist, hoping the heat of his fingers would finally warm your freezing skin up.

You pressed your face further into his neck, though your hands remained on your sides. You were craving him, but fear still lingered.

It lingered in every part of your body. In your hands, where it wouldn't let you reach for him the way you wanted to. In your chest, where it wouldn't let you press up against him fully. In your heart, where it wouldn't let him in.

Jack didn't even have the strength to think about how soft you were in his arms, how much he had craved to touch you. You were too cold for it all.

He pressed his palm harder to your naked lower back, hoping that if his entire palm was pressed up against your spine, that maybe, just maybe he wouldn't feel like he was touching ice.

"Let's get you into some warm clothes," he mumbled, not yet removing himself from your hold, waiting for your cue.

You pressed your face further into his neck, turning your head, so your cheek was on his shoulder now, gazing towards the side of his kitchen where his empty fridge was. "Don't think I should stay," you mumbled quietly.

"Too late. You're here now," he replied, now deciding that it was the right moment to pull back before you did, completely.

His hands drifted to your hips, helping you off the counter, and then he grabbed the sandwich and set it on a plate. "Eat."

And then he wandered away to his room, hoping that he'd find something warm enough for you. It seemed like right now there was nothing warm enough. Not even he was warm enough for you. Looking through his closet, he managed to find one of the few long-sleeved shirts he had.

Everything else was clothes for work. He didn't have much interest in buying things for himself. He didn't like to think about why, that he didn't deem it necessary, that he didn't want his home to pile up with things, in case one day he didn't come home.

His hand tightened around the fabric, tearing it off the hanger before he trudged back into the kitchen, heart squeezing at the sight of you pressing what seemed to be the third piece into your mouth as you stared into nothing.

"Here. This will keep you warm." Jack held out the long-sleeved shirt, and you raised an eyebrow, taking another piece of the sandwich.

"That's big," you mumbled around a bite.

He huffed. "Well, yeah sweetheart, it's mine."

You shot him a look, not appreciating the condescending tone, but he just shot you a grin and you shook your head. "Hand's greasy." you mumbled.

You turned your back to him and he quickly got the idea. 

Carefully setting his shirt on the counter, he reached for the fabric of yours. You raised your arms and let him help you out of the soft pink cotton. He didn't dare glance anywhere, keeping his eyes locked on his own black shirt. If you were okay, right now, with being vulnerable, he wasn't going to take advantage of it, even if he had a feeling you wanted to.

He helped you into the shirt, his eyes still not lingering anywhere inappropriate, and let it swallow you whole.

When you turned, he carefully extricated your hair from your collar, letting it drape over your back, while you continued to watch him with lifeless eyes. Or you would have liked to be looking at him with lifeless eyes. In reality, you were torn. You knew you were being weird. Pulling away, but then reaching for him again.

You realized, with a startle, how awful you were being, how mean, how selfish. You looked at your plate, seeing the small bites and then wordlessly turned to the sink, washing your hands off the grease, washing them off of anything that was Jack.

You needed to get out of here.

When you turned, the apology was ready. "I'm sorry." you shook your head, toying with the edge of the sleeve of his shirt. "I—I'm being a lot right now." you said quietly. "And I—"

But Jack was already shaking his head, reaching for your hands and pulling you towards him, right into his chest.

"Hey, none of that." he mumbled, fingers reaching up to brush your hair out of your face, while his other hand remained around your waist, keeping you close to him. "You're not being a lot. And I want you here."

He shot you an almost disappointed look for thinking the opposite and then brushed a thumb under your eye as if making sure you didn't cry while he had been grabbing the shirt. You didn't.

"But—as difficult as this is— we need to talk." He continued on quietly, in the same low voice, and he felt you freeze up under his hand. As if it was a surprise to you, like you hadn't known the moment the words I'm in love with you had stumbled out of your mouth, that the two of you needed to talk.

His palm remained on your cheek as he waited for any sort of compliance or agreement and it took a while. Your eyes bore into his shirt as you stood there silently, before turning your head, eyes glancing back at the plate, sorrow clouding your features again.

"Hey." Jack used a small amount of strength to pull your face back to him, tapping his index finger against your skin. "I'm serious," he added quietly, and for a second he thought about saying it, saying the words plain out loud that he was in love with you more than you'd think, but you were like a deer, and he was terrified that at the smallest sound of affection you'd run away.

"I know you are," you mumbled, and he had to suppress a smile at your petulant sound.

"Okay then," he replied, trying to sound cheery. "I'd like to take you out on a date."

Your face fell completely, the color draining out of it and Jack realized this was going to be much harder than he expected.

Not in the way you feared it to be, no.

He had no problem convincing you of his love for you. The hard part was having to watch you be this much in pain. The only reason, the only doubt lingering in the back of his mind, was that he wasn't sure he could watch you go through so many cycles of sadness because of him. It made him feel selfish, made him think that maybe he was doing this for himself, to not be so lonely.

But with one look at your pretty face, he knew it wasn't true. He wanted you. When he looked at you, he didn't think about the ways his house might sound less empty, and his thoughts less frigthening.

He just wanted you in his house. He just wanted you around. He just wanted you.

"Need a response, pretty girl," he said quietly, tilting your head to catch your eyes, and you graciously let him. Your pretty eyes lifted to meet his.

He brushed a thumb over your cheek, encouraging you for a response and it worked. "Where?" you whispered.

And he smiled softly, knowing in the back of his mind to not take it as encouragement, you were still too hesitant. "A real expensive restaurant, that has all the sorts and types of pasta you like." He smiled softly, tilting your head up just for a fraction, so your eyes met his properly, so that he was your entire view. "Even has tiramisu."

Your lips twitched. "When?"

Going through W-questions, he realized. "Whenever you want," he twirled a hair strand around his finger, now realizing again that he was touching you. Really touching you and you seemed to like it.

He brushed with the pad of his thumb over your hair. Soft. He had expected it to feel like this. His hand on your waist wandered under your shirt, under the pretense that he was checking your temperature, but he knew he was lying to himself. He just wanted to touch you.

You seemed to be warmer than before, not yet warm, but not as cold as before.

You nodded slowly and on you went to the last W-question. "Why?"

Jack squeezed your waist gently. "Because I like you." A frown formed on your face and Jack knew why. Tapping his index finger against your temple, he added in a quiet voice. "Don't think you're ready to hear it yet."

The form turned into the expression of someone who knew they'd been caught. You wanted to hear the same words you'd uttered in the car earlier, but Jack knew you better. The confession would make you feel better temporarily before the fear caught up with you and you would crumble. And despite how the word pushed against the tip of his tongue, how his heart seemed to be bursting at the seams, wanting to just say the words and have you finally acknowledge them, he knew the disaster would be much worse.

You hummed, the only way you'd agree, before shuffling your feet on the floor, and he knew you wanted to get closer without actually making the first step. So he pressed his hand firmer into your waist, pulling you in, until your forehead hit his chest and then your cheek. You tilted your head until your cheek laid against his racing heartbeat. He felt your exhale against his body, and your fingers curling into fists at your sides, desperate not to cling onto him, and he let you have that last piece of resistance.

His chin rested against the top of your head as he brushed a hand over your back.

"What are you scared of honey? Hmm?" he mumbled, letting his lips linger in your hair even as you burrowed closer, trying to hide from both the question and the answer. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, deciding to just lay it out in the open. If you weren't going to talk he would.

"Can't know that." you muffled against his chest.

"Yeah, I can," he replied, pressing you closer as if to prove it.

"No, you can't," you mumbled, trying not to take too much pleasure in the way his fingers were untangling the knots in your hair.

He sighed, lifting his head to stare up at the ceiling as if praying for the universe to finally make you listen to him for once in your life.

You leaned back, eyes lifting to his face. "You're annoyed," you stated, trying your best to disguise the hurt that was trying to creep into your voice.

"Thought you knew me better than that," he mumbled, fingers drifting to the waistband of your pants, letting it snap against your hip, and you let out a small "Ouch Jack!" before he shot you a grin. "Not annoyed," he finally said. "Just unsure how to make you believe me."

"I won't," you stared at him, as if it was silly that he thought that you would in the first place.

"Why?" and finally he got tired, tired of standing for this long. He dropped his hands, reaching out to grip yours instead and lead you to the bedroom.

"Because—there's no guarantee that you won't hurt me. You can't know. It's all empty promises." You hesitated at the bedroom door, but then curiosity took over as you stepped in.

Jack didn't plan on asking you to stay over in his bed, because he knew your response would be no. He pushed the covers away, ushering you into the bed, and you sat there silently, before mumbling something about not wanting to sleep in jeans, trying to ignore the fact that he still hadn't replied yet.

He reached for some boxers in his closet, handing them to you, and you walked into the adjoining bathroom.

"It might seem like empty promises to you," you heard through the door as you carefully folded the jeans. "But they won't be," he added, trying to put as much care into his words as possible.

He knew it was more than important to watch his words now. Everything could be too much or not enough for you right now, and he wanted to be neither.

You came out of the bathroom, standing in front of him like a wet puppy, drowning in his clothes. "Jack—" you whispered, and he smiled sadly, already aware of what you were going to say.

He knew you like the back of his hand, and you wished oh so desperately that he didn't.

You didn't fish the sentence. It doesn't matter what you say, I won't believe you.

"Get into bed," he ordered quietly.

You followed without a word as he guided you onto the soft mattress with a hand on your back, and settled against the headboard.

"Scoot over ,pretty," he added, and you did until you were in the middle of the bed, watching him join you, settling against the headboard, but not without bending down and getting rid of the prosthetic. He settled the metal against the bed, before letting out a sigh of relief, finally resting against the headboard.

"Were you in pain the entire time?" you asked, startled over the fact that his face had taken on a relieved expression.

"No," he lied, and he felt the stiffness in your body at the response.

You knew he was lying.

Maybe you were able to read him better than he thought. At least when your insecurities weren't clouding your judgment.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, clearly not fond of what he had done.

Setting his pain aside to take care of yours.

He always did this, and he wasn't sure how to fix it either. He just worked like that. Fixing other people's pain was easier than fixing his.

His arm stretched out until it was behind your waist, and then he drew you in slowly. He was relieved to hear no protest from you, no push back, no nothing. Just like in the kitchen, you wanted him to touch you, you just didn't want to be the one reaching out. He pulled you in until you were right under his arm, having no choice but to rest your hand on his chest.

"I can't promise you I won't make any mistakes ever," he mumbled against the top of your head. "But I can swear that I'll try not to."

Your fingers bunched his shirt under your fingers, and you lifted your head to look into his eyes, his pretty hazel earnest eyes. You stared and stared and then smiled weakly.

"I know," you whispered and squeezed your eyes shut, and then you decided.

This was as bad as it would get.

You could see in his eyes how desperately he wanted you, and the panic coursed through your veins, making you squirm in his arms for a second. But you knew it would be there nonetheless, whether he would be in the ER far away, or here, promising to always take care of you.

So why not just tell him? It wouldn't get any scarier or easier.

You sat up slowly, and then, before Jack knew it, you were settled in his lap. It startled him, you could see it in the way his eyes widened before keeping his composure, clearly trying not to showcase too much happiness, to not scare you off that he was taking this moment as something.

"I like you—I like you a lot," you said quietly, and Jack's heart squeezed once again upon hearing the words. He could hear them again and again and never get sick of them. "But—this is scary for me," you whispered. "I don't want to get hurt, and you can't promise me you won't. There's always going to be some way for you to accidentally hurt me or do something I wont like. And there are so many easy ways to hurt me, Jack," you whispered. "And I leave. When I get hurt, I leave. And I don't want to leave you."

Ah.

Jack was at a loss of words. He hadn't expected that to be the answer to everything. That you were so scared of being hurt that your real fear was that you would be led to do something irrational, something that would hurt you even more in return than the initial thing.

"I like being with you," you mumbled quietly. "And I know myself. I know that if I ever get scared, that I'll leave, and I won't come back."

One tear managed to escape and Jack brushed it away with his thumb, before letting his hands go back to your hips, his boxers.

"And I'm not easy to deal with," you let out a small laugh. "Obviously," you gestured at the two of you. "I'm an exhausting person to be around and no one wants to be around someone they're constantly worried about hurting." You were now toying with the fabric of his shirt, toying with a loose strand.

Jack watched your fingers, before slowly taking your hand in his. "I want to." he replied in the same quiet voice. "I want to be around you."

Your eyelashes fluttered at that, as if exposing the very thing you were trying to cover up with your words. "But I leave. I'm someone who leaves," You whispered. "And you—you try so hard to not be alone, and I'm going to—I'm going to be the reason you'll be alone." Another tear escaped and Jack was devastated at the sight of it.

You were worried about him?

He would take every ounce of loneliness and heartbreak just at the idea of being able to have you in his arms. Even if it was one night, even if it was just tonight.

"You don't have to worry about me, sweetheart," he mumbled, sitting up straighter, mindful of the way you were in his lap. He wanted to face you properly even if the cost of that was the sight of your glistening eyes.

"Can't help it. You make it hard not to," you replied quietly, biting your lip, suppressing the shakiness of it all.

And you were right. He had made it hard on you. He got shot at in his free time, he went to the roof at least once a month, and he didn't sleep and worked too much. How could you not worry about him?

He felt the guilt flash across his face, and his mouth set in a hard line, realizing the weight you'd been carrying all because of him.

"I didn't mean—I didn't mean to make you feel bad. This isn't—" you pressed a palm over your mouth, trying to gather the words. "Jack, this just—this won't work." You finally managed out under more tears, and both hands were now clinging onto him, gripping his shirt tightly.

"We haven't even tried," he replied breathless, worried he was losing you, worried he was ruining something that he was trying to fix.

"We shouldn't." You shook your head as if to confirm again that you were right about this.

"I want to," he finally said, hoping that maybe if he was selfish you'd let him.

"You shouldn't," you replied, even more sad.

It was getting tiring to watch the heartbreak unfold in your face all because of him. It had always been so important to him to protect you, to protect you from horrible patients, nasty attendings and hurtful comments.

Yet here he was.

"Sorry to disappoint sweetheart," he whispered, brushing a hand over your thigh, his thumb halting on a scar there, brushing over it gently.

Your eyes snapped down to the scar, watching him touch the scar tenderly and your eyes hung on the way his eyebrows furrowed as if he was experiencing the moment when you received the scar. It had just been a small fall of a skateboard when you were ten, trying to be like the cool girls on TV. No big deal, yet Jack touched it like it happened recently.

You watched the way his curls fell over his forehead, how tired he looked, but how the determination just wouldn't leave his face. He wasn't letting this go anytime soon.

"Jack," you whispered. "I'm serious."

He looked up, and he looked prettier than he had ever before, and you almost came to regret the decision you were making until he spoke. "I'm in love with you."

He brushed a hand over your scar, and you shivered, both at the tender touch and the words. You hated how your heart fluttered, how you wanted to just fall into his arms and never leave his lap again. But this was all scary. Terrifying, you felt nauseous as the words bounced around in your head. I'm in love with you.

Jack Abbot was in love with you.

"And I want to try," he said quietly. "And if I hurt you— if you leave— I'll be here. I'll wait for you."

Your eyes flickered across his face, as if it was some joke. The nausea tripled as you stared at him. You weren't sure how he'd found the exact words you'd looked for all your life, the words that managed to balm the wound that was so deep-rooted in your soul, you knew it was never going to be fixed. And you knew that if you got up from his lap, the bubble would burst. The words wouldn't seem as comforting as they did now. But still, you couldn't resist.

"What if I never come back?" you whispered, worried that this would make him take his words back completely, tell you some excuse about how he'll wait for a month or two.

"Then I'll just love you from afar," he replied, his hazel eyes meeting yours. "And I'll keep waiting."

Jack had hope that you'd come back. He knew you'd leave. He knew he wasn't perfect. He knew he'd hurt you. He was someone who hurt by trying to do the exact opposite.

But he knew you'd come back. He just knew.

And maybe you knew too, sensed that your soul would always be tethered to his in some way, that some invisible string would always pull you back to Jack Abbot.

"Okay," you whispered, and you let yourself fall into his arms and into the dark abyss you had always been so scared of.

You hoped it was as warm and comforting as Jack's arms were.

[mcybank]

oh my gosh oh my god so sweeeet Sweeeet i’m insanely obsessed with this - this is just so tender in Every way in all the little details

literally made me Tear Up so much they are hauntingggg each other in every thing they do without the title WHAT DO YOU MEAN

"... I know that if I ever get scared, that I'll leave, and I won't come back... I'm an exhausting person to be around and no one wants to be around someone they're constantly worried about hurting." You were now toying with the fabric of his shirt, toying with a loose strand.

your words are SO beautiful you capture everything so so well and it’s all so palpable and i love how so much is shown about their dynamic because the thing she does to protect herself suddenly isn’t safe anymore because she cares so much like omg

"Then I'll just love you from afar," he replied, his hazel eyes meeting yours. "And I'll keep waiting."

firstly you are SICK for this!! also i love how jack doesn’t magically fix her fears - they both feel so real - and that he’s so respectful and Sweet throughout it all

this fic is so observant and intimate i’m so in love with this your mind is so beautiful

[mcybank]

Say Cheese! – Jack Abbot

pairing – jack abbot x fem!reader

summary – winding jack up all through date night earns you a one-way ticket to the doghouse. a photobooth at midnight gives jack the perfect place to get you back for it!

warnings – [ wc: 3.8k ] 18+ MINORS DNI! fingering, brat tamer!jack, brat!reader who’s slightly insufferable to jack at the beginning, reader’s wearing a silk dress, grinding/dry humping, thumb in mouth, semi-public/public intimacy (photobooth on an empty street!), jack’s got a mouth on him, hair-pulling, light degradation, sex while under the influence (consensual!), established relationship dynamics, soft-dom/dom!jack

notes – this is basically part of the controversially young gf!reader universe but it got a lotttt longer so i just thought i should make it a oneshot

You’d been a pest all throughout dinner. It was awful, and you and Jack both knew it was intentional. You’d sank down five glasses of red with your alfredo, cooing by the third one that Jack was just so amazing, running your foot slowly up the inside of his calf under the table while you said it. The fine wool of his trousers was warm under your bare arch, and you felt the muscle beneath it tighten. So handsome and hot and grumpy, how you couldn’t wait until the two of you got home to see it all, you’d said, loud enough that the elderly couple beside you had glanced over, and Jack had shot you a glare over the rim of his class that did the opposite of ceasing you.

Fuck, you’d been wrong. You’d stolen forkfuls of his plate. You’d found a dozen flimsy excuses to lean across the table, every one of them cover to let the champagne silk of your neckline fall low, watching his gaze drop and stay. A flush had climbed up his neck at the sight of the swell of your breasts underneath and you took such immense satisfaction watching how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Poor Jack, always so composed and now losing it at this Italian joint. Your hair became a little tousled because you kept sweeping it back off your shoulder to expose the line of your throat. You kept leaning in close so the candlelight caught the gloss on your mouth, your tongue peeking out slightly as you tried to catch the wine at the corner of your lip.

He’d hooked his good leg around yours at one point, a pained and warning smile on his face, when you let a strap fall loosely off your shoulder, and said, “Asking for one nice dinner with my girl.” 

“S’this not nice?” you’d asked, frowning, your lips jutting out so sweetly. 

“It’s really nice.” He reached over and tugged your strap up onto your shoulder, knuckles dragging down your bicep once it was fixed, gooseflesh chasing the graze of them. “It’d be nicer if you’d sit still for two minutes.” 

“I’ve missed you,” you murmured, because you had. 

It was almost embarrassing how badly you’d wanted to simply push him onto the bed once you were both ready; your stomach coiling as you watched him spritz on the cologne you liked and roll his sleeves. You’d sat on the edge of the mattress in your robe, watching him. And then he’d told you that your makeup looked just so pretty, how the night was going to be so much fun, and you’d realized there was no way you were going to last through this dinner. 

You’d been starved of him the past week, practically living on scraps of him. You had a feeling Jack knew exactly how much you’d missed him. You weren’t sure what hint you’d ever given him that made him think you were going to play fair.

“Missed you, too,” he said, thumb finding your wrist on the table. “That’s why we’re here. Missed you so much I got us to the place you’ve been goin’ on about for a month. You can do all this at home.” 

Wine-fueled and pouty, you said, “Should’ve just stayed home.” 

“You’re complaining about being taken to the hardest reservation in the city?” Jack’s brows went up to the middle of his forehead and he set his fork down. When you opened your mouth, he shook his head and said, “No. No. You’re right. Should’ve done the couch. Saved myself a fortune.” 

That may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, because now, you were walking beside Jack – past midnight – trying to find a dessert shop in silence. He’d indulged you when you quietly, hesitantly, asked him if you guys could get something else after trying the tiramisu, which had been – you’d whispered it – kind of dry, actually. His jaw had tensed, and he’d nodded quickly and said, “Sure,” reaching for the check, “let’s get you somethin’ else.” 

Your heels clicked too loud on the pavement and Jack was a half-step ahead of you the whole way, hands buried in his pockets, so silent. He wasn’t holding your hand, and Jack was a hand-holder through and through. A small-of-the-back toucher. A man who steered you like a wheel through the world. And now, it felt like a very, very painful punishment he was doling out on you. 

“Are you mad?” you tried. 

“No,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder without looking. “Looking for your dessert.” 

“You could hold my hand,” you said, and hated just how small you sounded. “Jack,” you tried again when his hands stayed exactly where they were. “Are you going to talk to me?” 

“When you’ve got somethin’ to say,” he said, shaking his head with a small click of his tongue at a closed bakery. “There’s a place two blocks up that stays open late.”

Two fucking blocks. Your heels clicked, and his footsteps stayed silent. You let the gap between you stretch – a foot, then another, as you slowed and he didn’t – until you were trailing him down an empty midnight street. Groaning to yourself, you bit the bullet, speeding up to catch up to him properly. You slid your hand into the crook of his elbow and pressed yourself into his side, tucking your cheek toward his shoulder. 

“Sorry, Jack,” you mumbled. 

He breathed out through his nostrils, pulling his hand out of his pocket to maneuver it around you now, pulling you in. Still tense, but the relief of being by his side was so immense you sagged against him, still wine-drunk and loose. 

“Woah – ” he muttered, trying to catch you as you tipped into him, your heel skidding a little on the pavement. His arm clamped tightly around your waist, hauling you upright to his side before you could go anywhere, and he huffed out a small laugh. “Who told you to drink this much?” 

“Was trying to match you,” you mumbled. 

“Now, that’s stupid, isn’t it?” He patted the side of your waist once. “Gotta take care of you now. Wound me up all through a nice dinner ‘cause you wanted my attention and couldn’t ask nicely. Congratulations, you got me.”

“You’re being kind of mean,” you mumbled, tucking into his shirt.

“Not getting you out of the doghouse, so don’t try it.” 

“I’m in the doghouse?” you asked, surprised. 

“Oh, you’re in the doghouse,” he said, chuckling, steering you around a crack in the pavement. “Forget brunch and the whole big day we planned tomorrow. We’re on house arrest.” 

You squeaked out something incoherent. “How do I get out of the doghouse –?” Your words trailed off, when your eyes landed on the photobooth – wedged into an alcove between a laundromat and a corner store, a curtained one with the pale blue fabric hanging crooked, its light still buzzing faintly. It was like a star in a cloudy sky to you, your body perking up at his side, feet slowing as the wanting rose brightly, childishly. 

But you were in the doghouse, so you made your lips clamp shut. You’d be surprised if Jack ever did an outside-activity with you ever again, much less indulged a wine-drunk detour into a novelty photobooth this late. You were pretty sure you’d used up your whole allotment of Jack’s patience when you’d stood up on the pretense of the ladies’ room and instead leaned over to whisper something dirty in his ear as the waiter arrived with the entrées. Somewhere in the gauntlet, Jack’s amusement had faded and you were now, a little too late, sure you were the worst, most ungrateful girlfriend ever. 

So you did the hardest thing ever: you said nothing. You looked at it like you were a kid looking at a toy in a shop window – doomed – and you dragged your gaze forward to keep your feet moving. 

Jack, whose open book you were, read the longing off you in an instant. “No.” 

“Didn’t say anything,” you mumbled.

He got four steps forward before he paused, craning his neck down to look at you nuzzled into him. His arm tightened around your waist, and you had a feeling that this time, it was more exasperation toward himself. 

“What is wrong with you?” he mumbled. “You don’t want a picture with me?” 

“I do,” you said, immediately, through a sharp breath. Your shoulders stiffened at your sides. “But I’m in the doghouse.” 

Jack let out a laugh at that, disbelieving. He turned, so the two of you stood across properly, chest to chest, and his face dipped down toward yours. “You know you can ask me for it.” 

Your hands came up to fist at the fabric above his chest. “Can we take a picture?” 

He took his time, eyes dropping from your face, down your throat, lingering on the silk covering just more than a third of you, how the fabric clung and skimmed and gave everything away. Your brows furrowed in suspicion when his tongue quickly dragged over his bottom lip. 

“Why, yes, we can.” His hand slid up your spine as he leaned down to press his mouth against your forehead. “Can’t have you this dolled up and nothin’ to show for it.” 

He pushed the crooked curtain aside and held it, nodding his head for you to go in first, and you ducked into the little box. It was three feet with a lightbulb as the screen flickered awake to throw its glow across the two of you. Jack folded his frame down onto the single stool with a low grunt, one hand bracing against the wall, taking the weight off the prosthesis, settling back against the metal. He worked the ache out of his thigh with the heel of his palm before he spread his knees wide enough that it took up the entire square footage of the space. 

You stood in the vee of them, hemmed in, and looked down at him. His knee bracketed you in, the walls an inch off your shoulders, the heat of them crowding out the air outside. 

Your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you watched him thumb through his wallet. He glanced up at you through his lashes as he counted coins into his palm, heavy-lidded, a slow curve pulling at his mouth, and he looked suddenly, thoroughly, indecent. He placed the coins into your open palm, then gestured to the slot. 

When you turned to feed the coins and leaned down slightly, Jack’s palms came to the sides of your thighs, sliding up to go up to your bare skin under the dress, and he let out a pleased hum. 

“This is a nice view,” he murmured, his thumbs pressed to the side of your hips before he turned his palm to squeeze the globes of your ass. “Take your time there.” 

His hands filled themselves with no hurry at all, kneading slow, palming you like he’d also been waiting all night for you to shed the layer off your skin. 

You let out a small fuck as the quarter hit the slot and clattered somewhere on the floor. 

“Butterfingers,” he mused, palms sliding up from the curve of your ass, dragging the dress up until it bunched up around your waist, exposing the tiny black lace pair you’d picked out before dinner. 

Before you could say anything, his mouth pressed over the base of your spine, letting out an appreciative hum into your skin. You’d chosen it for this reason, only you hadn’t expected it to be revealed in a shitty photobooth. You hardly had time to think about dignity, or anything dignity-adjacent, because Jack blew out a long breath that ghosted over your skin while pulling away, and his thumb hooked into the delicate band at your hip and snapped it along your skin. 

“Maybe we shoulda stayed home,” he muttered. 

“Thought you wanted a nice dinner,” you said, palm bracing flat to the wall as you tipped your head down, having no space to spread out. 

He clicked his tongue, letting his hands go greedy, spreading his palms wide over the bare curves of your ass. “S’my fault for thinking my girl wants to be wine and dined.” He gave a pointed squeeze, humming delighted as your back arched in response. “No, this is all you wanted.”

On any other day, you would’ve – you were sure of it – had some quick thing to fire back at him, some retort to keep the game going. But the calluses in Jack’s palm were kneading slowly, the roughened skin catching the softness of you with each pass, and the friction of it scattered every thought you’d ever had. His hands were so functional – so broad, innately warm, scarred at the knuckles – and they moved over you so achingly slowly, and the wit just drained straight out of you and pooled right about where your dress was shamelessly resting on his wrists. 

The box had gone humid, the air thick with the warm cedar of him and the wine, your breath fogging on the glass every time you exhaled. You managed to shove a coin in with wobbly hands, determined – for what? You didn’t know. 

“Hey, look at that. Cat finally got your tongue.” He let one of his palms drift down, finger reaching out testingly where the damp fabric sat between your legs, tracing one feather-light stroke along the lace, and your knees buckled slightly, your head pressing against the cool, glowing glass of the screen, your reflection – completely undignified – swimming an inch from your face while his breath fanned against your back. “This the off switch for your mouth now?” 

“Jack–” Your hips went to chase the touch before you could think better of it. 

His hand went to splay wide and heavy over your hip, pulling you back slightly closer to hold you steady as your legs shook. His other finger hooked the lace aside – one blunt finger easing the sodden fabric out of the way – and pressed the pad of his thumb through the bare, slick heat. You let out an embarrassed whimper, teeth digging into your lips as your eyes pinched shut. 

“Did all this to yourself thinkin’ about me at dinner while I was right across from you, huh?” 

Letting out a low groan, he dragged you back in one motion, tumbling you into the sprawl of his lap. His arm wrapped around your waist to hold you right there, and he ground you down against him, so fucking mean with it, slow and fast all at once, so you felt every inch of two hours’ worth of tormenting him pressed against your legs, the blunt drag that made you chase more, more, more.

His free hand slid beneath your thigh, fingers digging the soft crease on the inside of your thigh, and pulled it outward, patting your skin once. “Open up.” 

He rolled his hips up when you did, and your eyes snagged on the screen in front of you, catching your faces from the neck-up. His head tipped back against the metal wall, hands sliding up under the silk bunched at your waist, up over the bare plane of your stomach, and closed over your breasts, palming them full and greedy – the band of his watch a shock of metal against the warm underswell of you – as his thumbs grazed over the hardened peaks until you arched back into him with a broken sound. 

“Jack,” you said, trying to force a hiss as you looked down, noticing how your dress had bunched into nothing but a few inches of fabric sitting shamelessly over his forearms like a tiny towel. “Someone could walk in –” 

“Mhm – they could, couldn’t they?” His chin fell onto your shoulder to watch your face on the screen. His tongue dragged over his lips before his mouth found the shell of your ear. “Someone could see my pretty girl fallin’ apart on my lap.” He shifted his hips forward, pressing against your core with a groan. “Wanna take the risk?” 

Your teeth gritted together as you tried to focus on him, focus on the screen, focus on his hands that had seemed to already have done a clean sweep of your entire body. “Thought I was –” you started, and his brows furrowed in amusement, “in the doghouse.” 

“Oh, you are.” He slid his fingers back down, bumping his hip against yours to slide his fingers down the lace, thumb finding your aching and circling it. “You love it here, too.” 

“I don’t–”

“No?” he drawled, thumb circling while his teeth nipped at your throat. “Coulda fooled me.” He let his fingers drift down, the pads of them gliding through the slick heat you’d made for him until two fingers pressed against your entrance while his thumb rubbed over your clit. The lace was now clinging in a dark, translucent patch against your inner thigh. He tapped his fingers against your entrance. “You’re soaked for me, baby. I could slide right in here.” 

You let out a small whimper at the words, and like you’d done a magic trick for him with the sound, his fingers sank deep in one broken press until his knuckles rested against you. On the screen, you watched your own mouth fall open, watched how he smiled against your throat like he’d won something. 

He curled his fingers, dragging them over a spot that made your whole body seize in Jack’s cage, the sound following was filthy enough to make the entire booth feel smaller. His smile widened, and he pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss right under your ear. 

“Got myself such a pretty girl,” he murmured into your skin, the lower half of his face nuzzling into the flush emanating off your neck. He kept dragging his fingers in you, always knowing your body better than you knew yourself, until your thighs trembled against his. 

He shifted behind you, free hand pressing flat between your shoulder blades, folding you forward until your palms hit the glowing glass of the screen and your spine curved down.

“Hold there,” he rasped, the new angle somehow driving his fingers deeper. “Attagirl.” 

Your eyes flickered up to catch him on the screen as he worked his shirt open one-handed, thumbing the buttons loose. The fabric fell away from the broad stretch of his chest, exposed in the wash of the screen, and you watched him move behind your own reflection with your breath picking up. 

“See somethin’ you like?” His hand gathered a fistful of your hair and tugged, drawing you up back against him in one motion. Your spine hit the heat of his chest, the sweat sticking to you, and your head tipped back. “Got warm in here,” he said, smiling when you tried to press even closer to him.

Your hand awkwardly reached up to his neck, manicured nails raking up the hot column of it, scraping through the short hairs at his nape and holding on for life as everything in you wound tighter, brighter, and turned completely unbearable. “M’close,” you said, words slurring together, and your head nuzzled the side of his face. 

“Aw,” he cooed softly, fingers continuing their rhythm. “S’that what that is?” He curved them inside you pointedly, and you bit down a sound. His thumb pressed into making quick, merciless circles. “That why you’re squeezing my fingers, huh? Spoilt girl.” 

When you pulled at his hair, he tsked, amused, and brought his free hand up to wrap loosely around the front of your throat, thumb resting against at the hinge of your jaw, dropping your head back against his shoulder where he wanted it. His thumb, pressed at the corner of your mouth, and your mouth just felt so empty, so achingly unoccupied, so you turned your head and drew it in – the blunt salt-and-soap of him, slightly rough against your tongue – and the weight of it in your mouth settled the frantic-ness in you, gave your restless want somewhere to wrap. 

Jack’s face in the reflection had gone hooded, brows drawing in together at the sight. His pupils swallowed the last of the color from his hazel eyes as his jaw clenched. His hips rolled helplessly beneath you. 

His thumb pressed down onto your tongue, forcing your mouth open, then dragged his thumb along your bottom lip, pressed it back in, out, and every second your throat worked around a sound or your lashes fluttered at the overwhelm of him, his fingers stuttered still buried in you. 

And fuck, the relentless attention of Jack tipped something in you. You’d spent all night starving for exactly this – his eyes, his focus, all of it aimed at you, selfishly – and now you had it completely that it made you drunk in a way the drinks hadn’t managed.

“I think you like watching us,” you said around the shape of his thumb. 

He chuckled, and his thumb slipped from your mouth to trace along your jaw, tilting your face just so, and his lips curved into a crooked smile. 

“No, I think I like you,” he said, fingers still working you through the peak. His mouth pressed to your temple. “Love you.” 

“Jack,” you said through a small, cracked whimper. You almost hated how he could do that, how easy it was for him to reach past with two plain words and disarm you so thoroughly. You turned your face to nose against his jaw, greedy for him. “Love you, so much. Even when you’re mean.”

He laughed at that, fingers moving your jaw so you could face the screen again. “So mean to you, huh.” He tilted his head in the reflection, amused as he watched your face scrunch up. “Looks like you’re suffering real bad.” 

He pulled his fingers out of you completely, and they came away slick. He dragged them up over your clit in one small smear, then pushed back in almost as quickly as they were gone. 

Your hips ground down into the heel of his hand, chasing that unbearable brightness winding tighter and tighter behind your stomach. And Jack, watching you on the screen with such naked curiosity, chose the exact moment to reach with his free hand and jab his thumb against the plastic of the machine. 

Your eyes, hazy, barely caught the countdown on the screen. Behind it, your head was lolled against the crook of his shoulder, throat damp with sweat, your mouth slack and parted, the hints of gloss coating your lips and around. Jack’s jaw shadowed your temple, his eyes hooded with pupils blown out, fixed on your reflection, one hand a clear hard line where it disappeared beneath the dress bunched underneath. A loving couple, from the collar up. A postcard, and below the frame, his fingers buried deep, your lace panties shoved aside, and his whole length straining against his pants and rubbing into you.

The countdown blinked, and Jack’s fingers curled for the final few pumps so knowingly, your vision had started going white at the edges.

“C’mon, baby. Give the camera somethin’ good,” he whispered. “All it can see is you lookin’ like my fucking angel.”

[mcybank]

Fired, With Love – Jack Abbot

⊹ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ⊹ summary: you have a mean jealousy streak, and jack’s favorite hobby is to set it off. when he mentions an ex, he figures he’s in for a good morning. for the first time, he takes it too far. ⊹ warnings: [ wc: 15k ] angst – Lots of it im sorry but it gets resolved! hurt/comfort but it’s very obvious (i hope!) that they love each other. established relationship, age gap. insecurity spiral (age gap related), jack’s got a made-up ex named diane but she never appears on page, reader’s having a Sucky morning; she’s also a little spiral-y, very self-deprecating thoughts (jealousy, comparison, fear of not being enough in relationship), she isolates, cries in the shower, jack messes up and Immediately Knows and is making up for it, mutual fears, they are very healthy communicators eventually, jack and reader are really really obsessed with each other, jack grovels + Hey did you know this was going to be a short fic ⊹ notes: writing this felt like giving birth!!! spent hours and hours and hours on it bc i couldn’t stop writing them thank you SO much for this request! a LOT longer than i intended buut it was so much fun to write + i’ve never been in an age-gap relationship but i imagine This exact thing would fix me !! i literally have a big fat crush on this - also probs one of the last longfics i’ll be able to write in such a short time bc i’m going back to school soon :/

Last month, Jack had ran himself into the ground trying to make sure you understood that there was no mystery woman on his phone. It’d lit up with a text from an unknown number – a scammer, really, trying to paint the picture of a generous human, taking advantage of his old age ‘Hello! It has been forever! Do you still have this number, Jack Abbot? – and Jack had spent one beautiful, incandescent hour being investigated. It’d felt like being back in the military, if he was being honest. He’d last been interrogated like this at a desert, and the girl was clearly better at it, because he’d happily surrendered his phone, his passcode, his call log, and his theory of the crime.

( “It’s a scam, baby. They take advantage of the old guys. But check for any women. You’re only gonna find yourself in there.” ) 

He’d watched you bite down on a smile as you tried to keep the act going, and Jack had fed you all truths ( that he’d picked up once, stupidly, and someone asked him for his SSN; they didn’t know what a smart man he was; that he loved you, and only you; that the scammers may have the number, but only you got the man; that his passcode was your birthday, which you’d known, which you’d set ) and you’d recieved each one, nodding, refusing to let the corners of your mouth win. 

( “You’re being charming,” you said to him, sternly. “It won’t work.” / “No, ma’am.” / “It’s working a little.” / “I know, ma’am,” he said, grinning. )

Then, you’d finally decided with reluctance that he was, in fact, “Free to go,” after making note of how scammers are becoming immensely mean, using buzzwords for people Jack’s age. “Forever,” you’d repeated, now disgusted on his behalf. “Who sends that to a veteran? That’s a targeted word. I should report the number.” 

If he was honest, the least your jealousy had shown that week. Jack had never considered himself to be a ‘get an inch, take a mile’ sort of man. Decades your senior, he’d figured himself past the age where he took liberties. He asked before he took; he gave more than he got; he was, by every account, a reasonable man. You’d made a liar of him. He’d become crazy, had started finding childlike joy in small trouble; the sort a boy makes by poking a hive with a stick, except the hive was you and the stings brought him immense satisfaction. Each one, after all, was proof that somebody in this world considered him worth protecting and keeping tucked to themselves.

And you were crazier. Not about him – well. Also about him. But crazier as a baseline condition, a factory setting. You’d woken him at three in the morning by sliding one of his eyelids open with your thumb because you’d dreamt that he was texting another woman and needed to check his phone while the wound was still fresh. He’d handed his phone over, half-blind, and you’d scrolled through it sitting on his stomach. When you found nothing, you’d flopped down onto his chest and gone straight back to sleep. 

It was, frankly, a lot of crazy to be on the receiving end of, and Jack – who’d spent much too long being the most even-keeled, unbothered man in most situations – had taken one look at your little feral devotion pointed square at him and thought that yes, he wants in on all of that.

He would gladly take that your whole storm wrapped up in a package, had done just that, and was not planning on letting go. 

Being loved by you was full-contact, hands-on, and all consuming. You bit and you climbed him on the kitchen while he was holding hot pans; you pulled his face around by the jaw when you decided his attention wandered. He let you, always, going soft-eyed and pliant the second your hands landed on him, and had long ago stopped pretending otherwise. 

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had his moments, especially when it came to his girlfriend. He was, in all senses of the word, protective over you.

He’d known enough men – had been a different man through each decade – to know that you in the wrong hands would have ruined someone, like you had him.

He’d considered himself lucky to have your devotion – a thing so pure, presented with such ferocity – pointed at him. The thought of it being pointed at someone else made him sick simply because he knew how difficult it was to not fall in love with your claws. He knew how it felt to have you scruff him by the collar and inspect him for another woman’s perfume that even you knew did not exist, how it felt to be counted and guarded and kept, and he knew there was no single man alive who could feel that and walk away sane.

He’d take a bullet before he let anything happen to you and consider it a fair trade.

Jack was nothing less than smugly, bone-deep, sure of you. And a man that sure, holding a jealousy that pretty, developed habits. He’d learned (through research he’d conducted, very selfishly, for his own benefit) exactly which levers produced the show.

A waitress lingering around him for a second too long; a squeeze of your hand going tight in his, and him spending the next thirty minutes in the parking lot outside the restaurant making up for another woman’s slow legs.

Mentioning, idly, that a pharmacutical rep had been ‘friendly today’; good for a whole evening of you cross-examining everything about him, her, her tone, his response. 

He knew the difference between small provocations and the premium ones, and he deployed them the same way he planned date nights. He would’ve gone as far as to say they were date nights, impromptu, functionally; every match he struck brought him an evening of you staking your claim with both hands, and then the long, sweet business of being claimed. 

He’d never once found the bottom of it. He’d never once thought to even look for one, where the jealousy cut off and turned inward. It had never once pointed that direction. Your claws faced outward, out at the world, never once you, carrying them.

He didn’t know there was a depth where that happened. It was why he poked the proverbial bear. 

When he’d gotten off his shift at seven in the morning, tugging his bag over his shoulder, he’d leaned his hip against the driver’s door and opened your texts. Some people had a cigarette after a shift. Jack had you, delivered in installments, and he stood there in the cold biting down his smile as he scrolled through the night’s yield.

( a photo of a cat that lived outside the bar; a voice memo at 1:30 he already knew was you narrating something you’d decided was urgent; a link to a lamp with no explanation, which meant ‘buy me this lamp’ (he did, immediately, Apple Pay and its joys of quick payment); a text at 2:47 that just said that your feet were cold; and finally, a goodnight! i love you! sent at 3:15 am )

He’d thought, not for the first time, that he was genuinely a lucky bastard.

After years of pagers and reports and envelopes, somewhere his correspondence had started to include a nightly paper trail proving that somewhere in Pittsburgh, you moved through your night with him present in it. They were simply dispatches you sent because things weren’t fully real to you until he’d been notified.

A man could be told he was loved a hundred ways, but there was no proof on earth like being your first call about nothing. 

If he were a better man, he would have told you about the name that had popped up on his message thread under yours the second he’d unlocked the phone – right there, sandwiched between your goodnight and a spam text about his car’s warranty, a name he hadn’t seen light up his screen in the better part of a decade. 

Diane: Hey stranger. In town next week for a conference - would be good to catch up if you’re around. Coffee? It’s been too long. Hope life’s treating you well. 

It was a strange sort of vertigo of a past life reaching out to tap him on the arm. Diane – Jesus. He hadn’t thought about her in years; it’d been long enough that the name landed without a hook. It was a faint mothball smell of a version of himself he’d long since folded up and put away. No, he had felt near to nothing for her name for the only one that popped up in his head was yours. 

Jack had spent months getting fat and happy on your jealousy; he’d learned there was no sweeter sound than you getting worked up over nothing.

Jack had, right there in the parking lot, a plan because Diane was – he’d assumed, for you – not nothing. No, Diane had history, and it was a real, verifiable history. If a stranger’s coffee order could get you draped over him like a bodyguard, then this – Jack immediately thought – was going to be a show.

Before he’d got in the shower to start his ritual of getting in bed with you – the shower, the hygiene of it all – he found you sprawled across the entire acreage of the bed with the blanket cycloned around your legs. He crossed over and crouched at the edge of you, heart beating gratefully at the sight, because this part couldn’t wait for hygiene. 

He settled for tucking the hair off your face – two featherlight fingers, hooking it back behind your ear – and your nose scrunched in your sleep before it turned into his hand.

“Hey,” he whispered, not to wake you (secretly hoping you would, anyway), and leaned in to press his mouth to your temple that made you make a tiny sound at the back of your throat.

Your fist unclenched from under the pillow and groped out blindly to his forearm, fingers curling around it without opening your eyes. 

Jack stayed crouched there a moment longer than his knee approved of, grinning down at you. 

“I know,” he murmured, working your fingers off his forearm one at a time and folding them back against your palm, pressing them there with a squeeze. “Ten minutes.”

When he tucked himself into bed beside you, arms instinctively falling over your waist to pull you flush against him, you were half-turning to him before you’d even surfaced. You made a tiny sound, unintelligible words – something about the temperature of his hands – and burrowed closer, one leg sliding under his waist and over the mattress, your cold feet immediately seeking out the warmest available part of him. 

“You’re cold,” you mumbled, not opening your eyes, wounded.

“I know, right,” he murmured, pulling you in closer to his chest. “You, though, are warm.”

You wrapped yourself tighter around him, hand finding its way under his shirt to flatten against his ribs. “You can borrow me.”

His hand moved up your spine, thumb catching each notch, and he pressed his cold nose to your temple just to feel you flinch and swat at him, which you did, gorgeously, with a wounded utterance of his name that made his entire body feel like it’d gone under the sun. “Missed you.” 

You smiled, tipping your face up, eyes still shut as your mouth searched. He met you there, pressing a slow, morning-soft kiss that just stayed. When you finally pulled back and sighed, boneless, he cradled you to him. 

“Hey, so,” he murmured, thumb still stroking your back, “old friend of mine’s in town next week. Reached out this morning.” 

“All your friends are old.” You hummed into his chest, still processing the words, and he felt your body still in his arms. “What old friend?” 

“Just an old friend, baby.” 

You lifted your head off his chest at that, one eye cracking open then the other, the sleep burning off you so quickly. He exhaled a sigh as he watched that beautiful, familiar spark catching behind your face. You propped your chin on his sternum and narrowed your eyes at him.

“This old friend doesn’t have a name?” 

“Mhm. Does.” He kept his face maddeningly neutral, thumb still sweeping your spine, savoring the little furrow in your brows and the way your hand had started gripping the side of his waist, staking a claim. He loved you. “Diane.” 

Your lips pursed as you processed the name, as if checking everything you know about Jack in real time. Then you shook your head a little, lips curving up into what he could only consider your angry-smile. “Who the hell’s Diane?”

“We go back a ways.” He shrugged easily, that confidence of having done this a hundred times and always getting sweet, sweet you packing up in him. “Dated, for a bit. Long time ago.” 

You took in a sharp inhale, snorting softly as your hands left him completely. He tried to bite down his frown from showing.

“Dated,” you said, through a small breath with wide eyes. “You dated and she texted you?” 

“She did.” Jack laced his hands behind his head and settled back into the pillow. “Wants to grab a coffee. Catch up.”

“Well, are you going?” You were up on your elbow now, the blanket pooling at your chest, as your brows went up to your hairline in thorough dissatisfaction. 

No, he wasn’t. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d read the text, and moved on to the far more interesting business of what it could do for this morning. The coffee itself was nothing; he had no interest in sitting across a woman who hadn’t crossed his mind at all to trade summaries of decades.

You existed. There was, now, no hour anyone could offer that beat an hour of you doing anything at all. 

He had sat through watching you decide whether or not you’d return a sweater for forty minutes; trying it on over and over again, the same sweater, then tucking it into parts of your existing clothes to test it (into jeans, out of jeans, under the jacket, sleeves shoved up, sleeves shoved down, “should i just cut the sleeves off?” with the scissors already located, and he’d told you “do the crime and you can’t return it,” and watched you reconsider, setting the scissors down). You’d kept it and worn it while sitting on the couch for the rest of the day, then never again. 

“Thinkin’ about it,” Jack said, hooking a lazy finger into the strap sliding off your shoulder and tugging it back up, a tending gesture entirely at odds with the trouble he was stirring. “Just coffee, angel. She’s only in town a few days.”

“Well, your girlfriend is in town all days,” you said, swatting his hand away. “You can’t just get little catch-up coffees with women you fucking dated, Jack. That’s not – it’s not a thing people in relationships do.”

“No? But it was so long ago.” 

You’d pulled yourself upright now, cross-legged in the sheets, the blanket in your lap and the one strap already sliding down again. “Doesn’t matter, Jack.” You jabbed a finger at his neck. “You’ve got a girlfriend. A very good one –”

“Best one I’ve ever had,” Jack agreed, catching your finger and kissing the tip of it, entirely pleased. “I like her. Love her, even.”

“Then why think about it at all?” you asked as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheek. 

“Just surprised, baby,” he said, shrugging. “We go way back. Before your time. It was – a real thing, for a while.” 

Your eyes quickly flickered down to his chest, mouth opening, then closing again. “How long were you together?”

He clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he genuinely tried to reel back the memory. It was funny the way time did that.

“Couple years,” he murmured. “Give or take, three. Yeah. Around three.”

Your eyes had gone slightly wide as you looked at a spot on the blanket with your bottom lip tugged between your teeth.

“Three years,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, huffing slightly through your nose. 

Your eyes flicked up to him, and Jack’s hand went still against your spine. They eyes were wide, glassed, and lost, blinking up at him with some unguarded confusion. You looked at him the way you did when a word went missing on you mid-sentence (your fingers snapping restlessly at the air like you could catch it, ‘you know the one, Jack, the word – the – the thing,’ while he supplied guesses just to watch you swat them away), except there was no word being hunted now. 

“That’s – a long time, right?” you asked him then, tilting your head to the side, looking at Jack like he had some sort of conversion chart on what three years were ought to weigh. 

Jack’s eyes landed on your fingers tugging closer to him on the blanket, not landing on him. They stopped an inch short of his ribs, curling back into themselves. 

His eyes went from your fingers, to your face, which was still waiting for his answer. He sucked in a small exhale, buying a second, though he couldn’t have said for what. 

There was some low-grade, humming static on his skin, and he forced himself to override it, because you’d asked him so gently, and he always answered your questions. You asked him things at all hours, in all states, with your mouth full, from the other room, half-asleep on his shoulder blade.

( What’s the worst thing you ever ate? You’d help me hide it, right? What’s your favorite planet? If we were both dogs, who’d be walking who? Am I the funniest person you know? Would you still love me if I couldn’t talk, only hum? Who taught you how to drive? ) 

He’d answer every single one thoroughly, treating them all like he would’ve a question for boards, because early on he’d discovered your asking was an act of love; you collected his answers, kept them somewhere in that beautiful head, stored him. Nobody had ever wanted his mind so thoroughly before. 

So when you asked, he answered.

It was who Jack was to you. It was maybe his favorite thing to be, just Jack. Jack and all the little things he thought about all the little things he’d given little to no thought to. 

“Felt both long and short, if that makes sense,” Jack mused, wandering back into it, because you’d asked and the memory was a harmless thing to ignite. It was cold hearth, ash-dead, nothing in it did a single thing to a single fold of his brain.

“We took some trips – did two weeks through Italy one summer.” He shook his head slightly, blowing out a short breath at that fact of his life. “And her sister’s wedding in Maine.” 

“Italy,” you said, lips curving around the little word. Your eyes flicked down to his chest, then his torso. “You went to Italy?” You breathed in softly, and your head tilted again. Jack wondered if this was where the claws came out – Italy. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Lots you don’t know about my misspent youth,” he said, lips curling in a casual smile. His fingers reached out then to catch yours and folded them in his palm, bringing them up to his mouth to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

“What was it like?” you asked, brows rising slightly. “I’ve never – I don’t really know what it’s like there.”

“Rented this Fiat, did the coast. Amalfi, Positano – she had the Italian, so she handled the talking. I just drove and pointed.” A huff moved through his chest where he’d trapped your forearm. “She’d order. I’d eat whatever showed up.” 

He waited for the strike. She ordered for you? Then your fingers would go to his throat. Nobody orders for you. What did she order? Was it good? 

Your lips had made this small shape of an ‘o’ as your eyes had snagged on him as he spoke, criss-cross and those small inches away from him on the bed. 

“What’d she – where’d you even find the time?” you said through a short laugh, shoulders coming up slightly.

“We’d come out of residency and the schedules just –” He’d left your fingers for a second to lace his own loosely over his chest in the air, two combs of a zipper missing. “Lined up.” He retrieved your hand automatically, repocketing it to him. “Traded calendars at the start of the month, find the overlap. Italy was a big overlap we got lucky with. Had a little cash for once, and somebody said to go now or never go.”

The word ‘residency’ had barely left his mouth when he heard you take in a small inhale, your lips jutting out slightly.

Now? Jack wondered dumbly. Now you’d get mad, say something territorial, something pretty and unhinged about schedules. I’ll make your schedule. He readied his face for it, schooling the grin down in advance so you wouldn’t catch him enjoying it. He also would have let you make his schedule, had you asked, even though he wasn’t sure how that would’ve worked. He’d have found some compromise between his job and you. He’d have nodded along solemnly, and asked you when it was effective.

“I didn’t know you’ve been to Italy,” you murmured, almost musing, as your eyes went to the desk beside the bed, past his shoulder. He followed your gaze to the little basket where you kept your folder of documents he’d made you organize last spring. 

“Long time ago,” Jack said, because it was. It was a very long time ago, and he felt the need to clarify that. He didn’t know why he was elaborating like he’d been accused. He hadn’t. You hadn’t accused him. “Very long time ago.”

His palm tightened over your fingers – a small, reflexive press – and got no answering flex back.

Your fingers lay there in his hand, warm, accounted for – like Jack always needed them to be – but absent. Jack found himself pressing again, interrogatively this time, you in there?

“That’s –” you started.

Jack’s eyes snapped back you again, like a dog hearing it’s name. Your mouth twisted, working like you were deciding on a seed and what to do with it.

You gave a small shrug – one shoulder, half-mast – and reached over with your other hand to roll a little lint of fluff off the blanket around your finger.

“That’s really far to go with someone,” you said, softer. “Italy. That’s like – a whole thing to do.”

“It was,” he said, absentmindedly, though, as he watched you.

There was something about the set of you he didn’t quite like, though he couldn’t have said what. The way your shoulders had come in a little? The way you seemed all gentle and docile now, when a minute ago you’d been jabbing him in the throat?

Jack prided himself on knowing you; he’d taken it up as a personal study. Your spine, usually all insolence, all sprawl, had gone considerate. Even your knees, criss-crossed under the sheets, had tucked in closer. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, feeling that need to poke at it directly.

“Mhm.” You nodded quickly and looked up at him with a smile.

His fingers immediately reached up to settle under the hinge of your jaw, as if to hold your smile there, thumb laid along your cheek.

“Yeah, I just didn’t know it was – so serious. That’s all. I thought it’d be, like, some girl you dated a few months.” You let out a little breath of a laugh. “Not an – Italy person.” 

Jack’s brows furrowed. He didn’t really know what an ‘Italy person’ entailed, but he didn’t like how it sounded in your voice. 

You sometimes said things that made him want to burrow into your mind. They were little nothings, coinages, a whole private mint going on up there.

( It feels like a July day, when it was very clearly December and you were snowed in; he’s looks like a Tuesday guy, about a stranger at the DMV on a Friday; my feet are homesick, which turned out to mean you wanted to go to the beach, and also somewhere deserted sometimes, and a hike. ) 

He never asked you to translate. Half the time, it was impossible for you to do so, anyway; the words just arrived to you whole, and he’d learned to hold them up in the light until they made sense.

They always made sense, for there was always a ‘you’ inside of them. And he’d found that whatever came from you, it was worth keeping to dig into. 

( Sometimes, it made sense days later. Like when you’d said, one night in the car, engine off, “I like you when you park.” 

He’d laughed and asked, “As opposed to what?”

You’d had no answer, but he understood, days later, that you liked Jack in-between things. You liked him with the engine off, day done, night not started, with nowhere to be just yet.

He supposed it meant you liked the little pockets of nothing that every life has and nobody claims; idling, as opposed to mid-shift, the one where there was no overarching function making him do something. He’d found he liked those little pockets of nothing, too. )

He supposed that ‘Italy person’ would turn out to mean something exact, too. 

He waited, again, for the claws. What am I, then? with a finger at his chest, and he’d catch the finger and kiss it again and tell you what you were – everything – and you’d pretend it wasn’t enough, and demand he phrase it better, and he would.

Jack would phrase it better then better than that, mouth at your knuckles, your wrist, working up the arm between clauses. 

Mine, obviously, don’t be stupid. You’d hum, and he’d say it slower – mine, ob-vi-ous-ly – and you’d call him useless, and somewhere you’d end up bickering about whether Italy even had good food. He’d take your side on, traitor to decades in under a minute, and your sulk would die of neglect without either of you watching it. 

“I don’t know what that means, sweetheart,” he said, trying to force a casual smile through a small, chuckle. He shook his head confusedly. 

Your lips pressed together as you shrugged. “I don’t, either. Not really,” you said.

Before Jack could respond, you reached over and patted his chest twice and said, “Long night?” 

It took Jack a second. He heard actual sound, cogs audibly changing gears, because you’d been in Italy, and now you were in his shift, and the border between those two had been crossed with no warning. He’d been asked this normal question a thousand times; it was a fine question, a normal one. He’d answered it a thousand normal ways.

“Uh, yeah – middling,” he said, hand now coming to find your waist where you sat and tugging slightly, getting you back down into him. “Don’t wanna talk about the shift, though.” You landed against his chest and his chin fell to your head, some unscripted instinct in him kicking in. “Wanna talk about you.”

“Me?” You laughed slightly. “Nothing to report here.” 

“Disagree.” His hand started running over your spine, pressing his mouth to your hair for a second, breathing you in. “Missed you today,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Listened to your voice memo twice on the way back.” 

“Really?” 

His arm tightened around you, bring you up closer to his face, where he could reach your temple without any work. He pressed one, then another, and another kiss against them slowly, mouth lingering against your skin on the last one as he waited. For what? He had no idea. 

Your hand traveled up from his ribs to his jaw, cupping it, then running your thumb against the stubble once against the grain, the way you liked. It usually came with commentary (you’d make such a good beach, Jack; this is my favorite texture on earth; Jack, keep it like this always) and tonight he got none of it.

Jack turned his mouth to it on reflex and pressed a kiss to the middle of your palm, and felt your fingers curl slightly on the contact, gathering the kiss like you were keeping it. 

“Love you,” you murmured. “Go to sleep, Jack.” 

“Love you, too,” he said.

He couldn’t ignore how you’d practically shut off right in front of his eyes. So, he asked, “You tired?” he asked, feeling some base need to clarify.

“Yeah,” you whispered between your faces, and you did sound tired. Tired, Jack knew how to work with. 

“Good,” he murmured, softer, relieved to hear it was that. “We’ll be tired together, then we won’t be tired.” 

Your breath billowed softly over his mouth, something like a laugh, and his hand slid down to your arm to find your hand, tucking the whole laced knot of it down between your chests where it lived. Your head ducked slightly to go under his, burrowing in his neck, and he smiled as his chin came to rest at the top of your head. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, with all of the command he could muster whilst three-quarters gone himself. “We’re gonna sleep the whole day away.” 

You did. Sleep – that is. Or stayed in his arms until his breath went long and even and unmistakably out. When you were sure – when that deep untroubled weight of him told you he was really under – you extracted yourself out of the bed.

You didn’t want to, but sleep wasn’t coming easy with Jack tonight. It sucked; sleep always came easy to you with Jack. Getting out from under him, too, wasn’t easy. He slept like he meant it now, all of his weight poured over you, one heavy arm slung across you like a seatbelt. 

You lifted his arm by the wrist, an inch at a time, and slipped out from underneath it. He stirred and made a rough sound of protest and reached for the warm gap you’d left, patted once, then again, searching, and you winced at the sight of it.

You hurriedly fed your pillow to his arms and watched him gather it against his chest, watched him settle, thinking it was you. 

You should have gone outside now, like you’d planned, and instead you leaned in over the mattress, drawn back down by some law you had never once repealed.

Because – even now – you couldn’t leave Jack Abbot undecorated, you weren’t functioned that way.

Every time you left his vicinity, you’d paid a toll at the door; a kiss to the knuckles, the shoulder, the one time you pressed his closed eyelid so gently he’d told you about it during breakfast, thinking he’d dreamed of it, that it’d felt nice.

You picked the stubbled jaw and pressed the smallest kiss there for half-a-second, and he hummed just as you leaned away. His arms pulled the pillow tighter.

You felt heat build up behind your eyes at it. Jack was, somehow, reassuring you unconsciously, four fathoms down. You blinked at the ceiling, because this was just Jack sleeping with a pillow. Normal girls do not cry about things like this. 

When you successfully made it to the kitchen to make some coffee, which you didn’t end up making, you scrolled through your phone absentmindedly for a few minutes.

Your teeth were digging into your lower lip, and you were sure they could’ve left a permanent dent on them because of how long you’d been sitting on the countertop next to the coffee 

You were being mature. You were being so very mature about this.

Any second now, the maturity would kick all the way in and you’d feel it; the maturity, the security, the calm, grown-up ease that’d let you hear about your boyfriend’s beautiful doctor ex-girlfriend and their beautiful accomplished Italian holiday and simply nod. Maybe you’d be glad he’d had love before you, had something great enough it’d taken a tour across oceans.

You wouldn’t be this.

She was three years to your year.

You’d been counting since the bed, some sick little voice in the back of your head clicking away – that’s longer than you, so much longer, it’s double! and then one more!

She got a whole coast and you? Every time you tried to set the voice down, it just picked itself back up and started again.

You had – after a year – found the one proof that you’d always been, cruel-to-yourself, looking for. Jack Abbot had lived a life before you, several lives, and he’d had love.

So much time she’d had with Jack.

When you reached for your enormousness, for the claws, for the whole arsenal, you found your armor completely empty.

She predated you; you had no way to be big at her. You couldn’t bodyguard Jack from his own past, though you wished he’d have been a bodyguard to it from you. It was an insane thing to wish. All he did was answer your questions, because you’d come knocking.

An unfair, childish, foolish part of you wished he’d lied and decided the truth was too heavy for you and carried it himself. 

She had Jack, and she let him go. You could hardly let Jack go for the length of a shower. You’d have died.

What did she know that you didn’t? What was it like, being a woman who could afford to lose him? She’d walked away from Jack and was whole; if you’d lost Jack, there’d be nothing left.

You knew it was dramatic, that it didn’t work that way. It wasn’t true, but it sure felt like it. Jack had filled your life completely, and you didn’t ever want that space ever again.

Nothing about that is romantic. You’re just a girl who bet everything she had on the first big thing she saw. 

Jack had lived a whole entire grown-up love – the real kind, the serious kind – with her.

Your cruel brain wondered if there were others. You’d never heard about Diane before, what was one more name he’d never mentioned? He had decades you knew nothing about.

It all happened before you’d ever set your eyes on him and thought he was the only man that existed. It had happened before you’d seen him and thought he could be the one, then wished that he would be the one. He’d had that before.

You’d always known that, abstractly. But the idea of years and years of Jack being loved by great women who understood his work, women his own age, women who’d been there for parts of him you never got to meet. That a door swung open all the way tonight. 

You were the latest in a line you didn’t even know the length of.

You’d never even thought about Italy – it was so far away, and you didn’t even think you’d said the country’s name out loud until tonight.

Italy was – you always thought – a thing that happened to other people. It happened, you understood, to Jack. Not your Jack, another woman’s Jack, back when he was somebody’s whole future instead of their past.

He had been loved over there. He'd been to Maine with a family who’d probably thought he was the one.

You were holding the frayed end of a rope whose length you’d never wanted to measure, because you’d assumed stupidly, sweetly, that the rope started when you’d grabbed it, that Jack began the night he met you.

Stop. You’re being crazy – like always. A part of you always had known Jack liked getting a rise out of you, and you liked giving him one. Get a rise out of him, the petty, young part of your brain supplied. 

You laughed softly to yourself, clutching your arms around your waist as you folded over, forehead dropping to your knees.

With whom? If you looked for ammunition, you found no Diane.

The guy before the last guy whose last name you couldn’t even remember anymore; a handful of small-time relationships that had lasted one season and ended not because they were wrong but because they were nothing.

You had no great, grown love in your belt that you cold hold up to the light and make Jack ache over. 

You had Jack. Jack was your Diane and Jack was your Italy – your three years, your coastline, and your entire globe, probably even more – the biggest love you’d ever had by a distance so vast it was hardly a competition.

Jack knew about your entire life and every supplementary information about you that held no weight on you, or only very little.

Jack knew about your first pet’s name, and its cause of death, and the movie you still couldn’t watch because of it. He knew your worst subject’s grade and, worse, the teacher’s name, and had once gotten angry at that man on your behalf.

He knew the reason you hardly talked to your family; he knew it all by now, because you’d kept handing out pieces over this year, and somewhere around the eighth month you’d realized he knew the story completely now. 

He’d learned it all, greedily, like each fact was worth having. You’d hand him a dusty nothing – a camp story, a recurring dream since seven, your opinion on cilantro – and watch it get written down somewhere behind his eyes. Weeks later, he’d produce it at the right moment. No cilantro, she hates it.

It had felt like Jack had opened your junk drawer and thought of it as treasure.

Your life was small and short enough to fit into his hands entire. It was a carry on. He held all of it and had room left over for more. You just didn’t have any more to give him.

Jack had finished reading you.

You’d been collecting him, too, greedy in your own right, thinking you were getting, at the very least, to the hallway. Now, you were wondering if you’d only just walked up the porch to the door.

You could produce Italy in your brain now; Jack against some sun-warm railing over water; Jack driving a little car on the wrong side of the road with confidence; Jack looking longingly at a woman who was speaking a language he couldn’t understand, holding him up.

Some parallel-Jack, out in the corner of your mind, who’d married the doctor.

Jack who was, right now, in some other version of this morning, drinking coffee, happy, whole, entirely fine. Jack, who was talking about some case from a journal – in his fluent doctor-language with someone who never needed the glossary – never pausing to translate English into – well, English. He was never smiling patiently and having to shrink his work down to a bedtime-story size like he did you. That Jack’s wife could meet Jack in the dark after his bad shifts instead of standing at the edge with a flashlight, calling in.

You couldn’t even imagine parallel-Jack lonely with something missing at his table. Your imagination – which loved him, which had only ever been able to love him – refused to even draw him sad. It kept handing you Jack complete; a whole finished Jack, out there in the corner of your mind.

This Jack’s completeness had to require your absence. It needed you to put yourself out of this world and into the crevice of your mind that hated you.

You had to widen your eyes on the floor. Your heels knocked the cabinet.

No. No. Your Jack – the real Jack – was thirty feet away and had never once been anything but certain of you.

Jack had never once not been certain of you. You were sitting on the countertop in his sweatpants right now. Your fingers were curled into the cotton of the pants, holding it like it was his hand, because Jack himself suddenly felt like too much to deserve.

You were getting homesick of him, getting jealous of women in your own head, grieving trips that had already happened, creating an entirely one-girl production in your mind that was only cruel to you, and the man who’d done nothing to put it there.

Go to him, you tried to tell yourself. Go to Jack. Wake him up. Talk to him.

He never turned you away. You had come to him with nothing, a whole lot of nothings, and he had never once turned you away. 

( You’d had a terrible dream that your childhood house was empty. It was the whole dream. You’d walked through it, room-by-room, and everyone was gone and the furniture was gone and your voice didn’t work. It was classic dream-physics. You’d woken up with shaky breaths, body tensing up over, well, nothing. Over the fact that the wallpaper was gone. You’d lain there for four minutes being reasonable about it, then you’d poked Jack. 

Poked him once, then again. Then again – his hand caught your finger, eyes still shut, reflexes working. He folded your finger in his fist and kept it there, on his chest as one eye dragged open, looked at the little digital clock, looked insulted, then looked at you. 

“What?” At your silence and the sight of your small pout as your body went still, both his eyes opened, everything in his face shifting around not making this worse. “What happened?”

“Bad dream,” you said, and because he’d wait all night without asking, you added, “My old house. Everything was just gone. It’s stupid, it’s not even –”

“Not stupid.” His arm had come up to haul you down onto his chest in a drowsy motion, your ear landing conveniently over the slow bass of his heart as his hand rubbed over your skin. “Empty house,” he murmured, clicking his tongue. “Yeah. That’s not a great one.”

He always agreed with you. Then, he added, “This place has got everyone we both need in it. Go back to sleep.” )

Your mind had, finally, gone quiet. Finally. Even it knew overkill when it saw it. 

Fuck, maybe you were fucking crazy. Jack should have gone running. If he had any sense, he’d have looked at you and walked calmly in the other direction. He hadn’t. He had stayed.

This morning your enemies included a hypothetical, a memory, and Europe al-fucking-together. 

He hadn’t let you go, you had to remind yourself. He’d kept you. Had, a few times, put a foot on the door to keep you there.

You slid off the kitchen counter to make your coffee, almost distantly. You made it this time, too. By the time the machine started its slow gurgle, you’d forced yourself to wrestle the whole thing back where it belonged, blinking your eyes clear and dry. It was the deal you’d made with yourself, you supposed, when Jack had said Italy and that she was a doctor, just like him. 

You weren’t going to be the crazy, young girlfriend who spiraled over an old flame. You were going to be so graciously secure about all of it that Jack would never, ever know the morning had touched you at all.

You’d nearly convinced yourself of it, too, as you settled on the couch with the mug on the little glass table beside you as you scrolled through your phone. Then, you’d heard the bedroom door, and the soft knock of crutches against the floorboards as Jack shifted his weight. 

You felt your heart drop at the sound of it, and had to force yourself to look up at the ceiling for a few seconds before he materialized, because you had never – not once – felt that feeling in your body in the three-sixty-five and a few more days you’d loved him.

No, you had to tell your body. We don’t feel this way for Jack. There’s no need to start now.

He came around the corner a second later, crutches under his arms and squinting against the light, hair flattened up on one side of his head from all of forty minutes on the pillow. His eyes swept across the room quickly and landed on you, face easing slightly.

“There you are,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He stayed there for a second looking at you, head-to-toe, checking. “Woke up to a pillow,” he said, one brow going up, dipping his chin at you in soft accusation. 

“Jack –” You pushed yourself up off, padding over to him on instinct, because you were you, it was now nine in the morning and he’d hauled himself out of bed after only one tiny blink of sleep after his shift. Every single step he was taking on those crutches was a step he shouldn’t have been taking. “What are you doing up? Go back to bed –”

“Could ask you the same, baby. You’re never up this early.” When you got close enough, his eyes immediately came down to yours and stayed, moving over slowly. Then, he flicked his gaze to the entirety of the living room behind you.

“You get lonely out here? Something wrong? Should’ve come got me.” he fired off at once, so quickly that your mind had to catch up to process it.

“Not lonely. Nothing’s wrong. You needed sleep – ” 

False. False. True. You were a liar more than half the time today, and you knew you were making this bed all by yourself.

“I need lots of things.” His hand came up off the crutch grip – balancing himself there on one – and reached out to you, knuckles first, dragging down your cheek slowly as his head tilted to look at you. The touch was so, so tender it almost undid the whole act you had running. “Sleep’s like – fourth.” 

You leaned into his hand before you could stop it, and his face flickered for a second – relief, there and covered – and his thumb pressed in to hold it, keeping it. 

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you said into his palm, because half-truths were easier to say to his palm. “You can, though,” you said quickly. “You worked all night. I’d already slept before you came home.” 

He appeared to weigh this, and when your eyes finally moved back to his face, it was tilted slightly to the side, lost. Like a dog, hearing a new sound. It was a new sound, you realized the second it left you. It sounded like exactly what you had decided you were going to be – reasonable and considerate – and you had never once been reasonable about Jack going to bed. Sending him off to rest, so generously, without you, sounded – to you and him both – like another person’s girlfriend talking. 

He took in a small breath, a chuckle dying in his throat, and his head dropped closer, the stubble catching in the light.

“Counter-offer?” he murmured. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, settling there. “Couch. Both of us. Nobody sleeps. Nobody does a single thing.” 

“Like gremlins,” you murmured. 

The crease in his brow lost a little bit of its altitude. “Exactly like gremlins, angel,” he said gravely, instantly. 

Your lips moved hesitantly, and your hands came up to his bare chest, pressing slightly. “You’ve been up all night, Jack,” you said through a short laugh, fingers skating around the breath of his chest to sit at his ribs, trying to turn him. 

“Stop it – please, no.” He stayed put, eyes flicking down to where your hands had come up and lips twisting in, what you could only describe as a snarl. “I’m not tired.”

It was such a bald, indefensible lie that you visibly shook your head at him. The evidence was all over his pretty face, the pretty, lying face. The curls were silvering mess flattened on one side and standing at attention on the other, and you had to physically stop your hands from going to them.

The morning stubble had come in along his jaw in that salt-and-cinnamon scatter you’d once spent a full minute petting against the grain while he sat there letting you, patient as a trained dog. Still, tired lived well on him. Everything lived well on him. You’d told him once, and he’d thanked you, because he’d found himself tired a lot and hadn’t quite found a way to ease it. He’d tried.

“Jack,” you tried, voice warming a touch.

“What?” he drawled, shaking his head at you now, like he was deciding to show how scandalized he was now by all of this. “I’m not allowed to sit with my girl?”

He started moving to the direction of the couch – crutches finding their rhythm – without giving you any time for defense. “Man works a night shift and isn’t allowed to sit with the prettiest thing he’s ever seen?” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Come sit.”

You trailed after him, because what else could you do? Dig your heels in, tell him no? That would’ve been a tell the size of five fucking houses. The second you were in range, his arm left the cushion and hooked over your waist mid-step and hauled you onto his lap. Your yelp was swallowed by the drop, and you landed sideways across his thighs with his arm already snaked across your back. 

“Your leg, Jack – ”

“My leg’s thrilled.” His other hand collected your knees and folded them up toward his stomach, tucking you in closer, arranging you into the compact bundle he preferred, until you were sitting in the wide, warm bowl of him with nowhere to look that wasn’t him. His hand then came up to your back and pressed, instructively, until your cheek gave up and landed against his shoulder. He let out a long, slow breath at the contact, chin coming to rest on your hair. “There we go.”

You breathed in a lungful of air as you settled against him, his presence like fire and water over you right now. You were so scared of someday losing this, this exact thing. His chest hair scratching at your cheek; the weight of his head – carrying so much – on your head; the way he smelled like your soap because you’d asked him to once and he’d never gone back, and now this man walked around his emergency department smelling like pink fruit all day and let everyone at work deal with it.

It was so, so unbelievably simple to be with Jack, to be in this flowery presence of this gruff man, being his. Jack had come along and he’d made you put everything down – the checking, the second-guessing – and you had, you’d put everything down, and dumped both arms around his neck instead. 

“How do you wanna use our nights off today, hm?” he asked softly, moving his head to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. 

This was your event. You knew that was why he was asking, dangling it, because the planning was half the having for you and he’d learned to just hand you the whole day and watch you go. You always had opinions.

Before you’d tucked yourself into bed last night, you’d thought maybe you and Jack would go to the diner whenever you woke up, breaking fast in the afternoon like degenerates. 

Maybe the flea market afterwards, because Jack, at a flea market, haggled in such a nice, slow voice that made grown sellers fold like the lawn chairs they were selling. He’d followed you around from table to table for two hours, never once questioning why you were suddenly looking at doorknobs. You could’ve looked at gravel, and he’d have carried it. Then you’d come home, couch, a game on, his head in your lap – heavy, trusting, king of some small kingdom – while you messed with his curls.

It all seemed so unbelievably wrong now. It seemed nice at the same time, the same as before. But the diner. She probably never made him eat at diners. The flea market; she went to Positano. You had no idea what Positano even looked like, exactly. It was probably the most beautiful place on all of earth and Jack had stood in it, years before you existed to him, being well-loved, and you’d spent this morning secretly hoping it was ugly. 

You pressed your cheek harder into his chest and he hummed, appreciatively, and adjusted his arm to noodle you.

She got this, too.

You had to stop yourself from groaning at your own voice, from yelling at it altogether. The thoughts were just pushing you closer and closer to him, your cheek nuzzled against his chest, shifting slightly like the bare contact of his skin could just scrub it all out; your cure and disease were Jack. Every awful, awful thought sent you burrowing closer into his exact chest that had caused it, and he kept receiving you, warm and obliging, having no idea he, right now, was both your wound and bandage. 

You just wanted your day back. You couldn’t tell anyone how insane this was, least of all Jack. You’d have crawled inside his ribcage if it zipped.

You knew that Jack had been trying to get under your skin – you knew that he liked it – but you’d figured this game was one that was built for you to win. Every round was just Jack setting up an excuse to spend the afternoon demonstrating with his mouth, his eyes, his face, that there was no contest to even worry about.

Because you couldn’t very well go to Positano today, and because you suddenly felt like a kid handing over a macaroni necklace to someone who owned diamonds, you said, “I don’t know,” into his chest. “You decide.”

His thumb paused on your skin for a second, then it resumed.

“Me?” he murmured, chin tilting for a second to press his lips to the top of your skull again. “I wouldn’t have the first clue, angel.” 

“Try,” you said. 

He huffed slightly. “Alright, then. Bear with me – first day on the job. We stay here till noon, then the diner with your jams. Then that stretch by the river you like, lemonade from the good cart guy.” He squeezed your arm and pressed another peck to your head. “Home by dark and it’ll be the best outing in the world.” 

It sounded so perfect. You pressed your whole face down into his chest, even as you thought about how his outings were once grander, with people who’d done grander. With a doctor, no less. “Sounds perfect.”

For a moment, the two of you just breathed there. It may have been the fact that when it got quiet when you were with Jack – instead of quiet with just yourself – things seemed a little easier, but you found yourself saying, against him, “Jack?”  

“Yes?” he said instantly, chin lifting off your head and you felt his attention come down on you, whole and immediate, like he was summoned.

“Are you gonna get the coffee?” you asked. 

“Huh?”

“With her,” you said. “You know –”

Your words cut off as you shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid all over again. Saying it made it real again, and now you’d brought the topic to the couch. It happened on the bed, and you’d carried it to the kitchen, and now it was on this lovely couch. You were going to taint it all with it.

“You should probably go. To catch up.” You lifted your head up to meet his eyes, forcing your voice even. “I don’t mind.” It felt like it’d come out with steel; you almost winced at your own words. 

Jack blinked at you, then his head tilted, and the softest, most confused grunt left him. 

“Baby,” he started gently, amused, almost, reaching for the joke in it at first. His knuckles came up to brush against your cheek for one second. “I’m not going anywhere near that coffee – you’d have me chipped like a dog by Tuesday.” 

It was a gift, you could see his words wrapped and extended – him invoking your domestic insanity, holding it up like the reason the sky was blue – and all you had to do was accept it. The morning would become the, in all senses of the word, usual.

You would’ve preened at the portrait of you, and now you heard it from the morning’s new ears – he’s got an ex who speaks Italian and you think it’s fun to threaten him with 24 hour surveillance. 

“I wouldn’t, though,” you said quickly.

When his knuckles paused on your cheek, questioningly, you continued, “You should go. I won’t be mad at you.” Your lips pressed together for one second. “I promise.” 

Jack’s hands went to your hips and his jaw shifted from side to side, as he looked away from your face for a second. “Yeah. Okay. I’m not grabbing coffee with another woman.” 

“She came all the way. You guys are old –”

“Stop,” he interrupted with a laugh – disbelieving and no humor in it – as his head reeled back.

“Stop it – I don’t want this.” His hands flexed on your hips, then came up to wave in the general direction, then fell back down. He looked at you really, really upset, or baffled, or both. “Who cares how far she came? People fly places. I don’t want to have coffee with anyone.”

You shrugged, letting your head drop into his chest again. “If that’s what you want. You don’t have to do it because of me.” 

“I am absolutely doing it because of you.” His arm came around you, bringing you back close to him. “I’m not going ‘cause my girlfriend exists. That’s a whole reason. It’s a great one. So don’t talk me out of it.” He pressed his lips to the top of your skull. “Not your reason to give away. And you can get me chipped, if you like.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you even say to that? You felt him nod over you at the silence, felt some hesitance creep into his body, as he pulled you in. 

“Actually,” he said after a moment. “Let’s put a pin in the plan.” One hand lifted off you and made some small motion, you couldn’t see it but you felt the absence where it had been, before it came back. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Next week. River’s not goin’ anywhere.” His arm resettled around you, snugger than before. “Today we’ll stay in.” 

“Jack –”

“Blanket, couch, girl.” He counted your day off your spine, three soft taps of his fingers. When you made a sound of protest, his said into your hair, quieter, “I’ve got all I need. I’m not feeling the outside today. That okay?”

“No, it’s not – let’s go. I’m just tired right now. I’ll be up later.” 

You felt him breathe, then, the gust of air pooling into your hair.

“Then come to bed,” he tried weakly, and he sounded so broken you wanted to cry. You could hear him knocking at the door of you. “Sleep. Let’s sleep together, if you’re tired.”

“Not sleepy-tired,” you said, and heard how little it made sense even as it came out of you.

Then, you pushed yourself up off him, palms to his chest, trying to keep the motion casual. “I think I just need to wake up properly. Move around a little.” You stood, angling your face away, blinking fast as you looked at the dark TV screen. “I’m gonna get in the shower, if that’s okay?”

When you tried to look over your shoulder, he’d straightened up, palms falling down to his sides on the couch as he looked up at you. 

“Course it’s okay,” he said, hands following up then to settle for your hand, thumb passing over your knuckles. He gave your fingers the gentlest tug and pulled his head back, catching your eyes for a second before you could look away again, and the look on his face was so, so soft. “Do you want breakfast?” 

You nodded quickly. “Yeah – thanks.” 

He made a small sound, then pressed his lips to your knuckles, then let your fingers go one at a time. You made it four steps down the hallway with his gaze heavy on your back, and you couldn’t stand it.

There was a great, large, incessant bug in you that couldn’t stand Jack back there with his worried face and scared smile. So you half-turned over your shoulder, your eyes down at the baseboard, and called out, “Love you, Jack.” 

You’d told Jack you loved him at full speed, into his mouth mid-argument, into the phone before you’d even said hello, at grocery stores, at funerals, at red lights, six times a day minimum. It was the surest sentence you owned. This time, it went out like a paper boat, pushed onto the water with two fingers, and watched all the way across. 

“Love you, too,” he called back warmly, after what felt like a hundred years.

Jack had once spent a very, very long time to get you to believe that even if you held onto something good loosely, it won’t run away. He’d had to get you to believe that even if your grip on him loosened, even just for a second, even for a month, he would still be right there. Why was he feeling the need to hold you so tightly now? 

He set your plate at your spot, and his at his. He poured the coffee, saw the first coffee you’d abandoned on the counter, full and stone cold, and stood there looking for a second longer than the mug deserved.

He’d put on his prosthesis after plating the food, a part of him too large and hopeful – instead of its usual, content, un-worried hum – expecting you to come out of your shower wanting to do something, the diner, the river, after all, trying to change his mind.

He’d hoped you’d come out wanting to be carried somewhere on his back. He wanted to be ready, he always was now. He kept himself pre-approved for whatever you thought of next.

The inside of your head was a busy little harbor, boats coming in at all hours, and he’d been granted a standing spot on the dock. You’d let him become the first to hear about octopus, cats, furniture, which part of your body felt cold, warm, or lukewarm. A year of receiving your pretty cargo and he’d never once been bored. 

He, decades your senior, had seen the world be made interesting again by you just narrating it at him. He had the sneaking suspicion he’d follow your voice wherever it went, into traffic, a dock, into old age, and the shower.

The water kept running. He wasn’t the kind of man that’d track your showers, but years of working in emergency and emergency-adjacent situations had honed up his internal clock eerily well, smoothened out his pattern recognition.

He had to tamp down the urge to deploy it, to use this innate, terrible, awful instinct in his brain on you – you, who he felt more than monitored, who he’d only ever read with love, no grains of salt, no instruments. 

You were the girl who rearranged things in his cabinets by feeling and left in it a system he still couldn’t crack and refused to fix. Opening a drawer looking for a spatula and finding your hair ribbons had become one of the small startling joys of his one life.

He’d been a clinician for so long, and you’d built with him a corner of the world where he was just a man, holding a girl, and being completely in love with her.

Jack, bring me the towel even though it’s right there. Jack, come look at this bruise. Did I not wash out the conditioner out properly? Jack – Jack, Jack, come and just sit with me while I shower.

His knee bounced under the table, and he stopped it. 

Your eggs had gone cold, glossy, and began settling into themselves. The toast had lost its heat, and the jam sat unopened with its little lid on – the grape, the good one – and the jam was a small purple fact that he could not find himself liking to sit across from. You’d have opened it by now and started walking the length of the place, spoon in your mouth, talking. 

A year of you had taught him what mornings looked like when they were going right. He knew this one had gone wrong so quietly and terribly, that he’d been able to hold you the entire time it was happening. 

It was the bitter feeling of the surge he’d had in his chest this morning at the thought of your instincts.

He’d read a woman’s name off his screen and come home with it like it was a match to your pretty fire. He’d carried it into bed with you, and all Jack knew was that at this morning, his girl had been in his arms so sweetly, and minutes later, her fingers were hesitant to press into his skin. The only thing that happened in between was his own mouth, having fun. 

Jack wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he was walking to the bedroom now, to the ensuite bathroom. A year ago, this hallway had been a hallway. Now, it was a museum of you mid-motion, and he moved through it with his heart going at a pace he hadn’t earned sitting down, past the bed still holding the shape of the forgery you’d left him in, a pillow. He had to look away from it like the sun. 

He told himself that the bathroom door being closed was normal. Steam, privacy, nothing; all of it were real things. 

“Hey,” he said to the door lightly, knuckles going in two soft taps. It was the same knock he used with the you in the bath going pruny as he was happily serving you wine. “You fall asleep in there? S’been a minute.”

He tried to force his lips into something close to a smile even though there was a door between you right now.

Perhaps it was because Jack – even now, even morbidly confused – knew you, and knew that the door would be locked before he confirmed it with his shaky fingers. 

( You, who talked to him through the glass of the shower, sat cross-legged on the counter while he shaved – you missed a spot, no, the other spot, how do you have a medical license, genius – and stole his coffee between critiques and made him laugh hard enough he’d nicked his jaw and you’d gasped like the injured party, then kissed it before pronouncing him stable.

You, who had once flung the shower door open mid-rinse to tell him that you’d figured out what you both were in a past life. He never got to hear the answer. You’d seen him standing at the sink in his towel and lost the thread altogether, and the past lives were never mentioned again, and Jack had walked around for the next twenty-four hours unreasonably pleased about being distracting at his age to you. 

A door had, simply, never existed in your relationship. )

The key was right there. He’d put it there himself, two summers before he’d ever met you, the day the door had swung shut at its own draft and locked an empty bathroom. He’d forgotten it existed, but his hand went up and found it first try, blind, and came down holding this tiny cold thing. 

His fingers were unsteady fitting it in, which was new. He’d threaded needles into people in moving vehicles. Now, in his home, his fingers trembled over a privacy lock like a first year, because on the other side of the door was the whole of his one life, in falling water, hiding from him – him – and every second the key took was a second you sat in there believing you had to do so. 

“I’m coming in,” he said to the door, softer than an announcement this large should’ve been, like some part of him was afraid of the wrong reaction at your response to it. “Just me. I’m coming in, okay?” 

His chest caved – folded in on itself, turned over – because there you were, on the floor of the shower, curled up under the pour of the water, your knees to your chest and your arms wrapped around them, your face hidden down against them. His girl – the loud one, the strongest person he’d ever let himself love – made small and quiet and hidden on the floor of the shower. He had seen you in this place a thousand times and never once, not ever, like this.

“Oh – baby. No, hey –”

Your head snapped up at his voice, and just that sharp little movement of you made him tilt back slightly. Your face – wet and swollen, eyes red at the rims, gone raw and young and caught in a way he’d never seen it – did something terrible when it saw him in the doorway. It crumpled then hardened, both at once, a door slamming behind glass, and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your eyes like you could take back the last thirty seconds if you were quick enough about it.

“No,” you said quickly, the word cracking out of you with a sharp edge under the thickness. Your hand came up between you, a flat little barricade under the steam. “No – get out, Jack – I told you I’ll be – please, get out –” 

You didn’t push him. This wasn’t a thing that happened. You pulled – you reeled him in by the shirt, you climbed into his lap, you fought tooth and nail for every inch of distance he’d tried to keep, whose entire love was a set of hands hauling him closer, closer, closer.

He had spent all this time being pulled by you, gladly, helplessly, and he did not have – had never needed – a single instinct for being pushed. 

“Hey – hey, no – don’t –” His hand came out to the glass, pushing slightly. “It’s just me. It’s me. Look –”

“I don’t want it to be you right now,” you said, and the words were so awful and completely jagged.

You turned to face away, like you were trying to push yourself out of his sight entirely. “Please. Please, just go and get out. I don’t want you here – please, Jack.” 

“No, don’t ask me that,” Jack said immediately, voice breaking clean in half as his eyes went glassy and desperate. “It’s me – you don’t hide from me – we’re not that –”

“Please,” you said, voice barely audible over the running of the water, and his nose burnt as he caught sight of you shaking. “Please, just give me a minute – a minute. I’m – I’m asking you to leave.” 

Jack’s hand hung empty in the air as he looked down at you, heart in actual pieces on the tile, and he understood – quietly – that the only thing you were begging him for was the single thing he’d have rather died than do, to turn around and leave you crying. 

So – because you’d asked, because pushing past a plea like that would only carve you open worse, because loving you had never once meant taking what he wanted when it wasn’t what you needed – he made himself.

“Okay,” he said, voice coming out in ruins. “Okay, baby. Okay. I’m going – I’ll go.” He reached up and took your towel off your rail and set it closer to the shower. “I’m right outside. I’m not far – I’ll be right there and you come get me the second you want me, you hear? The second.”

You stayed silent, so Jack, clumsy with grief in a way his body never was, made himself turn his back on you. At the door, he paused, eyes pinching shut to make himself not look over his shoulder. Instead, he said, “I love you.”

He pulled the door behind him, left it breathing half ajar with the steam sighing out through the gap, and pulled himself to sit at the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom. Like you were going to run from him, like some part of him needed both feet under him and the door in his eyeline needed to be ready. For what? He couldn’t have said. To catch you, he supposed. To get you the second you’d let him. To not be caught sitting down when you finally opened the door and needed him standing. 

He sat there with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands pressed together against his mouth and waited, and it was the longest ten minutes of his recent life.

Every second of it was stretched unbearably, because he was learning there is this particular hell in loving someone past all sense and being made to sit on the other side while they hurt. He didn’t know what to do with this feeling, had never had to think it was a possibility between the two of you.

When the door opened, Jack was on his feet before he’d decided to be. There you were, towel-wrapped, hair dripping onto your shoulders, face swollen and turned just slightly away, eyes on the floorboards. You crossed your arms over your chest, gripping the towel closed.

“Hey,” he said, breathing through it, his voice half-ruined, shaking. He caught it and hauled it down a register by force, into the very low, sure place his voice lived when everything depended on it.

He made himself stay planted – made himself open his arms instead of using them, wide, a whole doorway of him – while every muscle strained against its leash, because his body had exactly one theory about you crying and the theory was to go, and he stood on that theory with all his weight. 

“Come here,” he said instead, begging with a steady voice, a whole vacuum sealed into two words. 

Your eyes climbed as high as his chest and gave up there, arms tightening. You shook your head dimly, water flicking. He nodded to himself, made himself stay standing, without letting an ounce on his face where you’d have to carry it. 

“One step. That’s all I’m asking.” His arms turned palm-up at the ends of his open arms, still, though nothing behind his ribs was. “You don’t have to talk. Or explain anything. Not tonight, or ever. I’ll die curious – but I’m standing here figuring out I don’t work right until I know how you feel in my arms and I haven’t known for hours and I am asking you –” His voice strained, and the words came out bare, “ – Please, I am asking you to come let me hold you.” 

You let out a small sound, eyes pinching shut, and he watched a whole war happen on your face. Jack thought, uselessly, hopelessly, that he’d have stood there through a winter or as the building came down, holding a door ajar in himself for as long as doors took.

You crossed, though. Your body came to him hard, all at once, like you were dropped from a height, and Jack caught you with one arm crushed around your towel-wrapped back. The other flew to your wet hair, his palm rounding the whole back of your skull, pressing you into his heart, gathering you in and in and in, past where space existed, trying to find one more setting past where proximity itself existed. He let out a sound that was – dangerously – close to sob into your hair, finding himself completely undone for the first time in a very, very long time. 

“There you are,” he murmured, rocking you slightly as his mouth pressed to the top of your dripping hair. “I’ve got you. Got you now.”

You shook against him, and Jack winced at the feeling of it, gently reeling both of you down onto the edge of the mattress, then back, then over, until he had you sideways across his lap, your knees folded over his thigh, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms locked around you like a cage. The towel gave up at under your shoulder, so he pulled the corner of the blanket up over the bare curve of it – wrapping you precious – and then his arm closed the last of the circuit and locked. 

For a while, he simply let his hand move up and down your spine while you cried into his throat, and every shudder that went through you went straight through him, too. He pressed his lips to your temple and left them there and rode it out with you, breathing slow on purpose, loud enough for you to borrow the rhythm off of his nose, an old medic’s trick he was running on the only patient he’d loved past all sense. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, with your tears running down his throat and pooling at his collarbone,

Jack thought, helplessly, that even this was somehow yours and somehow beautiful; you cried like you did everything, with your whole body, holding nothing residual, generous, so generous, even in grief. You’d never given him a partial anything, and Jack tightened his arms around the full, shaking entirety of you and thanked the universe, genuinely, that when you’d finally fallen apart, you’d walked the few steps and done it on him. 

When your crying wore itself down, Jack made himself stay silent. The questions, fully formed, seventy versions of them and redrafted since the kitchen, he swallowed, because he had a feeling he had pushed enough for one simple morning. He’d pushed this morning smiling. He held you and let the question live in him like a swallowed stone and, apparently, he was less subtle about it than he thought.

Your voice came up out of his neck, waterlogged and small, as you said, “I know you want to ask.” Your fingers moved faintly against his chest, a fidget with no strength in it. “It’s okay. You can.” 

Jack had to close his eyes at your first full sentence being a door held open for him; you’d crawled out of your own wreckage to check on the driver. 

“I do,” he said into your hair, honestly. “But I’m not gonna spend your turn. So here’s mine first.” 

He felt you go still against him – attention gathering, a tiny tilt of your head at his collarbone – and he breathed in heavy, big enough to lift you where you lay, to pay up. 

“I got really scared today,” he said, voice going into a whisper as he leaned down to talk to you. “I woke up to you not in my arms and my whole chest felt – wrong. I do this for a living, I’ve got all the words. It wasn’t – wasn’t sick. It felt wrong, you not being somewhere you’re supposed to be. First time in – forever, if I’m being honest.” He tapped you skin twice, to hold himself. 

“And when I found you, I couldn’t reach you. And now – seeing you –” He felt you stiffen up at that, and he nodded in understanding, skipping over. “I’m thinking of getting rid of all our doors.” His hand kept moving down your spine, and he faced your head then. “Bathroom’s the priority. Bedroom might be load-bearing, but. Front door stays. Everything else is beaded curtains by Friday.” 

You made a small sound against his neck, and Jack had to stop himself from crushing you into the tightest hug at the bridge of a laugh. He pressed his mouth to your temple for a few seconds instead. “Another thing while I’ve got the floor. Telling me to go get coffee with an ex – don’t do that again. I’m not gambling with you. I’ve only got one of you. So, I’m never going to coffee with anyone else again.” 

“You’re allowed to cry,” he said, setting the joke aside. “I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t do it with me knowing about it. That’s mine, and I’m gonna find it and fix it if it takes me the rest of my life.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you protested, sounding wounded. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “That’s mine. That’s what I felt today. You don’t have to give me yours.” 

His arms adjusted, and some helpless, incurable corner of him – the one that had flirted with you through every disaster you’d ever handed each other – added, “But, if you wanted to trade, I can make it worth your while.” 

You laughed at that again, and the two of you stayed silent again for sometime. Your fingers crawled up his chest, up over his collarbone, curling loosely around his neck, your palm settling in like you needed contact to speak. 

“You went to Italy,” you said. 

Jack’s brain did one, full lap around the words, and came back with nothing. He did the only thing he could when you handed him a coin he couldn’t read, which was holding it up to the light and keeping his voice soft and not dropping it. 

“I did,” he said, carefully. “Long, long time ago, baby.”

“Was it nice?” you asked, the words coming out so small. In the same breath, like a small dam breaking, you added, “Do you miss it?”

Jack never had to look for a trap in your words, not like this.

There was none now, either. You’d asked about Italy like you asked him about bad days, ready to receive whatever came back, your thumb doing a nervous sweep against his neck like you were comforting him in advance. You’d found the one grief in the world with his fingerprints on it and your first instinct was to ask if he wanted it back. 

For an ugly second, he thought he could have lied. No, it was overrated, beds were weird, bad food. You’d have heard it, and Jack thought that it would’ve taught you that you couldn’t survive the truth. 

“It was nice,” he said quietly, hands moving up and down your spine. “I was young. Younger, anyway. Whole trip was –” He exhaled, shaking his head as he tried to hunt for the honest size of it. “It was a trip, baby. It was nice.” 

He pressed his lips to your hairline. “I don’t miss it. There’s nothing in there to miss. Like –” He clicked his teeth, searching for the words. “Driving past a house I used to live in. Half the time, can’t even remember which window was yours. You just keep going, ‘cause everything you own’s at the new place now.” His fingers tightened on you. “Think if I’d known what this was, back then, I’d have kept missing this, there.” 

Your breath shifted against his throat, and you nuzzled your face into his neck.

“What’s got you worried?” he murmured. He closed his eyes, letting his head lean to rest against yours, palms moving from your waist to your nape, then down. “I can get us to Europe by Thursday, just say the word. I’ve got PTO and miles I’ve been sitting on for years. I think they were for this.” 

“I don’t wanna go to Italy,” you said, smiling against his neck. “I think this is something I have to get through myself. It’s not anything you’ve done to me.”

Jack felt that familiar twist in his chest. It’d come to him for the first time today, and it kept coming up and up and up, and he couldn’t help but want to claw at his own mouth for his selfish, cruel little game, for every grinning careless word he’d dropped on you like they weighed nothing. And now you felt that you had to deal with it yourself, like it was yours to carry alone, off in a corner, someplace he couldn’t get to. Because he had done this. 

You were, simply, acting like the two of you weren’t the two of you; you had spent a whole year proving to him that ‘by yourself’ was a thing that, now, never existed. 

He drew you back, fingers threading through the back of your hair, trying to physically take you back from wherever – whatever – this by yourself was. He put your face in the light, wet-lashed, trying so hard to keep it together, and his thumb swept the damp while his own face did whatever it was doing, open and scared and thoroughly past the point of keeping it in check. 

“You don’t have a ‘yourself’ anymore, sweetheart. I don’t have that anymore. You woke me up at three in the morning to tell me how you fell off the monkey bars in third grade – remember? You didn’t think twice about it.” His forehead came down, brushing your nose with his. “And now you’re gonna sit here and tell me this – the saddest thing that’s crossed that pretty head all year – this one you’re keeping alone?” 

“Jack–”

“What is going on in that head of yours?” he interrupted, words soft but pointed, suddenly having given up all pretense of coaxing and gone straight to needling.

He watched you open your mouth as you took in a breath, and maybe it was the closeness or the way his thumb kept moving along your jaw, but you said, “I don’t know if I’m the real one.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, feeling heat build up behind his eyes as he looked at you with a pained, confused expression.

“I don’t know if I’m the one you do it for real with, Jack, or if I’m just – the young one. The one you get before – or after – I don’t even know how it works.”

Your hands came up between you, aggravated at yourself, at him, at the lack of vocabulary. 

“You’ve done so much. You’ve got countries. Experiences. So many of them. And I’ve got –” Your shrug came out tiny. “– you. You’re my biggest everything. You’re my Italy and I feel like I’ve been with you for three years and my – you’re all of it, Jack. I’m terrified I’m just the person that came after your big thing.” 

You blinked, and Jack’s fingers reached up to catch the little tear falling over your lashes, his own eyes blinking furiously. Jack wanted, so badly, to reach to you and press your kiss to your mouth to stop this, to to kiss this whole wilted garden you’d created in your head out of you.

He shook his head. “I hope I’m not your – her,” he said, a wince in the words, finding it difficult to even get them out. “Or your Italy.”

“You are –” you said, with so much conviction, chin coming up, ready to fight him for the honor of it, “you are – that’s what I’m telling you –” 

“I’m your Jack.” His hands tightened on your face, voice coming out slightly cracked. “I’d forgotten about this woman until this came up. I don’t want you to forget me. I’m your Jack and I’m the luckiest man for it everyday. So you pick a better word soon, and don’t take that title away from me.” He shook his head. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

You bristled slightly, your eyes shining into his as they went wide, the whole of you locking up at the words. He tapped his palm gently against your cheek once, then again, frowning as he thought he really ought to tell you this more, for a girl who kept a running tally of everything else.

You’d created a museum out of things he’d said, and somehow this one, the biggest one – the luckiest man of it – he’d been rationing. He’d been handing it over in the glances and over eggs, assuming it was arriving, that a girl who read him so fluently was taking what he’d said to you over and over again, so simply because it was just a fact. 

Never again. He’d tell you daily now, remind you of it while making you look him in the eyes. 

“I tried to make you jealous,” you said, the words coming out through a sad, shameful laugh. Something in his chest broke hearing you confess it like it was a crime. “I’ve got nothing, Jack. You won’t care about Sam, or Dave, or – I don’t even remember one’s name. That’s all. You had a doctor you went to Italy with.” 

His eyes fluttered for a second, the muscle in his jaw clenching as his fingers ran over your cheek. The nature of it all was too backwards. Jack had made a very sad sort of peace with himself – he’d known what he was – and somehow, at the end of all that, at the bottom of the ninth of his whole entire life, you’d walked into it glowing like something confiscated from heaven. You’d looked at the full of him, and decided you wanted him. You, dished out to him probably because of some fate-giver who’d been asleep at the desk, who had let the single best thing walk out to him.

If a single one of those guys had stayed awake one more hour, asked one more question, been at the right angle to see who was sitting across them, you’d be – Jack grimly, awfully thought – somewhere else right now. And Jack never would have known; he wouldn’t have known to miss you. You’d have been long gone and loved properly, early, by someone with the sense to do it. 

Jack would have worked his nights and run the bay, choosing every day to enter a new crisis, and never known the whole time that the best thing that would ever happen to him had happened to somebody else instead, on time, the way it properly should have. It was their loss, and he was going to make his entire life out of it. 

His arms moved before the thought even finished, hauling you in impossibly closer, resettling the whole, true warm weight of you against him. “Stay right here,” he murmured.

You did. Your lashes stuck wet in little points and your fingers resettled on his neck. You were wearing his shirt, drowning in it. Jack had been the steadiest set of hands in many rooms, he knew it without vanity. But nothing in his skill set covered you; steady hands didn’t win a girl who lit up rooms; being good in a crisis didn’t earn a woman who made every ordinary Tuesday feel like a celebration. He’d spent so long getting excellent at the exact things nobody falls in love with – triage, containment, blood – and you’d walked into his life and fallen for him anyway, for reasons he couldn’t successfully point to, and he’d stopped asking why out of superstition. You, he was not in the mood to reasonably place; Jack knew when a person was handed one, that they should keep showing up for a miracle, quietly hoping it stayed. 

Jack, falling apart at every seam of him, eyes hot and jaw aching, huffed. It was one, soft breath of a laugh, and your eyes snapped up to his, betrayed, and he shook his head fast, thumb pressing to your cheek to stay with him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, shaking his head softly, thumbs framing your face to tilt it up. “I promise. I’m laughing ‘cause you’ve got no idea what I’d give to have your problem.” 

You blinked at him, mouth curved into a frown. That one, he was sure, was aimed at him. His hands were shaking slightly against your jaw.

“I mean that I am very, very glad that you’ve got no Italy to wave at me. You think I want you to have another big grown love in your pocket? Some guy you crossed the country with?” His hands tightened on your face, eyes shining. “It would ruin me. I’d never sleep again. And I’m sorry for waving mine at you this morning, because I didn’t think it’d make you not sleep.” 

He held your eyes through it, taking his medicine looking at you. “I said it ‘cause I love you jealous. It makes me feel nice to know you care about me.” His lips curved into a sad smile. “I didn’t think what it’d do when I brought this up. I will be very, very sorry about that for a long time.”

When you smiled softly, eyes hooded as you looked down at his mouth, he nodded to himself.

“And I had a nice trip with a woman a hundred years ago, and it ended, and I have zero photos of it. That’s a thing that happened to me. You are not a thing that happened to me. You are what it was all for. All the years, the whole time, all the wrong turns. That was just me taking the long way to find you. You are my biggest thing – biggest one that’s ever happened to me – and I want you to know some pretty life-changing things have happened to me.” 

You stared at him, mouth open, tears going uncaught now, because Jack had gone completely still, needing you to see all his years on his face at once. 

He huffed, mind flicking through this haze of memories. He could reach back and find the years, the apartment, and it all came as nothing. He’d loved women, had meant it completely, with everything he’d had on hand, and he may not have been wrong. And now he can carry the tender knowledge that a person can feel absolutely certain there is everything to be felt and be off by a whole magnitude; he’d stood inside his biggest feeling and called it the biggest and had simply, innocently, not met you. 

“And since you told me yours,” he said, quieter, eyes going down because he found he couldn’t quite hold your gaze for this.

“I know what it feels like to think you’ve found what good love is, and then to find out how it is to love someone bigger. That the thing you could’ve sworn was everything was just – nothing, in the grand scheme.” 

He turned his face to the side as he held your face, suddenly finding the enormity of this simplicity pressing at the back of his eyes. Everything – he was sure of it – had just been the longest drive over to you.

“But you got this first. You’ve got nothing to check it against.” His thumb swept your cheekbone, and his eyes came back to you. 

“I know how big this is because I’ve got my whole life to look at it against. And you just have to take my word for it.”

He tugged his lip between his teeth, searching your eyes with question, checking whether the words were pushing through, whether they had the gap to push through. Your face was tilting toward him, listening with every feature at once; he could see the whole war playing out on your face you had never once been able to conceal from him. You had no poker face, at least to him, you didn’t.

“This is the one,” he said, nodding just barely. “There was never a morning I woke up and had to think about anything before you. You are the reason I know what you think is the big thing is small.” 

Your breath stuttered, and your chin trembled once before you caught it from gritting your teeth inside your mouth. 

“And sometimes –” He nodded, more to himself, as he forced himself to continue. “– I have felt a similar thing. I see you, and I wonder if you’ll think about some guy your own age, out there somewhere. Standard legs. Normal hours.” He shrugged. “No years of the stuff I’ve carried. And I think, someday, you’ll look over at me and think you settled for the –”

“That’s crazy,” you interrupted, the words shooting out of you instantly. Your fingers flew up to grip both his wrists. “That’s crazy, Jack – I don’t want – I would never. There’s no guy, I don’t want standard legs. I want your legs – leg – fuck, Jack.” Your voice broke off as you let out a small, pained groan. “I would pick you over any person who has ever lived.” 

“Yeah, see,” he murmured, a small smile coming up as he let the weight of your words land on him. “Can you see how it sounds crazy when it’s coming at you?”

He brushed his nose against yours at your stunned silence. “I feel the exact same way about what you said. It’s crazy.”

He had to blink over and over as he settled on the weight of your words, said so simply and furiously with no build up. The biggest sentences of his life just slipped out of you, unwrapped, and you had not the first clue what they weighed. Any person who had ever lived. God, you’d waved off the whole crowded history of the species in one breath to pick a tired man in Pittsburgh.  

“Let’s go,” he murmured, wrapping you up and pulling both of you back against the cushions, resettling you on his chest. Your ear was at his heart. The blanket was up to your shoulder. “We’re gonna lie here a while now. I think we both need it.” 

“It was a weird morning.” 

“Mhm.” His hand went to your spine. “Top five weirdest.”

And he should have let it be, but there was still something sitting in him. 

Jack pressed his lips together as he once again said, “I am sorry for this morning. I was –” He breathed in through his nose, fingers coming up to your head, tapping it twice to get you to look up at him. You did, chin pressing into his chest and your eyes tired yet focused. “Immature.” 

Your lips twisted slightly, then you tugged them with your teeth once and looked away, like you were trying not to agree. 

“I was,” he said, easily, agreeing for you. His thumb traced your hairline. “Good thing for me, I happen to be with a girl who likes getting her revenge. Even when I don’t think I did anything.” 

“You do –”

“I do. I do. You’re not wrong,” he said, the opposite of a complaint in it. “You know how to settle a score. And this morning I racked up a real big one. And you’ve just been sitting on it, being gracious.” His nose wrinkled, his fingers going to cradle the side of your face. “You keep that up, you’ll start minding your business and I’ll be living with a stranger.”

At your small, hesitant smile, Jack continued, “I know you don’t like the paintjob of my truck.” You nodded at that, honest as ever. “What I’m thinking is, you key it.”

Your eyes widened.

“Go nuts on the thing. Do some drawings. Write nice words. I drive it around after, everyone sees it. And when we’re good and done with that show and tell,” he continued, fingers threading into your hair, “we take it in. You pick a new color. Any color. Change the seats if you want, too.”

“People will think –”

“People will think a woman loves me enough to key my truck. Do we have a deal?”

[crashingcryptid]

"Do you wish you were tall?"

Simon looks down at you, his eye narrowing at your completely straight face. "Wot?"

"Like, most men aren't really satisfied with their height. Do you wish you were, like, actually tall?" Your lips quirk slightly, betraying your joke to him no matter how hard you tried.

"Go find something to do before I choose for you." He orders dismissively, watching you scurry away down the hall. Sargeants these days have a lot or nerve. He always knew you were a little cheeky, but this was new.

"Hey Johnny, what would you change about yourself if you could? You know, besides the obvious?" Johnny almost answered you when his jaw snaps shut with a click of his teeth.

"Besides the obvious? Excuse me!?" He gives you a shove in the side when you double over laughing. He was no stranger to rage bait, he just wasn't used to someone giving it back to him.

"Oh, come on, you have to know you're a few inches smaller than Kyle." You tease while making a pinching motion with your fingers. Johnny tucked that away for later, knowing just how much he could make you scream. Your reign of terror never seemed to end; just little comments dropped here and there.

"Do you wish that you were athletic?" You asked Kyle after beating his PR during training.

"Do you wish you were still in your sexual prime?" You had interrogated Price over drinks, much to Nikolais amusement.

"You think I'm not still in it?" Price asks as he leans over the bar table, getting closer to your face. You flush immediately, mouth opening to maybe continue your joke when John presses his whisky glass to your lips. "Shh, shh, shh. Drink up." He insists, forcing the burning liquid into your mouth and down your throat.

"Such a mouthy little brat lately." Simon grumbles as he gently holds your head in place. "Just begging for some attention, huh? Have we been neglecting you?"

It doesn't take long for the boys to toss down their money, making their way out of the bar and back to base with you stuck between them.

"Take it, come on, you can take it just fine." Johnny chuckles as he presses you down into the bed. The other boys had the pleasure of watching your eyes cross, mouth dangling open as you cry out from each thrust. "Kyle just took you, so you should barely feel it, right? Since he's so much bigger?"

Oh, shit... he was still bitter about that?

"Slo - Johnny! Slow do -own!" You sob as he slams into your sweet spot over and over again. John could see you pleading for him to help. Begging dear old dad to rescue you from the absolute pounding you were receiving.

"I can't help you, sweetheart. I'm not in my sexual prime anymore. I'm sure you won't be satisfied with me." He shrugs, thanking Nikolai with a simple nod when he pours him another drink.

"Poor thing is fucked out of their mind." Simon chuckles when Johnny finally lets up, rubbing your lower back soothingly as he takes a moment to talk to you.

"How you feeling, Bonnie? Hmm? Need a break?" He whispers as he brushes hair away from your face, easing you onto your side.

"Water, Johnny..." You couldn't help but whine, snuggling into his chest when he carefully gathered you into his lap.

"Alright, alright... I've got you." He coos as he carefully helps you drink half a bottle of water. "Take is easy on em, would you, lad?" He teases as Simon stands to take you when he sees your ready.

"That anyway to talk to your uncle?" Simon grunts as he gives Johnny a slight corrective slap. "Just cause the little ones in trouble doesn't mean you can't be, too." He warns as he takes you into his arms. You shiver nervously when he pins you up against the wall, legs dangling in the air as the wrapped around his hips.

"You think I'm too short now, love?" He whispers as he lets you slowly sink down onto him. You gasp as your weight settles down on his cock, gravity forcing him deeper than you've ever felt. "Come on, I'm sure the grounds are not too far away. If you stretch your legs, you can reach." He coos with a groan thrusting up into you. "Go ahead and try."

[saturnfrisson]

poll winner is here! when you started dating an older man you thought his libido would be a problem. turns out, he might not be able to go multiple rounds, but he still has military grade self control and can keep himself from cumming for a long time. he decides it’s time to teach you just how good sitting on that edge feels.

Warnings: +18 NSFW, established relationship, afab but gn!reader (mention of cervix, clit, but no impreg talk), dom!price, lowk mean!price, but he’s also sososo sweet tho, old man price, age gap, edging (p to r), orgasm denial (p to r but neither of u finish so both?), gentle/loving sex with very light manhandling, emotional sex, size kink, dumbification, dacryphillia, cockwarming (duh), temp kink? price is a big guy and he’s got you pinned in prone bone so you’re not pleasantly cool, i’m a trans masc who loves a bear

The heat was what was making this so much more intense. The heat and the kindness. When he had suggested going this slow, you were almost ready to laugh. But you were curious, and he had purred sickly sweet words into your ears as he guided you to lay face down in the bed. He promised you this would be exactly what you needed. He was loving when he stripped you and spread you apart to gaze at your wetness. He was sweet when he first nudged into you hours ago, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into your hips. And now he was all you could feel, his weight pressing you down, the hair on his stomach scratching your back, and the thickness of him buried deep in your soaked heat. Holy shit, he was like a furnace against you, in you, and it was so suffocatingly good.

“You alright, love?” His voice is deep and rough, but it doesn’t carry the harshness of a captain. Instead, his words blooming comfort in your chest.

You whimper and nod, trying to find words. He’s already so deep and your brain is scrambling to process the overwhelming fullness he provides,“Please… ah!”

He slides (somehow) deeper, dragging along your oversensitive walls as your body takes him all the way. He’s balls deep in the wet mess between your thighs now, the head of his dick nestled in that little nerve dense pocket just below your cervix. You groan, head snapping up and hands clawing at the sheets.

“Oh,” John rumbles, “is that where you need me?”

You nod frantically, body jerking away from the sensation, confused but desperately wanting more.

Your hole spasms uselessly when he tuts, “Oh, poor thing, just relax and take it for me, love.”

He starts grinding slowly into you, and pleasure shoots through your legs and into your curling toes. What normally feels like rolling waves is now simply molten lava at your chore, aching and desperate and building but never seeming to peak.

“Please- Please- Please, please pleasepleaseplease.”

“Please what?” John hums.

“Please- I wanna cum!”

It’s not enough. As good as this feels, you can’t finish from it. There’s nothing on your clit, there’s not enough movement. And he knows this. Hes just making sure all your focus is on that slow, burning pleasure pooling through your lower body until your brain leaks out around his dick.

“No.”

“Why?” You whine.

“Do you feel good?” His voice is gentle, breath hot against your neck.

It’s not even a thought, “Yes.”

“Thank me for making you feel good.” His voice is less kind. Oh god, did you piss him off? He doesn’t like when you whine. You peek behind you the best you can, straining. He’s closer than you thought, blue eyes staring back at you. Their coldness takes you off guard. You’ve failed to respond at this point, and he stops grinding inside of you. Instead, he drops even more of his weight onto your hips. The added pressure makes you yelp, immediately responding to his demand.

“Thank you for making me feel good! Thank you so so much! Please don’t stop- Pleasepleaseplease!” You stare at him desperately, head scrambling for more ways to beg but coming up short.

He smiles again, “Well, since you told me to.”

He starts grinding into you again and your head stutters, neck trying to give up but body too distracted to relax. He takes care of the problem for you, of course. A large, warm hand comes up to cup the back of your head and buries it in the pillows again.

“Just relax, love. Just take it.”

You twitch under him, the absolutely melting heat in your gut is back and spreading faster than ever. The feeling is consuming, all encompassing, your world is completely overtaken by your fullness, all you can sense is him. It’s so, so good and suddenly you’re crying. Tears leak onto the pillow, seeping in and you panic. Why the fuck were you crying?

Immediately, the hand on your head moves to gently brush your sweaty hair from your forhead. He kisses gently from your temple to the corner of your eye, tasting your tears.

“Shh… you’re okay. You’re gonna be fine.” John’s mouth drops to your ear, his whole body caging you in, “Thereeeee you go.”

You feel kisses spatter along your neck, a nibble on your ear.

He eases the anxiety out of you, your slight turmoil giving way to the pleasure coursing through your body like a pulse. It’s amazing, it’s freeing, and you start to give in and move your hips in rhythm with his.

There’s enough movement between your hips now that you can hear the wetness leaking from you. It’s nasty, and it only makes your face get impossibly more warm. You had never felt anything like this before, and your muscles softened into mush.

“I’m so proud of you, y’know. You gave in so easily.”

He bites lightly at your neck then sucks the sting away.

“Now let’s see how long you can last.”

Authors Note: my dad is being an issue to my mental health again so we got old man price praise that is once again COMPLETELY self indulgent. sorry for the wait. love yall :((((

[nightly-poet]

late night rounds

spencer reid x f!reader [no use of y/n]

summary: you have a whole handsome man in your bed. what’s the most reasonable thing to do? right. playing GeoGuessr.

tags: fluff; humour; established relationship; mentions of sex; reader being extremely good in GeoGuessr; slight mention of reader being an actor (theatre)

notes: heyy! this is my first ever work i publish on this app, so pls be nice. english is not my first language, so when you notice any mistakes, i apologise :). pls interact if you enjoy this! I would love to read your comments to whatever I’m writing :) credits for the dividers go to @somebitchprobably-graphicdump - I love these A LOT

Spencer didn’t understand you at all. Well, he did. Of course he did. Usually. But not in this moment.

Because it’s just been roughly an hour since you both arrived back at your apartment building, still exhilarated after one of your successful plays on stage, the happy and carefree air between you two making it feel as if the night would never end.

And some moment between closing the front door and opening the one to your bedroom, your lips were pressing against his, and you both stumbled onto your bed, loosing his tie here and your bra there, ending up entangled and close and intimate with and to each other.

And then, after, you lied entangled in Spencer’s arms, skin touching skin still, the blanket covering both your legs and nothing else.

He could only hear your breathing, how it slowed down into a rhythm he knew, he recognised. From all the years spent with you, being close to you, recognising it like a pattern, like a habit, something as obvious as your eye colour or your favourite movie.

He fell into a light slumber, in the darkness of your bedroom and the comfort of having you with him. He was tired and happy and he definitely nodded off for — minutes? An hour?

He wasn’t sure. But it didn’t feel long. He still lied there just like he did when he fell asleep. The night still hasn’t fallen away to morning light, but he felt the shift.

You didn’t lie close to him anymore. Not with your legs entangled with his, or your face pushing closer against his chest, your arms around him. No. He felt cold. He never felt cold when sleeping with you. Maybe that’s what’s woken him up.

Or, it was the whispering. The mumbling, the ones sometimes coming from you when you were completely focused on something. He listened to them fondly whenever you learned the lines of your new play, watching you walking around the living room in focus.

His eyes cracked open only a tiny bit, sleep wanting to pull him back already. But there was a glow, faintly, and he blinked, and then recognised it as your laptop.

And then the confusion sat in. He blinked a few more times, lifting his head slightly to get a better understanding of the situation.

You were still in bed (lucky him!), half lying-half sitting, perched up against a pillow you stuffed in between your back and the headboard of the bed. Against your knees sat your laptop, screen brightness turned as low as possible.

He could make out your focused frown, the small crease in between your eyebrows, which appeared whenever you were thinking. Your fingers danced over the touchpad of your laptop.

What?

And then-

“Are you playing GeoGuessr?!”

You stilled. He noticed it in the way your fingers stopped moving, the way your frown eased off your face and in the way your eyes lost their focus for a moment. Then you carefully glanced over at him.

You thought he fell asleep.

Which he did. You’ve counted his breathing, noticed how it evened out. The way it always did when sleep pulled him under its spell. Just like his facial expression always seemed to soften, making him look even younger, softer, more innocent.

But he seemingly wasn’t that deep asleep yet.

Spencer could only look at you, confused and slightly offended, but with a hint of amusement.

Because — what?

His gaze flickered to the alarm clock standing on the nightstand behind you — 2:16 am. You both came home around midnight. You literally had sex maybe an hour ago.

And now you were playing GeoGuessr like you haven’t given him one of his best orgasms just an hour ago! Like you haven’t completely wrecked his mind with your soft body against his, or the way your fingers and mouth felt on him.

And now you sat there and played GeoGuessr.

“I can explain,” you said, but didn’t continue. You just stared at Spencer, and he stared right back, and the silence settled in between you two for a moment.

“Uh-huh,” was his dry response, and there came no answer from you. Well, you had one. You had the truth. But-

“I had to work on my high score.”

“That is your explanation?”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yep.”

You said it so easily. As if it wasn’t unusual at all. As if you did this regularly — playing GeoGuessr right after sleeping with him. Which…you didn’t do, right? …right?

“Do you do this all the time after having sex?” The question escaped him almost right after thinking about it.

He felt a slight blush rising to his cheeks at the picture of him sleeping peacefully next to you while you played GeoGuessr. Of him being completely out of it, head comfortably numb and body fully relaxed, while you seemed to still have enough energy to play some game.

You blinked at him through the dim light of your laptop screen.

“Yeah,” you answered, adding: “it helps me relax?”

You noticed the strangeness of your statement the moment the words left your mouth, resulting in it sounding more like a question. Spencer also seemed to catch up on that.

The softness of sleep still hanging onto his expression melted away to his usual sharp intellect, which was always the first warning of him rambling off about a topic-related fact he needed to share.

“Actually, after an orgasm, the body shifts toward parasympathetic nervous system dominance, while stress-related activity decreases. Neurochemically, there is increased release of oxytocin and endogenous opioids, along with a drop in cortisol levels. These changes reduce arousal, lower muscle tension, and promote a state of physical and mental relaxation.”

You blink at him silently, taking in his rambling. He blinked back, asking silently with his gaze if you understood.

“…what’s your point?” Yeah, you decided to do it the hard way. Even with his use of factual language, you still got the memo of his explanation. You just wanted to see how he’ll answer to that.

Spencer blinked back at you, silence remaining between you both for a moment.

“I gave you three orgasms.”

He didn’t say it arrogantly, or even proudly. He just stated it as a normal fact to undermine his explanation. Like an example for a thesis he just made. Maybe that’s the reason you’re the one blushing now.

“It’s just…a different kind of relaxation,” you answered, lifting your shoulders in an almost-shrug before letting them fall down again.

“A different kind,” Spencer repeated. You nodded. He just looked at you for a few more seconds, expression not letting anything through, except the face he made whenever he worked through a theory to understand.

Then he nodded back at you, slowly.

“Let me watch.”

He scooted closer slowly, eyes still on your face. Searching it for a small twitch that would indicate your disagreement. When he didn’t find any, he finally came to rest right next to you again, already feeling your body heat warming his own body.

You always ran hot at night, which was perfect for him — he always felt too cold.

Now he was the one lying his head on your shoulder, body relaxing, eyes finding your laptop screen. He blinked a moment at the sudden brightness in the dim room.

You glanced down at him for a moment longer, heart beating at the picture of him looking so comfortable leaning against you. With his eyes sleepily blinking against the bright screen, his brown hair in complete disarray and slightly tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.

You blinked, shaking your head slightly to focus back on the game, and you started another round.

Spencer watched you play for a while, slowly but surely getting familiar with the game. He never was one for computer games, or the internet in general, but he had to admit that this looked rather fun.

Like every time he discovered a game about knowledge, he was hooked.

But he also realised that you seemed to be really good. Like, not halfheartedly guessing halfway through, or hastily searching for any indication of language to narrow down the country you’re in.

No, you looked like you knew exactly what you were doing!

“How did you possibly figure this out?” His voice came out quiet, surprising both him and you. He didn’t even intend to voice this question.

“The pavement.” It was your only response, and he quickly glanced up at your face. But you looked serious, already focused on the next round. His mind pulled the picture of the pavement back up, trying to figure out what you meant by that.

Even a genius could learn something new!

“The pavement?” he asked slowly, glancing back at the screen. You gave a small humming sound in response, finishing the third round and winning — of course.

“It was Argentinian pavement.”

He would definitely read up on the different kinds of pavement around the world.