summary: The world as you know it is over - and you're looking to make a quiet exit on your own terms. Fate decides to intervene, forcing you to give life another chance. The road to the North is long and dangerous - but at least you're not alone anymore.
tags: apocalypse!AU (please don't ask me how the world ended, I literally do not know lmao), afab!reader (mentioned to have hair long enough to put in a braid/ponytail), emotionally exhausted reader, no use of y/n (sorry, I hate it), protective Jack Abbot, somewhat possessive Jack Abbot, unrequited (not actually) crush, age-gap (reader is about 20 years younger than Jack, he's in his late 40s), heavy angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, forced proximity, cuddling
warnings: apocalyptic/dystopian setting, depression, suicidal thoughts, mentioned attempt at suicide, Jack is initially a bit callous in this (he has a reason), a few very minor hints at a dom/sub dynamic, a lot of emotion - y'all these two are so sad and traumatized and so, so touch-starved,
word count: 3.7k
dividers: 1 / 2
fic playlist: 🛣️
ao3 account: 🍂
a/n: I swear this started out as a silly little idea and now it has gotten completely out of hand. As you can see, the fic will be split into five parts instead of just two. I had planned to work on all my broken heartbeats, but this fic just... wouldn't let me 😩 Far too many ideas for this world - and I wanted the build-up to the smut to really pay off. Part three will be posted today as well! Please remember that this is unbeta'd and that English isn't my first language. Mistakes are bound to happen and you're free to keep 'em ✌️ Also, blame Gracie Abrams new album for the many, many tears in this. Have fun!
previous part | next part
There’s a strange sort of tension in the air when Jack stands to collect his bike, pushing it into the bay. He goes through the bags affixed to the saddle with rigid motions, shoulders taut in a way that makes you uneasy.
You don’t move from your spot in the EMV, hands fidgeting with the threadbare hem of your shirt.
He pulls a creased piece of paper from one of the smaller bags, along with a pen. Prying the cap off with his teeth, Jack returns to your side and unfolds the paper on the floor of the ambulance.
It’s a map.
Or rather, two maps.
One shows the entire east coast, reaching all the way from Florida up to the New England states.
The second map is of Pittsburgh itself and covered in markings, abbreviations and symbols that probably make sense to Jack, but very little to you.
“Reaching Maine will only take a few days,” he says gruffly, scribbling an ‘x’ over the northernmost border on the bigger map.
“But I want to avoid the main roads as much as possible. And with how dark the nights get now, driving after sunset is not an option. We’ll have to refuel at some point too.”
Sensible. Confident. It’s just like Jack to know exactly how to navigate the country at the end of the world and without the use of technology.
Probably a skill that he had retained from his time as a combat medic. You and your friend had prepared for the trip to the Crossing, but the plan had mostly consisted of ‘choose a road and hope for the best’.
Not that sustainable in the long run, you realize now.
The former attending puts down a few more markings, then cranes his head to observe the sky and then the shadows on the pavement with narrowed eyes.
“If we leave now, we should have enough daylight left to get out of the city and onto Route 209.”
“Okay,” you agree quietly, swallowing the persistent and biting anxiety that crawls up your throat when he doesn’t answer.
Jack stows the map in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and steps away again to pick up the helmet he’d tossed. When he pushes it into your hands, your heart drops.
“Wait, what about you?”
Swinging a leg over the bike’s saddle, Jack gives a dismissive grunt. “We’ll find another one eventually. Get on.”
“But-”
He cuts you off with a stony glare. “Do not argue with me right now. Get. On.”
You scramble to your feet to get your backpack before sliding the helmet over your head, stepping up to the bike with shaky limbs.
You quickly realize that Robby’s refurbished Triumph seems more spacious than it actually is, even with the seat extending all the way to the back.
Your thighs bracket Jack’s, his body heat bleeding through his jeans and your brown cargos. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you tentatively settle them on his shoulders.
He immediately reaches back, wordlessly dragging them down to his waist and around to his stomach. Squeezing your wrists once, Jack lets go and kickstarts the bike with a single decisive push.
The two of you slowly roll out of the bay and towards the empty road, gaining more and more speed. When Jack turns a corner, you keep your eyes firmly on his neck and smother the overwhelming urge to look back one last time.
Instead, you shift closer to the firm body in front of you, leaving the ghosts of your past to the dust, the sun and their inevitable decay.
Jack weaves through pileups of abandoned cars and around crumbling buildings expertly, crossing the Rachel Carson bridge in less than fifteen minutes.
After that, you lose track of time.
The daylight is turning a rich, warm gold when you finally dare to glance behind you, watching the city skyline shrink and shrink and shrink. Eventually, Pittsburgh is nothing but a blurry shape on the vivid horizon.
Trees surround the deserted road stretching out in front of you, yellow and red leaves drifting in the mellow wind, joining their brothers and sisters sitting at the feet of their sturdy parents.
Beyond the colorful hills, the Allegheny cuts through the landscape like a band of liquid silver.
You’d almost forgotten how achingly beautiful the world can be. It’s a sobering realization, one that chips at the stubborn traces of sadness that remain in the space behind your ribs.
You almost want to point the picturesque scenery out to Jack, but you can tell that his temper hasn’t quite cooled yet. He keeps his eyes firmly on the road, not speaking a word.
Maybe you shouldn’t have told him about your plan after all, because you have no idea how to fix this.
You’ve never seen him so angry before – annoyed, yes – but never angry. The sudden distance between you is agonizing and enough to incite a whole new set of fears:
Fear that he might leave. Fear that you’ve disappointed him. Fear that he might hate you.
So, you rack your brain for solutions until Jack pulls over, steering the bike into a rest area that connects to the main road. A few rusty signs hang above the rough gravel, the letters almost faded entirely.
Beyond the treeline, the sky has turned lavender, deepening the shadows of the surrounding forest.
“Let’s stay here for tonight,” Jack mutters when you pull off the helmet and wipe at your sweaty temples. “There’s a small river nearby that we can use to clean up a bit. We should also refill our water supply while we’re here.”
You nod wordlessly and trail after him, down the narrow and winding path leading away from the rest area and further into the forest. Jack pushes the bike through the trees, glancing back once to make sure you’re still following.
You find yourself in a small clearing after a bit of walking, faint specks of fading sunlight dappling the roots and the mossy ground.
“This is far enough.” Jack rests the bike against a large tree and kneels to untie the bags from the saddle. “You got a tent with you?”
“No,” you murmur. “My friend and I used to sleep in cars and abandoned houses.”
Jack throws you a piercing look over his shoulder. “What friend?”
“She used to be my neighbor. Her husband and her kids left for an out of state trip before… before the end. We decided to travel together when the raids in Pittsburgh started. I- I told her to go North without me and that I’d catch up.”
Helpless, you watch as Jack stands abruptly, wearing a grim expression, a rolled up canvas tarp tucked under his arm.
“Go wash up,” he barks. “I’ll get a fire going.”
You flee from the clearing and towards the river with a pit in your stomach.
The pleasant gurgle of the rushing stream should be calming, but instead you immediately feel like crying again.
You messed up. You messed up and now he’s going to disappear-
Dropping your backpack, you sink down on one of the large boulders that sit at the muddy shore and slowly kick off your boots, every intake of breath uneven and far too strained.
Undressing feels almost impossible in this state, but you manage it eventually, leaving every piece of clothing on the boulder.
The icy water laps at your ankles when you wade in, clutching what remains of your stockpiled lilac soap. You dip under the surface without hesitation, tearing at the tie holding your hair back to let it drift in the gentle current.
Rivulets of water mix with fresh tears when you come back up.
A few lonely stars glint on the dimming horizon, the sight pulling a muffled sob from somewhere deep in your chest.
Foam burns your eyes when you start to knead soap into each tangled strand of hair and lather every last inch of your body until your lips are blue from the cold.
Skin chilled and scrubbed raw, you pull an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts from your backpack.
The soft fabric feels oddly foreign and exposing, but the thought of getting back into your sweaty day clothes is even worse. Retying your hair sounds equally draining, so you comb the dripping strands over one shoulder instead.
Knowing that you’ll have to face Jack again, you linger by the riverbank to gather the fragile remains of what used to be a steadfast fountain of courage and determination.
A small campfire crackles and spits in the center of the clearing when you finally make your way back, the tarp secured with a few thick branches a few feet away.
Jack doesn’t look up and pokes at the logs with a long metal hook, jacket and hunting knife discarded on the ground next to him.
You drop your things next to the bike and step closer to the fire, wrapping your arms around yourself.
Still nothing.
The tight press of your lips barely muffles the pained sound that claws past your vocal cords.
Jack’s head snaps up in alarm, eyes going wide as he takes in your crumpled expression.
“What’s wrong?”
You shake your head and dig your nails into your skin, leaving tiny bloody crescents.
The tears come whether you want them to or not and Jack is on his feet in an instant, stepping closer, only to freeze when you hold up a hand.
“Will you ever stop being angry at me?” you croak. “Because I need to know if I should prepare myself.”
He stares, shock written all over his features before morphing into something deeply guilt-stricken.
“I’m not angry,” Jack says softly. “I promise.”
“Then why-”
“Because you scared me,” he blurts out. “When you told me what you had planned to do – it fucking terrified me, the thought of you making that decision for yourself. It still does.”
More tears make their way down your cheeks and drip from your chin, hitting the dry leaves beneath your feet.
He’s by your side in a few long strides, calloused hands finding your waist to pull you into him. Pressing your nose into the collar of Jack’s shirt, you melt into the hug and wind your fingers into the fabric at his back.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have taken my fear out on you. It was unfair and cruel of me to somehow make you believe that you’re a villain for feeling helpless.”
Pulling back a little, he drags a thumb over your wet cheek. “Just… promise me that you’re not going to give up again, alright?”
Leaning into the touch, you close your eyes. “I’ll try.”
“Good girl,” he mutters.
A pleasant shiver goes through you at his words, though Jack doesn’t seem to grasp the connection. He gently pushes you towards the tent.
“Why don’t you warm up and get some shuteye? I already set up your sleeping bag.”
You frown. “What about yours?”
“Tent’s not that big. I’ll sleep by the fire.” He gives you a lopsided smile. “It’s fine. I’ve slept in worse conditions, trust me.”
“Jack.” You hesitate for half a second before reaching for his hand. “I don’t mind sharing.”
He worldlessly holds your gaze, something heavy and aching passing over his face. “...You sure? I want you to be comfortable.”
“I’ll be more comfortable knowing you’re close,” you admit.
The revelation immediately softens Jack’s tense posture, a slow puff of breath leaving him. “Go lie down, sweetheart. I need a wash first.”
Letting you go with a gentle squeeze, he gathers up a change of clothes and watches as you crawl into the tent to roll out his sleeping bag, eyes already drooping.
“Call me if you need me.”
You offer a drowsy smile. “Go bathe already, Dr. Abbot.”
“Bossy,” he rumbles fondly and walks off towards the river.
Moving to the edge of the tent, you settle your head on your knees and watch the campfire and the trails of smoke drifting towards the sky. The call of an owl echoes through the night, dragging you a little closer to sleep.
You spend the next few minutes dozing intermittently and staring at the dancing flames.
The crunch of leaves and old branches signals Jack’s return and you lift your head to watch him approach.
He’s changed into a comfortable looking pair of sweats and a well-worn shirt that clings to his freckled biceps in a way that feels entirely too inviting to your vulnerable mind right now.
He looks so cozy with his damp curls and tired expression – and you have to physically stop yourself from making grabby hands at him.
Your eyes connect across the fire and he stops in his tracks, chuckling quietly. “Thought you’d be asleep.”
“I wanted to wait for you.”
Jack drops onto his sleeping bag, stretching his right leg out in front of him with a pained groan. He lifts his sweats halfway up the prosthetic, then hesitates, searching your face.
“What?”
He gestures vaguely at the glinting aluminum and carbon. “You don’t mind if I…”
“Of course not,” you protest. “Why would I?”
Jack shrugs a shoulder. “Sometimes people get uncomfortable.”
“Nothing about you makes me uncomfortable.”
It’s far too close to what you actually want to say to him, so you leave it at that, busying yourself by fidgeting with a few strands of hair while Jack removes his prosthetic and the liner.
Rubbing the residual limb, he lets out a relieved sigh. “Fuck, that’s much better.”
“Does it hurt?”
“I’ve had worse days. After using it for twelve hours straight the pressure just gets pretty intense.”
“We should take more breaks tomorrow” you suggest, finding his hand again. “I don’t like the thought of you pushing through the pain for my sake.”
His thumb traces a slow arc over your knuckles. “...Thank you.”
A long yawn cuts off your answer and you rub at your heavy eyes until fluttery rings of static muddle your vision.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Jack says decisively. “Time for bed. We still have a few long days ahead of us and I need you rested.”
“Yessir,” you slur drowsily, crawling further into the tent and into your sleeping bag.
Jack follows suit and you immediately roll closer to tuck your head beneath his chin, one arm settling over the comfortable plane of his stomach.
He goes deathly still, swallowing audibly. “Sweetheart.”
You nuzzle the warm space between his neck and shoulder, inhaling the pleasant traces of whatever spicy soap he had used and deciding at that moment that you’ll blame the exhaustion in the morning.
“... Comfortable?” he asks, his voice just a touch strangled.
You hum your assent and Jack curses under his breath before settling his palm at the base of your spine, mapping every individual vertebrae over your shirt.
The deliberate, tender rhythm lulls you further towards oblivion, anchoring you in the dim twilight of the tent.
The last thing you feel as you drift off is the gentle press of his mouth to the top of your head and the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.
Birdsong wakes you the next morning.
Wind rustles through the trees outside, the sound mingling with the happy, melodic chirps and the distant rush of the river.
You take stock of yourself – of the warmth that has somehow seeped all the way to your bones, of the contentment that floods your body in pleasant shivers every once in a while.
Lashes fluttering open, you sigh, shifting against blood-warm muscle until the arms still wrapped around you tighten.
Somehow, you had managed to kick your sleeping bag off in the night, your left leg tucked over Jack’s broad thigh.
Your head is still on his shoulder and the hand that had rested on top of your shirt the previous evening has now slipped beneath, spanning the entirety of your lower back.
It should scare you, how easily the two of you fit together.
And yet it doesn’t.
Because for the first time in months, you had actually slept through the night. You hadn’t been woken by nightmares or visions of crumbling cities and incomprehensible violence.
Jack had always been good at providing the steadfast foundation you’d chased half your life, at making you feel safe and seen.
Independence shifts from freeing to oppressive when it’s the only certain thing supporting your existence - and you’d grown tired of it a long time ago.
You shift in Jack’s arms, enough to be able to look at his face.
He looks younger like this, unguarded. A stubborn gray lock has fallen over his forehead, giving him an almost boyish quality.
You smile a little at his soft snoring and tuck your hands against your chest to keep yourself from tracing the freckles decorating his storied skin.
God, it’d be so easy to get used to this - so easy to just accept that you’re already halfway in love with him.
To believe that this isn’t temporary and that he might want to keep you.
The rhythm of Jack’s breathing changes just a fraction, a small crease appearing between his brows.
“It’s rude to stare, you know.”
His voice is low and rough, still weighed down by sleep.
He cracks one eye open, crow’s feet deepening when he takes in the flush sitting high on your cheeks.
“I wasn’t staring,” you grouse.
“Right,” he smirks. “Must have been my imagination.”
“Go back to sleep, old man.”
Jack pinches the softest part of your waist in reprimand. “Mind your manners, you little terror. I reserve the right to revoke cuddling privileges.”
You sputter and scramble to sit up. “That wasn’t– you could have said something. If you were uncomfortable–”
“Hey, no.” He catches your wrist to trace the spot where your pulse is fluttering like a frightened bird. “I wasn't. Uncomfortable, I mean. Just… wary. And surprised. Definitely flattered. But never uncomfortable.”
Silence settles in the tent, heavy with unspoken implications that the events of last night are bringing into the light of day. And you want to tell him - you really do.
You want to lean down and press your lips to his and to tangle your hands in his gray hair until reality doesn’t seem so daunting anymore.
But sharing a moment of comfort is one thing – romantic feelings are another. The two don’t always coincide.
You can learn to live with platonic affection. You’ve always been good at compartmentalizing.
The rumbling of your stomach saves you from having to answer and Jack is kind enough to drop the topic with a fond snort. “Hungry?”
You nod, watching as he sits up as well, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up, giving you a faint glimpse of his stomach that shouldn’t feel as illicit as it does.
Averting your eyes, you crawl after Jack and out of the tent.
“Let’s get some breakfast into you.”
Breakfast consists of your compiled rations: crackers, beef jerky and a few bruised apples, washed down with peppermint tea over the gleaming embers of the campfire. You’d kill for a coffee, but you’re glad to be full at least.
After, the two of you prepare for the road ahead and you can’t help but bask in the little moments of intimacy that make the early hours glide like silk.
Shared smiles as you brush your teeth by the river.
Gentle touches to your waist when Jack walks past while you gather your things.
The way he watches as you braid your hair, making sure that every strand is tucked away before you secure the helmet under your chin.
Getting on the bike feels less daunting today and you don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around him this time.
Your days together are limited, with the Crossing marking the end. And you intend to soak up every last second until you have to let him go.
You ride for the rest of the morning, taking short breaks for Jack’s leg and to share a large bottle of water along with the rest of your cookies.
The temperature is a lot more moderate than yesterday, but there are dark clouds billowing on the distant horizon and a humidity in the air that feels oppressive. Jack checks the sky periodically, pushing the bike to its limits when the roads allow for it.
You stop at an old gas station and you’re lucky enough to scrounge up a bit of fuel from one of the pumps. Glancing between the bike’s gauge and the clouds, the former attending purses his lips, then runs a hand over his stubbled jawline.
“I don’t like this,” he mutters.
“Me neither,” you admit. “The last storm was bad enough to flood the streets for days. My friend and I had to leave a lot of our supplies behind to find shelter.”
Another unfortunate side effect that had arrived with the end of the world: changes in weather are unusually violent and tend to last long enough to make survival even more difficult. It’s not something you look forward to, especially with how terrifying your last experience had been.
Jack gives you a wary glance. “I have an idea. But it might prolong our trip, especially if the weather is going to make things difficult. We could try to reach New Hampshire today, though I’d rather not risk it.”
You tilt your head. “What’s your plan?”
“I own a cabin, up in the Catskills. It’s equipped with a generator, a reliable water collector and I stocked up on non-perishables a few weeks before everything went to shit.”
He clears his throat, eyes fixed on a crack in the asphalt. “I’m hoping that it hasn’t been touched by looters, since it’s pretty secluded. We can keep going and try to find shelter along the way, but I thought–”
“Jack.” He looks up at your quiet interruption and you smile. “I’d rather not swim to the Crossing. A safe place to wait out the storm sounds perfect.”
“You sure?”
There’s something strange about how he asks the question, something weighty that you can’t quite decipher - but it sends a bolt of heat right to your core, breath growing a little shallow.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
Jack holds your gaze for a moment that seems to stretch and stretch – then he wordlessly motions for the bike.
You climb back on, wondering why your brain feels like it's about to melt when he secures your hands right over his heart.
a/n²: Haha. Oh no. Whatever shall they do with all that time they have to kill now? 🤔 Well, I'm sure they can come up with a few activities that definitely do not require them to take their clothes off... 🤗 Toodles! 👋
summary: The world as you know it is over - and you're looking to make a quiet exit on your own terms. Fate decides to intervene, forcing you to give life another chance. The road to the North is long and dangerous - but at least you're not alone anymore.
tags: apocalypse!AU (please don't ask me how the world ended, I literally do not know lmao), afab!reader, protective Jack Abbot, also somewhat possessive Jack Abbot (not in a weird or gross way - think of him like a wounded guard dog), unrequited (not actually) crush, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, fluff
warnings: apocalyptic/dystopian setting, depression, suicidal thoughts, mentioned attempt at suicide, minor description of an injury that ends up being fatal, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (not the reader or Jack, but it's someone you know well - I'M SO SORRY)
word count: 2.1k
dividers: 1 / 2
fic playlist: 🛣️
ao3 account: 🍂
a/n: Hello, hello! I promise I'm still working on all my broken heartbeats, but my feed decided to bless me with this post this morning - shoutout to @polkadotkissed 🙇♀️ Technically this has been floating around in my WIPs for a few weeks and I've been annoying my friends with it (they're probably sick of me lol). So here we are, just a lil' something. Part 2 will come... whenever I find the time 🥴 Fair warning, this isn't beta'd at all, so you can keep any errors you may find. Have fun!
next part
The world did not end with a bang.
It went quietly.
Like a rattling, shallow breath exhaled after a a long and arduous struggle - not unlike the more unfortunate people you used to encounter in your line of work.
Not that it mattered now.
Humanity’s numbers had been halved in a single brushstroke, reduced to small enclaves that now lived in constant terror of what might still come to pass.
The Collapse, the survivors called it.
A mundane name for something so devastating, for something that had literally wiped most populations from the face of the earth - but maybe that’s just what history does: remembering humanity and its follies as nothing but names and dates and anecdotes that are fated to be forgotten.
You stare at your scratched-up hands, scorching afternoon sunlight beating down on your neck. You wait until it starts to hurt - then you look up.
High walls and faded yellow-beige paint. Ambulances parked in the bay, back doors almost torn off the hinges. Scattered gurneys sitting close to the entrance, covered in a murky layer of dust and debris.
And old blood, splattered on the baking pavement.
There’s an unnatural stillness hanging over everything - as if time had decided to forget about this place. Even on slow days, the PTMC used to burst at the seams with people coming and going constantly. Doctors, nurses, EMTs, social workers, admins, clerks.
All gone now.
You swallow, an uncertain kind of dread coiling in your stomach.
You don’t even know why you had decided to come back here.
Pittsburgh has been abandoned for months. After the initial panic, a period of anarchy had followed, keeping its iron grip until every hospital, every store and every gas station had been looted - emptied - top to bottom.
Now, the city is nothing but a hollowed shell, carved out by fear and desperation.
There had been no real reason to return. Your friend had told you as much, scowling over a meager breakfast made of canned apricots and chewy, but ultimately tasteless oat cookies.
"I thought you wanted to go north. Find the other survivors."
"I do."
She shakes her head. "Then why?"
"For me. For… for closure. There are so many things I regret not doing. Like not saying goodbye, and - and we don’t even know how long we can go on like this."
It’s not the whole reason. But you have to smudge the truth a little, or else you’d be dragged along kicking and screaming.
"You know I can’t wait for you. My husband, my siblings..." Your friend trails off, wringing her hands.
You reach over, settling a palm on her shoulder. "I know. The Crossing is your best hope. Swear I’ll try to catch up."
You can tell that she wants to argue, but she knows better than to attempt talking you out of it. It has never worked, even before the end of the world.
The two of you had said goodbye the next morning, parting just beyond the city outskirts. You’d made the decision to walk, leaving the truck you had scavenged a few weeks ago in your friend's care.
You won’t need a car where you’re going.
Heaven. Hell. Beyond.
Not that you exactly know what that will look like. But it can’t be worse than this.
Eyes still fixed on the ambulance bay, you manage a wobbly smile.
Maybe being here for the end does make sense.
The Pitt is the only place where you’d ever truly felt at home. A single year spent in the emergency department - and despite the stress, the daily chaos and the emotional strain it had been one of the best years of your (admittedly) short life.
You had actually planned on applying for an attending position here after passing your boards.
After proving that you were worth keeping.
Belonging.
That’s all you’ve ever wanted. And you’d found it with the night shift - with the weirdest and wildest of them all. With Lena, John, Parker, Crus and Mateo.
With-
The roar of an engine cuts through the vast silence, ripping you back to the bleak reality.
A large dust cloud billows in the distance, following the sound like a smoke signal. You take a few wary steps back, into the half-shadows of the ambulance bay, hand flicking to the worn bat fixed to your equally patchy backpack.
It’s a motorcycle.
Vintage and black, speckled with dirt and mud and covered in scratches, some deeper than others. Its rider - a man from what you can tell at this distance - is more of the same: a dark helmet obscures his face, leather jacket and fingerless gloves well-worn.
He stops in front of the bay, killing the engine.
Then he simply… stares.
Just like you had.
Head tilted back to take in the massive building in all its empty, sad glory. There’s something strangely familiar about the way he sits, about his posture, back ramrod straight and broad shoulders squared.
Finally, his hands lift, thumbs dipping beneath the helmet to keep a steady grip as he pulls it off.
You can hear your breath hitching, heart going still and ice cold for just a second before restarting at double the pace.
It can’t be.
You must be hallucinating. Dreaming. Going mad like so many others had in the past months.
You take in every facet, every minute detail, frantically trying to make sense of what you're seeing.
Salt and pepper curls. Sharp features. Pensive hazel eyes. Thick silver stubble.
It's him. It's him and he's not gone and he's here-
"Jack?" you croak, taking an unsteady step towards him.
His gaze immediately snaps over to you, hand flying to the handle of the sizable hunting knife strapped to his denim clad thigh. Suspicion morphs into apprehension - then recognition.
He rasps your name and the familiar sound of his smoky voice rips something in your chest wide open. Tears well up in your eyes and blur your vision, relief hitting you so hard its nigh painful.
He tosses the helmet and scrambles off the bike, almost tripping over his scuffed boots in the process.
You drop your backpack with a resounding thud and start running.
Jack meets you halfway, catching you in his arms when you collide into him, stumbling back a few steps from the force of it.
We’ve never hugged before, you realize faintly.
You’d shaken hands on the day you met. Had shared the cramped space around coding patients. Had sat together in the break room on nights that felt like treading deep, dark waters with no safe shore in sight. Had laughed over drinks in a bar while ignoring your squabbling coworkers around the pool table.
But you’ve never hugged. Of course you had wanted to.
A hug, a smile, a word, a single sliver of attention; anything from Jack Abbot would have been enough in the face of everything that had argued against the futile feelings that blossomed within a week of meeting and working with him.
Age. Experience. Actual rules put in place to prevent the abuse of power.
Attending. Resident.
Titles that mean nothing now.
The world as you know it is over - and it can ever go back to the way it was before.
You clutch the faded fabric of Jack's shirt, face buried in the solid curve of his shoulder as you start to sob. Months of repressed emotions crash over you like a violent tidal wave and pull you under. Grief that you had never fully addressed - that you had refused to touch - overwhelms every cell in your body.
Months of believing you would never see him again, that you’d die all alone-
His arms are a fortress, one wrapped tight around your middle and the other sliding up to find the back of your head, fingers threading through the strands of your unkempt ponytail.
"I thought you were…"
He trails off, voice breaking at the edges, and you pull back a little to look at him, to really look. There are deep shadows under his eyes and he seems even more exhausted than he had a year ago.
But his expression is open and utterly relieved, crows feet deepening as he holds your gaze with a brittle smile.
He's devastatingly, beautifully alive, heart beating hard and fast right beneath your trembling palm.
"Me too," you say shakily, wiping at your damp cheeks, at the tears that won’t stop coming. "I’m sorry, I don’t know why -"
"No, no, sweetheart-"
The term of endearment only makes you cry harder and Jack immediately tugs you back to his chest, stubbled chin dragging along your temple as he hushes you.
"You’re okay," he murmurs. "I’m right here."
You tighten your grip on him and let yourself break.
You cling to each other in the burning sunlight for what feels like hours.
By the time he gently guides you towards an empty EMT, you’re exhausted and all cried out, face sticky with dried tears.
Above, the sky remains frighteningly blue, utterly indifferent to how the entire world seems to have changed in an instant once again.
The two of you sit, and you drop your head onto Jack's shoulder as he reaches for your hand, fingers intertwining tightly between your bodies.
Thirteen months ago, you wouldn’t have dared. You would have flushed at the very idea of this kind of proximity to the man who signed off on your charts.
But he’s also still the man who brings you coffee in the morning, already splashed with your favorite creamer. The man who makes sure that you eat during busy shifts; and the man who insists on driving you home during the colder months, for 'his own peace of mind'.
Either way, you couldn’t care less about past boundaries, your nervous system deciding that feeling safe and settled for the first time since the Collapse is far more important than some arbitrary rules from a society that is now on the brink of extinction.
Jack stills for half a second before settling his cheek on your hairline, relaxing into the unexpected closeness.
"Didn’t think I’d find anything when I decided to come back here," he says quietly. "Least of all you."
"Neither did I." You swallow, trying to find the right words for what you’re about to confess.
There’s no sugarcoating it, no hiding. He’d see right through you, and you’re not keen on prolonging the discomfort any longer than necessary.
"I came here to… to end it."
"What?"
When you don’t continue, Jack squeezes your hand, almost to the point of pain. "Sweetheart. Tell me you’re not serious. You can’t fucking mean that."
"Maybe not," you murmur. "I’m just so tired, Jack."
"I know. But I’m here," he repeats roughly. "Alright? We're both alive and I’m going to make damn sure it stays that way."
"That sounds like a lot of rotten work for you."
"It’s not. I don’t-" He pauses to take a deep, steadying breath. "Robby didn’t… he didn’t make it, you know?"
He doesn’t meet your eyes when you gasp and jerk up, somber hazel flicking between the desolate city skyline and the motorcycle, still parked in a stretch of sunlight a few feet away.
"Idiot got hurt three months in. Cut himself on a rusty wire while we were climbing a fence." Shaking his head, Jack scoffs, the sound bitter and vicious. "It wasn’t even that deep. But it was enough for it to get infected a day later. He told me to take his bike and keep going."
He finally turns to look at you again. Pain, anger and determination is written across his features in equal measure, the intensity almost too much to bear.
"I buried him in the backyard of his house. The man I considered to be my brother. And I refuse to bury anyone else, you hear me?"
You nod meekly.
For a moment, Jack simply observes you, jaw muscles twitching ever so slightly. Then he reaches up to grip your chin, thumb on one side and the rest of his calloused fingers on the other.
You open your mouth to say something and Jack shifts his thumb to your lips, pressing down and giving you a severe, warning look.
"Your next words better be in agreement, sweetheart."
"Yeah," you manage, fresh tears burning your eyes.
Not because he’s actually hurting you, but because he cares enough about you to force the matter if need be.
To force you to live.
You let out a shaky breath. "...Let's head North."
a/n²: Oops. Apologies for the dramatics. Prepare for cozy/sad vibes and life-affirming smut in the next part. Toodles! 👋
summary: Joining the night shift isn’t usually a resident’s first choice, but Lyra Beaumont is exactly where she wants to be.
The Pitt is never quiet, never still and never fucking lets up - especially once the sun has set.
After a life lived in a permanent state of grief and silenced ambition, Lyra wants nothing more than to finally test her boundaries somewhere that isn’t Burlington, Vermont.
The fact that the annoyingly charming attending in charge of the motley group of ‘nightcrawlers’ is slowly working his way under her skin is an inconvenience she can deal with.
Probably.
chapter summary: The Pitt has become home, Jack Abbot and his charm complicate things and a dreaded phone call almost ruins a day off.
warnings: Description of a drug overdose, light description of injuries, tw: panic attack
word count: 5.6k
spotify playlist: 🩺
ao3: 🚑
a/n: Welcome back! Here's chapter 3, as promised. Warning: excessive thirst and appreciation for older men. I think that may be a staple of this fandom - or perhaps that's just me. Next chapter will likely drop next Sunday, unless something derails my plans. Have fun!
previous chapter l next chapter
Tell me something, boy
Aren't you tired trying to fill that void?
Or do you need more?
Ain't it hard keeping it so hardcore?
- Shallow by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper
As days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, Lyra finds her footing.
The very last remnants of summer have long since faded, piles of wet leaves lining the curbs and fog hanging over the city skyline more often than not.
She comes into work bundled in layers, rolling her eyes at the playful comments of her coworkers.
Sarcasm.
It’s the super glue that holds The Pitt together and the oil that keeps its hinges moving. That; caffeine addictions that border on concerning; and a team of nurses that doesn’t get nearly enough credit for all the bullshit they have to endure on a day to day basis.
Lyra has come to appreciate every strange and unexpected facet of this place - even the little jabs at her not being able to take the cold despite living in the North for most of her life.
Today, the early morning chill comes with a sense of foreboding that shifts to definitely concerning halfway through Lyra’s commute.
Thick, white flakes drift from the sky and catch in the harsh wind, eventually settling on the ground in icy sheets.
The steps leading down to the entrance of the ED are now a potential hazard in and of themselves, especially in the mid November twilight that seems to set in earlier and earlier with every passing day.
Lyra has never been more glad to arrive at the Pitt’s doors, breathing a sigh of relief when she ducks into the waiting room. It’s already packed, but she’s not surprised.
Emergency spikes during the colder months are common enough to be a problem for hospitals across the States each year.
Weather-related accidents and frequent virus outbreaks make for a terrible combination that has yet to be solved by the scientific community.
Lupe waves at her when she walks by and she gives the ward clerk a smile before shouldering through the doors at the back of the waiting room, hands clutched around a large drink carrier.
Her eyes flick between the beverages and the hallway as she weaves around people and beds, reaching the lockers in record time. The narrow space is just as busy with the night shift clocking in and the day shift clocking out.
Trinity and Dennis seem to be dead on their feet, clothes and hair akimbo. Mel and Frank are more of the same, but they seem happy enough to keep chatting with each other, voices hushed and eyes a little too focused.
Robby, as usual, looks like a wandering billboard for sleep deprivation. Still, he gives Lyra a friendly nod before disappearing into the crowd like a veritable ghost.
Setting the drinks down on an empty bed, the young woman swats a loose strand of hair from her cheek and pulls off her beanie, the thick wool damp and stiff with half-melted ice.
“Please tell me that’s coffee.”
Lyra grins and turns to face John, who is eagerly craning his upper half around his open locker door.
“Who says it’s for you? Maybe I’m only sharing with Parker.”
He gasps, one palm over his heart. “Now that’s just hurtful.”
With a roll of her eyes, Lyra peels off her coat. “I think you mean unrealistic. Only you could drink eight separate cups of coffee without dropping dead an hour later.”
“It’s a talent.”
“It’s concerning,” Parker chimes in, kicking her own locker shut with the heel of her foot. “Just like your obsession with Love Island.”
“Wow.” John shakes his head. “Is that how you talk to your attendings?”
“You’re barely an attending, man.” Parker takes the cup that Lyra is holding out to her. “And the day that I respect your authority is the day I die.”
The two of them keep bickering back and forth and Lyra knows she has lost any chance at having a normal conversation. Instead, she works her favorite soft pink sweater jacket over her scrubs, smiling fondly at their antics.
John Shen and Parker Ellis are two unapologetic oddballs that thrive in the singular atmosphere the night shift comes with.
Since her first day, they have made an effort to make her feel like she belongs here, like she has been their friend for years and not a measly few months. And Lyra loves the PTMC that much more because of them.
“Are they at it again?” Crus steps up behind her, watching the squabble with mild interest.
"Business as usual,” she sighs, handing him another cup from the carrier. “If they weren’t bloody good doctors, we’d get nothing done around here.”
“It gets worse when they’re drunk, trust me. Speaking of which… You’re joining us for drinks tomorrow, right?”
Lyra nods eagerly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Nice. You’re going to love The Warren.” Crus salutes her with his coffee. “First beer on me, I promise.”
“Make it something sugary and strong instead and I’m sold. I can’t stand beer.”
“Fair enough.” Giving John and Parker a final once-over, the fourth-year resident lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Wanna leave these losers in the dirt? It’s almost time for our huddle.”
“Definitely.” Lyra collects the drink tray and her stethoscope, following Crus down the hallway.
Seconds after they step into the heart of the Pitt, the frenetic energy in the air digs its claws in.
The evening shift change is rarely a quiet or clean affair and if she had to compare it to something, it’d be a struck beehive, ready to charge at potential intruders.
For just a few minutes, the cogs that run behind the scenes start squeaking and grinding against each other, turning the carefully constructed system on its head.
Chiming pagers, wheels rolling against freshly cleaned linoleum, the swell of too many voices speaking at once - perfect pandemonium.
Lyra breathes it in, happy to let her focus shift away from the clamoring chaos in her mind to the work ahead.
Soon, the hub comes into view, a small congregation already circling the west side, facing a single person at the center of it all.
Her steps falter briefly, both anxiousness and impatience twisting her previous relief into utter nonsense. Joining the huddle takes several steadying breaths on her part.
Fixing her eyes on the maddeningly calm eye of the storm even more so. A shiver rushes down her spine and Lyra knows it has nothing to do with the temperatures outside or the perpetual and necessary chill suffusing the ED.
No. It’s just him.
Doctor Jack Abbot.
Back resting against the tall counter framing the hub, the senior attending observes his surroundings with something that could easily be mistaken as indifference, arms crossed tightly in front of his broad chest.
Veins stretch over compact muscle, every free inch covered in freckles that seem more prominent under the fluorescent lights. They disappear into the short sleeves of his scrubs, charcoal fabric struggling to contain the imposing line of his shoulders.
Abbot lifts a hand to languidly run it along his chin and frowns a little before returning to his previous stance, probably realizing that he’d forgotten to shave.
The rich silver of his stubble is definitely a bit thicker today, accentuating every sharp feature and matching the rakish salt-and-pepper curls on his head.
Dark hazel sweeps across the room, assessing with a perplexing blend of pensiveness and austerity. Finally, they land on her - and Lyra can physically feel the way her breath hitches behind her ribs, his open scrutiny kicking her pulse sky high.
A lopsided, barely-there smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, two fingers lifting from his arm in a leisurely greeting.
Lyra bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper, hoping - praying - that her face isn’t as red as it feels.
There it is. Her very own kryptonite.
Jack Abbot has turned what was supposed to be a breath of fresh air into a daily struggle for oxygen - and she hasn’t known a minute of peace since their introduction. Since he’d winked at her, after practically forcing his kindness upon her unsuspecting heart in the form of fucking protein bars.
Which is probably the entire reason for this stupid, futile crush. If his looks were his only positive quality, she probably wouldn’t be as affected. As overcome.
A handsome man isn’t necessarily a good man, after all.
Unfortunately for her, Jack Abbot is competence and kindness rolled into a single alluring package, topped with a little bow spun out of razor sharp wit.
And the fact that he’s about twenty years older than her should have been a deterrent, but her brain apparently perceives this outrageous fact like catnip.
Quite the cliché, you silly, fatherless girl.
Lyra trails the tips of her tongue over the small bitemark in her cheek and buries the sardonic thought deep.
It’s going to be fine. She’s had crushes before and they’d all been replaced with less intense feelings and fizzled away into nothingness eventually.
Two months is a perfectly acceptable amount of time to pine after a good-looking man, even if said man is technically her boss.
So. She really has nothing to worry about.
The sound of Abbot clapping his hands together pulls Lyra from her pathetic attempt at self-persuasion.
“Alright, everyone, time to get serious; day shift is just about done here and with how the weather’s coming along, we’ve got a rough night ahead of us.”
There’s a noticeable change in the air, chatter dying down and focus reshifting to the man at the helm. They’re all listening intently and once again, Lyra wonders how he does it; commanding an entire room with a few simple words and his presence.
Handover details have never been more interesting and it's honestly a bit scary how good he is at keeping her focus.
She’s almost disappointed when the huddle ends, a swarm of black scrubs dispersing throughout the ED.
Crus and Parker head off to triage and John sidles up to her with a pleading look in his eyes. She can’t help but laugh, finally pushing an ice cold cup into his hands.
“It’s not Dunkin, but it’ll do,” he sighs after a few sips.
“Be thankful it’s not cafeteria dishwater.”
“Small mercies.” John’s eyes flick to a spot behind her and he smirks around his straw. “Well. Hope you have a good shift.”
Lyra doesn’t get a chance to reply to the weirdly ominous comment. John strolls off without another word, waving over Nazely and disappearing into one of the Central rooms.
She startles when someone touches her arm, instinctively taking a step back and bumping into a solid wall of warmth. Two hands settle on Lyra’s hips to steady her, but disappear as quickly as they came.
“Easy there.”
The low, familiar rasp almost sends her into a panicked spiral and she whips around, coming face to face with Abbot, who seems both taken aback and amused by her reaction.
“You good?” he asks, head tilted in that unnervingly attentive way of his.
“No,” she says, frowning at him. “You almost gave me a damn heart attack.”
Abbot chuckles. “No better place to have it, I’d say.”
“Oh, very funny.”
“Hilarious, actually.”
That gets a laugh out of her, surprised and bubbly, and much closer to a giggle than she would have liked. Lyra fights the urge to clap a palm over her mouth, but Abbot seems pleased by her mirth, crow’s feet deepening around his eyes.
And there’s the second problem: they get along. Even worse, they get along well.
Perhaps she should consider that a blessing. Being a doctor in the ED is hard enough without terrible superiors breathing down one's neck for twelve hours a day. Still, mutual dislike would definitely be much easier to distance herself from, emotionally and physically.
Lyra plucks one of the remaining cups from the drink carrier, offering it to him. “For you. Black, one packet of sugar.”
Okay, yes, she has his coffee order memorized. Sue her for being observant.
Their fingers brush for half a second, the faint touch lingering like a burn. She averts her eyes when he tips back his head to take a slow sip to minimize the risk of losing her metaphorical marbles entirely.
“Thoughtful of you, Droplet.”
The silly nickname brings a fresh flush to Lyra’s cheeks. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Not unless you finally start using that umbrella you claim to have,” Abbot deadpans. “I’ve yet to see you come in on a rainy day without looking like you’ve taken a quick dip in the Allegheny.”
Before she can say or do something about his relentless teasing, Lena speaks up from the other side of the counter.
“Guys, as much as I enjoy witnessing… whatever this is, we have a suspected overdose coming in. ETA six minutes.”
Abbot sighs, taking another generous sip before setting his cup down. “I knew this night would come out swinging. You ready?”
Lyra nods and stretches over the desk to shove the drink carrier into Lena’s hands with a little more force than strictly necessary.
She pointedly ignores the nurse’s quiet chortle as she snatches two pairs of gloves from a nearby dispenser and trails after Abbot towards the ambulance bay.
Their overdose patient arrives only moments after they step outside, two EMTs rushing to unload the unconscious young man from the back, another keeping her hands on the ambu bag over his face.
Both doctors immediately flank each side of the gurney to help push it up the ramp and through the doors.
“What have we got, people?” Abbot asks as they walk, voice steady and his stride composed.
“Twenty year old Oliver Benson. Was found by a friend on the floor in his college dorm shower, along with a few empty unlabeled pill bottles,” the EMTs with the ambu bag discloses. “Minor head trauma from his fall. Suspected overdose, pinpoint pupils and bradycardic at forty-seven. We administered four milligrams of naloxone at the scene and again en route, no response each time.”
They pass the hub and steer towards Trauma 2, where Lena and John are already waiting with a second nurse. They transfer Oliver to the patient bed and the EMTs move out of the way to make space for the doctors and nurses.
“Naloxone doses often have to be repeated up to three times,” Lyra muses, leaning over to check Oliver’s pupils again and to rub her knuckles over his sternum. “Pupils still at pinpoint, no response to pain. That’s a three on the GCS scale. FAST?”
“Fine for now. Negative on pericardial effusion and hemorrhaging in the belly,” Abbot continues from his side, eyes fixed on the monitors. “Lungs look good too. But his heart rate is at forty-seven, BP at eighty over fifty-five and dropping steadily. I’m thinking we should-”
“-push one more dose of Narcan, four milligrams. We’ll have to intubate if he doesn’t respond to it and if his BP keeps dropping though. I want him stable enough to get a CT and a comprehensive toxicology screen.”
John waits at the foot of the bed, looking between the two doctors with mild exasperation. “Why am I here, exactly? You two and your weird telepathy thing are clearly enough to handle this.”
Abbot’s pager chimes in and the senior attending takes a step back to peel off his gloves. “You’re taking over. It’s about to get hectic and I want to get ahead of the bedlam while we still can.”
The annoyance on his face melts away when he turns to Lyra, warm approval taking its place. “No notes, Droplet. Good job. Find me if something changes.”
She can’t help but bloom under his casual praise, smiling faintly as he leaves the room. When she shifts her attention back to Oliver, she briefly catches John’s and Lena’s expressions, both of them looking a little too pleased with themselves.
“Not a word,” she warns quietly, snatching the nasal spray from the tray that Lena holds out to her and renewing her focus with the determination of a woman that has had enough teasing for one day.
This is the third problem. The flow.
Working with Abbot shouldn’t feel as natural as it does. In her experience, attendings can be a little peculiar with how they approach and practice their medicine. Back in Burlington she always had to make sure to not step on anyone’s toes.
Avoid friction; speak only when spoken to; make sure to adapt to whoever is in charge.
Abbot isn’t like that. He values his team’s input and isn’t above exploring new avenues, wholly focused on whatever is best for the patient.
Which is why she feels so comfortable in the strange, intrinsic rhythm they’d established during her first week - but it’s also something their coworkers like to point out frequently enough for it to be embarrassing.
She’s learned to live with the ribbing.
For the most part.
After stabilizing Oliver and leaving him in the care of the nurses for a while, the rest of the shift continues in the same consistently chaotic manner. Lyra moves on to other patients, going from North to South more times than she can count, feet aching by hour five.
A teen with food poisoning. Three separate car crashes. Multiple people with a nasty strain of influenza. A man with an impaled shoulder (by an icicle of all things).
Abbot accompanies her on some of the cases, but his responsibilities always demand his attention elsewhere. She almost prefers it that way, despite their effortless work dynamic.
At some point, when her defenses are crumbling from the constant ebb and fall of adrenaline, thinking becomes harder with him in the same room. Especially because he tends to hover in that infuriatingly calm demeanor, leaning over her with his hands clasped behind his back.
By the time seven am rolls around, she can practically hear colours and taste sounds, packing her belongings while yawning intermittently.
“We’re still on for today, right?” Parker asks from her locker, one earbud already in and chewing around a bite of a turkey stick.
Lyra gives her a tired thumbs up. "Swear I haven’t forgotten; The Warren, eight pm. I just need to sleep off this shift first.”
With a final wave goodbye, the young woman makes for the exit, high-fiving Dana and Princess as they pass - and completely unaware of the curious hazel eyes following every weary step until she’s swallowed by the pale gold morning light.
Pittsburgh has been entirely consumed by crystalline white when she gets out of bed in the afternoon.
Lyra sleepily observes the snowfall, wiggling her toes in her thick socks and warming her hands around a steaming cup of sweet raspberry tea. North snoozes on his fluffy hammock by the windowsill, occasionally purring and kneading his paws like he’s late for work at the kitty bakery.
Lyra can’t remember the last time she’s had two days off in a row. Truthfully, she barely knows what to do with herself, still reeling from the past week and trying to decide whether or not she’s actually enjoying the unfamiliar peace.
Her phone rings and she flinches at the sudden noise, scrambling to fish it out of the pocket of her well-worn bathrobe.
One glance at the screen and Lyra’s heart drops, a vicious chill crawling down her spine, cold enough to rival the winter wonderland outside.
A faint tremble grips her hand when she raises the phone to her ear.
“Mom.”
“Finally. Dear, I’ve been trying to call you all morning, what in the world have you been doing?”
“...Sleeping,” Lyra bites out, hating the way her patience is already teetering on an edge that is growing thinner by the minute. “You know I work the night shift.”
“Oh.”
Yes. Oh.
Nothing but a single syllable, no apology, no acknowledgement of how many things her mother forgets or outright avoids. It’s a never-ending story she’d rather rewrite or recontextualize, but there have been very few points in her life during which she had felt like the all-knowing author instead of the helpless observer.
“What do you want?”
“...I just - Your sister misses you.”
Her heart lurches painfully at the mention of Willow. She’s never been this far away, has never gone more than a day without talking to her before moving out here. But the distance is necessary and long overdue at this point - for all of them.
“I’ll call her tomorrow. I have to get going soon.” Lyra hesitates, then presses on. “You should spend more time together right now. Take her shopping for college supplies or something.”
A pause at the other end of the phone. “Yes, perhaps. I’ll ask her later.”
No, you won’t, Lyra thinks resignedly and closes her eyes to stall the emotions threatening to claw their way up her throat.
“Right. Well. Talk to you later.”
She hangs up before her voice can get too choked up, tossing the phone onto the couch and staring at it in the deafening silence that follows.
Guilt and frustration churn in the yawning pit of her stomach, overpowering the fragile hope that had settled there in the past few months.
Suddenly, the walls of her apartment feel too narrow and too wide at the same time. Fingers flying up to the pendant around her neck, Lyra steadies her breathing.
Slow. In and out. Count.
Five things you can see.
Four things you can feel.
Three things you can hear.
Two things you can smell.
One thing you can taste.
Don’t look back.
There is an indent in her thumb when she’s finally able to drop her shoulders. North is watching her from his hammock, blinking slowly. Lyra furiously wipes at her burning eyes, managing a wobbly smile.
“Yeah. I know. Love you too, boy.”
She stumbles out of the room, feet unsteady in a way they haven’t been in a long time. It’s not fair that she has to remember today of all days and the injustice eats at her, mean and persistent and aggravating. Today is supposed to be about having fun - and she’s not letting this get to her. Not again. She’s just not.
Lyra readies herself for her night out with a fury.
Smokey eyeshadow. Bold lip gloss. Faint touches of glitter on her cheekbones and lashes. A snug maroon turtleneck dress. Tights with a pretty floral pattern. A pair of boots with golden accents that she hasn’t worn before.
After putting on her favorite earrings, Lyra observes herself in the mirror, hands smoothing over the pleats of her dress.
“There you are,” she breathes. “I recognize you.”
Not a sad little girl with a grief so loud that she can’t hear herself think. Not an anxious teenager with a mountain of responsibilities that shouldn’t be hers to carry.
Just a woman in need of a goddamn drink.
“Holy smokeshow.” Parker lets out a low whistle, eyeing Lyra from her spot in the leather booth. “You clean up well, my friend.”
Multiple voices chime in in tipsy agreement and the young woman sheepishly waves them off as she slips into the empty seat next to Mateo, who lifts his beer bottle in greeting.
“Enough already. You can’t shower me with compliments when I’m still sober.”
From across the table, Astrid Erikkson gives her an easy grin as she leans into John’s side. “Just enjoy the attention, honey. It’s good practice for them. The nightcrawlers don’t get out much.”
Lyra tilts her head. “Is that why you switched to days?”
Astrid shrugs. “I switched because I have six siblings that need constant supervision, or else I would come home to utter chaos.” Reaching up, she gives John’s hair a little tug. “And because I couldn’t possibly date this guy if I see him twelve hours a day. Gotta keep the balance, y’know?”
John’s expression goes a little slack and Lyra hides her snicker in the palm of one hand.
She’s always liked Astrid, even though they only ever see each other during handoffs. It’s an open secret that her and John have recently become an item - and the entire ED is already placing bets on how long it’ll take the man to propose.
Parker makes a face. “Ugh. You two are disgusting.”
Crus pushes himself out of his seat, looking expectantly around the table. “Aight, I’m getting more drinks. What do y’all want?”
As the group rattles off their orders, Lyra takes the opportunity to look around the bar. The Warren is a moody little spot, the dark wood panelling and fun art on every free wall space strangely cohesive.
Lived-in.
Every seat at the bar is taken, animated chatter and the sound of clinking glasses mixing with the music coming from the overhead speakers.
Yeah, she loves this place.
A few minutes later, Crus sets a chilled glass down in front of her, the baby pink liquid inside sloshing invitingly. An equally colorful paper umbrella and a juicy orange slice on the rim complete the picture of a perfect cocktail.
“A Cosmo? Really?”
Lyra sticks her tongue out at John. “Leave me and my effeminate drink choices alone.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Carrie Bradshaw.”
Astrid digs her elbow into John’s ribs and gives him a reprimanding look. “Don’t be mean now. I want her to actually come out with us again.”
“Oh, she will.” Parker bares her teeth around her glass. “Especially now that we have a new bargaining chip.”
Lyra’s brows knit into a confused frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“What, you’re actually telling me you didn’t notice him the moment you walked in?”
Oh no.
“Notice who?”
Astrid reaches over, gripping Lyra’s chin and angling her head towards the direction of the bar.
It takes her mere seconds to spot him, sitting at the far end and facing their booth.
Salt-and-pepper curls. Silver stubble. A white shirt that clings to bulky biceps and shoulders in a way that should not be accessible to the general public. A lowball glass dangling from his fingers as he swirls it lazily.
Jack Abbot.
God dammit.
Lyra flings back around to hiss at her friends. “Why is he here?”
“We don’t know,” Mateo says, his tone a touch too gleeful. “He came in fifteen minutes after we did. In all the years I’ve worked with him, Abbot’s never been in here. I think he usually frequents a different bar.”
“He probably needs more time to ogle,” Parker adds derisively. “Twelve hours can’t possibly be enough when it comes to his favorite new resident.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lyra shakes her head. “He must have overheard us talking about this place and wanted to check it out himself.”
A collective groan passes around the table and Mateo pats her arm with a placating smile. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Thankfully, the teasing eases to an acceptable baseline after that and her friends move on to different topics.
She’s trying her damndest to join in, to let herself get distracted from the way the room’s center of gravity seems to have shifted.
Lyra chances another look at the bar, almost knocking over her second Cosmo when her gaze connects with Abbot’s. His mouth twitches, then he returns his attention to the TV screen on the wall and the baseball game running on it.
The young resident stares down at her nails, wondering if walking into traffic right now would put a damper on the mood.
Astrid drops into one of the empty chairs next to the table, making her flinch. “What was that?”
“Nothing?” Lyra offers meekly, knowing full well that she isn’t making a very convincing case for herself.
“Oh, girl, you’ve got it bad.” The other doctor waggles her brows and lowers her voice. “I get it though. Abbot is kind of intense - and annoyingly charming. I suppose it also helps that he’s got the whole silver fox thing going for himself.”
Lyra hesitates for a brief moment, then quite literally deflates against the booth, clutching her drink like a lifeline. “It’s so stupid. Every time he enters a room I feel like my brain is leaking out of my ears.”
Astrid’s expression swims between sympathetic and deeply entertained. “Sounds painful.”
“It is,” Lyra says emphatically. “Have you seen his arms? It should be illegal for a man to look like that and to also be disgustingly competent to boot.”
“Think he knows you feel that strongly about him?”
The young resident blanches. “God, I hope not. He’s my boss - the fact that I’m even thinking about these things is problematic.”
Astrid makes a dismissive sound. “It’s not unheard of, you know. Especially between doctors. High stakes environments make a perfect breeding ground for… illicit attractions.”
Lyra downs the rest of her Cosmo, glancing over to Abbot again. He’s still nursing his own beverage, blissfully unaware of how distracting he is.
Her head swims slightly, the pleasant buzz from the alcohol quickly dismantling reason and common sense.
“I’m getting another drink,” she declares, getting to her feet and walking towards the bar before Astrid can say something to stall the sudden, alcohol-induced recklessness.
She could squeeze between the obnoxious group of college kids crowding the center to place her order. And she probably should.
Her legs and the floaty sensation at the back of her skull decide differently. They decide that right next to Jack Abbot is far better.
Lyra can see him pause mid-swallow in her periphery when she leans onto the wooden surface to wave at the bartender.
“I’ll have another Cosmo.”
“You can put that on my tab,” Abbot smoothly cuts in. “And I’ll have another Macallan. Neat.”
Lyra turns to find him already looking at her, quirking a single brow.
“...What?”
She grins. “Fancy seeing you here. Even fancier that you’re paying for my drink.”
The attending observes her for a moment, then laughs under his breath. “Fancy? Droplet, are you drunk already?”
“I’m tipsy,” she asserts. “There’s a difference. This is my third Cosmo.”
“... Jesus, you’re a lightweight.”
“Hey. I take offense to that.” Lyra points a finger at him. “Also, you don’t get to tease me when I’m off shift.”
“...But I get to when we’re on shift?” Abbot gives her a faint smirk. “Good to know.”
Lyra sputters, infinitely grateful when the bartender sets their drinks down. Taking a long sip, she decides that not answering at all is probably in her best interest. Thankfully, Abbot lets it go and gestures at the pink concoction in front of her.
“Didn’t peg you for the type to drink Cosmopolitans.”
“I contain multitudes, Doctor Abbot,” she says primly.
The attending chuckles. “Yeah. Startin’ to see that.”
After taking a swig of whiskey, he pauses, the press of his lips thoughtful.
“Jack is fine, by the way.”
Lyra stares at him, wide-eyed. “Come again?”
“My name?” he clarifies wryly.
“I know that’s your name.”
“Good. So use it. Maybe not in front of patients, but no one from the night shift calls me ‘Doctor Abbot’ in private. Except maybe the interns. I feel like a goddamn despot every time you do.”
Condensation clings to Lyra’s fingertips as she fidgets with her glass, a beat of silence passing between them before she finally musters up the courage to speak again. “Alright. Jack.”
The shape and taste of his name lingers on her tongue, oddly visceral and yet - right. Something severe passes over his face, gone as quickly as it came, and she wonders whether it had been there in the first place.
Just another thing to add to the ‘Jack Abbot’ folder, marked with bold and bright letters and tucked into a carefully sectioned corner in her mind.
Angling his body on the chair, he shifts the heel of his right boot against the scuffed, sticky floor and the dark-washed denim of his jeans rides up, carbon fiber and aluminum glinting in the dim light.
Jack glances down when she does, scoffing a little.
“Gruesome, huh?” He’s smiling again, but there’s a self-deprecating edge to it this time.
“...Actually, I think it’s kind of badass."
Her answer seems to catch him off guard. Jack stares Lyra down, as if trying to gauge whether she’s being serious or not. For once, she doesn’t squirm under the weight of it, feeling strangely bereft when he finally looks away to down the rest of his drink.
Clearing his throat, the older doctor pushes off the chair to fish out his wallet, sliding a fifty dollar bill under his now empty glass. Tendrils of mild panic stir in Lyra’s gut as she watches him pull on the thick jacket he’d tossed over the back.
God, she shouldn’t have said anything, he’s probably weirded out -
Jack’s heavy palm lands on her shoulder, cutting through her derailing thoughts, fingers squeezing once as he leans in just a fraction.
“Have a good night, Droplet.”
He walks away before she can get a single syllable out, still clutching her Cosmopolitan. Lyra watches him go, trying not to feel disappointed when he doesn’t look back even once, disappearing into the dark like some sort of figment of her overactive imagination.
Suddenly, she’s stone cold sober. Her friends are still at the booth, laughing and chatting away, and the prospect of joining them appears daunting in light of what had just transpired:
Somehow, she’d managed to repulse the most attractive and even-tempered man in all of Pittsbugh. To the point where he had to literally escape her company.
Lyra drops her head into her hands, letting out a quiet groan.
Way to go, foolish girl.
a/n²: We have a nickname! 💧 Also, prepare for constant misunderstandings and emotional whiplash. These two may be intelligent, but they rolled very low on wisdom 🧙 (get it?)
The lovely Astrid Erikkson belongs to the friend who got me into The Pitt (and has witnessed my descent into madness over Shawn Hatosy firsthand). She loves Jack, but she's also a big Shen-enjoyer. Here's to you, babes 💖
By the way, the amount of research I did for this chapter gave me a headache - you can keep any inaccuracies you may find 😭
summary: Joining the night shift isn’t usually a resident’s first choice, but Lyra Beaumont is exactly where she wants to be.
The Pitt is never quiet, never still and never fucking lets up - especially once the sun has set.
After a life lived in a permanent state of grief and silenced ambition, Lyra wants nothing more than to finally test her boundaries somewhere that isn’t Burlington, Vermont.
The fact that the annoyingly charming attending in charge of the motley group of ‘nightcrawlers’ is slowly working his way under her skin is an inconvenience she can deal with.
Probably.
chapter summary: Jack Abbot and his Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Instant attraction is so inconvenient.
warnings: Brief description of a mass casualty and subsequent injuries/death
word count: 2.8k
spotify playlist: 🩺
ao3: 🚑
a/n: Chapter 2 - apologies for my shitty humor and the excessive pining 🤷🏼♀️
previous chapter l next chapter
I think I'll take my whiskey neat
My coffee black and my bed at three
You're too sweet for me
You're too sweet for me
- Too Sweet by Hozier
Jack stares at the screen above the hub like it has personally offended him.
And in a way, it kind of has - because he’s not even supposed to be fucking in today.
It’s his day off and he’d made plans.
Give his sore leg an actual break. Order a ridiculous amount of takeout. Binge a few extremely boring documentaries about sharks or something.
At 3PM the persistent beeping from his pager had woken him from a very pleasant afternoon nap in front of the TV. Robby had called only minutes later, apologetic, but insistent that they needed all hands on deck.
A mass casualty close to Lawrenceville, involving a drunk driver who’d swerved her car into a crowded shopping street. She had died on impact when she t-boned a food truck, leaving behind a trail of utter destruction.
The aftermath is this: five lost; eight with injuries bad enough to warrant a few hours of observation; and about eleven more critically injured and barely stabilized.
Many of the latter should have been in surgery hours ago, but Walsh had told them after the third wave of people being rushed in that they’d have to make do for a while.
He hates MCIs. He fucking hates that phrase. Make do. He doesn’t want to make do, he wants to send people home to their loved ones. Preferably alive.
Jack takes a slow slip from his nondescript cafeteria cup, shivering in disgust at the lingering taste of cold coffee as Dana and Lena chatter away at their desks.
Too busy thinking of plausible strategies for the next few hours, he only half listens to the conversation, catching bits and pieces here and there.
"Ya got any of that, cowboy?"
Jack hums distractedly, barely registering the words. A few beats of silence - then a balled up piece of paper hits him squarely in the forehead, pulling him back to the present.
He frowns over at Dana. "…Really?"
"That’s what you get for pissin’ me off this close to the end of my shift," she retorts with a roll of her eyes. "You need to lock in, Robby and I will be outta here in a few minutes and we still haven’t cleaned up this mess."
"I’m well aware, trust me." Jack downs the rest of his drink, chucking the empty cup into a trash bin. "Any ideas, Lena?"
The night shift charge nurse keeps her focus on the tablet in her hands. "Pray and hope for the best?"
"Not the answer I wanted to hear."
Lena shrugs. "It's the best you’re gonna get at this point. We need the entire team here to come up with a plan or this night is going to go downhill fast.”
“You mean more than it already has?” Jack braces one arm on the tall desk to lean forward and cast a glance around the mostly empty hub. “Speaking of the team, where the fuck are they?”
“Doing damage control,” a familiar voice cuts in. They all turn to look at Robby, who seems to have aged about a decade in the past few hours as he walks up from the south side rooms.
“Damage control,” the attending repeats, dropping into an empty chair with a tired groan and rubbing at his temples. “Ellis and Henderson are trying to get things moving upstairs and Shen is contacting families. Most of the day-shift is getting ready to finally leave. And I’m this close to committing a murder.”
Dana clicks her tongue. “Gloria?”
“No comment,” Robby says with a grim shake of his head and swivels the chair around to face his friend. “You good to take over, brother?”
Jack waves him off with a lazy gesture. “Yeah, I got it. Can’t get any worse at this point.”
“Well, you’re getting backup, so probably not.”
“Backup?” Jack repeats, confused. “What backup?”
“Lena and I were talkin’ about that earlier - which you would know if you hadn’t been busy gapin’ at the board,” Dana explains, eyeing him impatiently over the rim of her glasses. “You’re getting a new resident, since Astrid is switching to day shift. Third year transfer from Vermont. She sent in three separate letters of recommendation - and she specifically requested the night shift for the foreseeable future.”
Odd.
More often than not, even PGY-3 and PGY-4 residents have to be strong-armed into taking the night float rotations. They’re one of the most intimidating parts of residency, coming with a whole set of new rules and strategies that are a world apart from how hospitals operate during the day.
Some break under the unfamiliar pressure, some learn to love and embrace it.
And despite everything he’s seen and done during his career, despite the blood and sweat and tears he has poured into this job, Jack still counts himself among the latter.
Before he can ask any more questions, his eyes snag on something - someone - across the room, just beyond the hub, cutting off his ability to speak with a finality that borders on violence.
The others follow Jack’s fixed gaze and Dana chuckles. “Well. Speak of the devil.”
His brain doesn’t even register the comment, too busy idling in a state of complete and utter stupor.
She’s drenched.
There are damp spots on her washed-out jeans, leather boots leaving faint tracks as she weaves through the ED chaos unhurriedly, a worn backpack slung over one equally wet shoulder.
She must have gotten caught in the storm that had been brewing outside for a few days - and yet she doesn’t look put off at all.
There’s a single small furrow between her brows as she wrings rainwater from her blonde hair, tied into a high ponytail at the back of her head. A few loose strands frame her cheekbones, flushed from the cold.
Jack can’t tear his eyes away, rooted to his spot by the desk as he frantically takes in every inch of the young woman - as if that could somehow throttle the ridiculous speed of his racing pulse.
With every step that she's coming closer, he can make out more and more minute details that definitely should not matter to him.
The way her fingers pick at the soft cream fleece of her jacket, nails painted in an endearing shade of lavender. The way her lashes flutter as she glances up into the harsh fluorescent lights. The way her tongue runs along her pink lips to catch the residue wetness that is trickling from her hairline.
He can’t tell if it has been seconds or hours when she finally reaches them, glancing apprehensively between the two doctors and the two nurses.
The color of her eyes swims between soft blue and light green - vibrant and oddly familiar, like standing on an ocean shore and watching the rippling waves on a warm summer day.
And when her gaze meets Jack’s, everything screeches to a halt momentarily.
No beeping machines, no whirring fans, no thoughts, no space in his head aside from-
Dana kicks Jack’s good leg, forcing a low grunt of pain from his throat.
It does the job of dragging him back to reality, but a disconcerting sensation remains somewhere behind his ribcage that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
“Hi,” the young woman says, offering a diminutive smile. “The nice lady at the front let me in - Lupe, I believe? She told me to come here. I’m Lyra Beaumont; I’m supposed to start with the night shift today.”
There is a barely audible lilt in her voice, something pleasantly crisp and decidedly non-american.
“Oh, we were just talkin’ about you, buttercup,” Dana coos, motioning for her to join them behind the desk. “Looks like you didn’t check the weather report, you poor thing.”
Lyra’s smile grows bashful, one of her hands coming up to fidget with a delicate, golden pendant around her neck. “To be honest, I completely forgot to take an umbrella. I only arrived in the city yesterday and my new apartment is currently a very confusing labyrinth of boxes.”
The rest of the team introduce themselves to her one by one and when it’s Jack’s turn, he offers her a handshake and is more than a little relieved to see that his fingers remain steady.
“Jack Abbot,” he says, expression schooled into one of friendly nonchalance. “I’m the senior attending in charge of the night shift. Good to have you with us.”
“Happy to be here,” she retorts softly, moving a bit closer to take his hand.
Their palms connect first and his fingers close around hers second. Warmth meeting cold, callouses chafing against soft skin.
Jack follows the urgent need to reclaim a bit of distance after, taking half a step back. Robby shoots him a discerning look, but thankfully keeps his mouth shut.
“Let me show ya where you can put your stuff and get a pair of scrubs, I gotta head out anyway. Lena can give you your badge once you’re settled.”
Dana pats Jack’s arm as she moves past him, gently dragging Lyra along and striking up a quiet conversation. The two women soon disappear around the corner, leaving their coworkers in a weighty, damn near judgemental silence.
Robby is the first to crack, barely contained laughter shaking his shoulders. “What the hell, man?”
Jack stares him down, arms crossing over his chest defensively. “Got no idea what you mean, brother.”
“Right,” Lena deadpans. “You still have a bit of drool on your mouth, by the way. Might wanna clean that up before she comes back. And keep the intense eye contact to a minimum while she shadows you for the rest of the week.”
God.
Sweat sticks to the hand he threads through his curls, head tipping back defeatedly with the agitated motion. Robby muffles a snort in the collar of his jacket.
It’s going to be a long fucking night.
As always, Jack’s instinct doesn’t fail him. Not that it ever has, but maybe he would have liked to be wrong this time.
When she returns, Lyra is wearing a pair of fresh scrubs and her stethoscope over what looks to be a ribbed turtleneck.
But that is not what solidifies the sobering conclusion that he’s completely done for. It’s the anticipatory, eager glint in her eyes as she adjusts the form-fitting sleeves and takes her badge from Lena.
“I hear I’m supposed to keep close to you for a while,” she remarks, clipping the plastic rectangle to the pocket at her waist before tilting her head at him.
It’s entirely innocent - sincere even - and yet the worst and best thing to happen to him in a long time.
You’re on the threshold of your fifties, for fucks sake. Get it together.
“Just for this week,” he clarifies, glaring briefly at Robby who is still lounging in his damned chair, watching them like a hawk and apparently having the time of his life with his friend’s budding predicament.
“You’re a third year, yeah?” Jack asks, returning his attention to Lyra, who seems oblivious to the wordless exchange between the two men. “I promise I won’t overdo it with the hand-holding. We’re just makin’ sure your transition is a smooth ride and not a clusterfuck that has you running for the hills.”
He tips his chin towards the central patient rooms. “Let’s start with rounds. Most of the nightcrawlers are busy mopping up the daylight chaos, so they’ll join us later.”
“Nightcrawlers?”
Jack chuckles. “We like to separate ourselves from the common folk around here.”
He ignores Robby’s affronted scoff and steps out of the hub with Lyra trailing close behind, keeping pace with the resident as they make their way through the busy ED.
Silence unfolds between them and Jack wants to fill it with something, anything.
There are so many questions he would like to ask, but curiosity has famously killed many cats. And he doesn’t plan on ending up dead anytime soon, even if his pulse is currently far too close to becoming tachy.
They take their time with rounds, making the most of the early (and very much deceptive) lull that always sets in right after the chaos of shift change. Jack gets her acquainted with every conscious patient, leading the interactions, but allowing Lyra to perform the actual checkups.
She’s attentive in her examinations, noting down changes in condition with a perceptiveness he generally expects from fellow attendings.
But there’s no clinical edge to the way she moves and speaks - Lyra carries herself with a disarming sweetness that instantaneously breaks the ice with patients. Especially with those that seem to have lost faith in the system and every single professional involved in it.
An attitude that is going to be good for the team as well.
Ellis, Henderson and even Shen are a little too used to walking with the shadows that stretch the ED corridors at night, always performing like well oiled machines and occasionally forgetting that they are human themselves. They care - but they care through austerity.
Jack knows his own track record isn’t fully clean in this regard either. His reliance on humor and cynicism is a thin bandaid on a fatal gunshot wound and despite him trying his damndest, he knows that he can never change that about himself.
When they finally return to the hub to greet the rest of the night shift, he’s lost count at how many points he had to keep himself from staring at the young woman.
He feels like a damn creep and it’s messing with his head, especially after how this shift had started.
Like a livewire hooked to his nervous system, slowly burning away at the frayed remnants of his patience.
Jack lets the others flock around their new coworker before giving the usual speech, staunchly avoiding any and all eye contact. The small crowd disperses right after and Lyra bounces over to him, radiant, and god, he’s so fucked-
“That was exciting,” she laughs. “Very rallying. I can’t believe you do that every night.”
“Yeah, well. Keeps the morale up,” Jack grunts, leaning back against the counter and stretching the aching length of his bad leg.
It comes out much more curt than intended and he immediately hates himself for the way her cheerful expression falters a fraction at his tone.
She falls silent and he’s already scrambling for a way to salvage the situation when -
-her stomach grumbles. Loudly.
A faint flush creeps onto Lyra’s cheeks and she draws her shoulders up in a preemptive show of defensiveness.
Christ, she’s cute.
“Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to eat yet. Y’know, because of the move I only had time to feed my cat this morning -”
His disapproving frown cuts her nervous rambling short. “Please don’t tell me you haven’t eaten all day.”
“...I had a cup of coffee,” she reveals lamely.
“Coffee isn’t food.”
“Well, technically-”
“Stop, I don’t even want to hear it.” Jack drags a palm along his jawline and sighs. “Come on.”
The attending leads her to the northern side of the ED, past the nurses station and pushes into the break room. Thankfully, it’s empty. No witnesses, no evidence.
Jack clears his throat and steps up to the cabinet closest to the fridge. “You allergic to anything?”
“Uh, no.”
He hums and pries open the door, shoving a bag of Shen’s favorite pretzels to the left.
After a bit of searching, he finds what he’s looking for at the very back: a tupperware box, stuffed with an assortment of protein bars. He tosses Lyra a handful, making sure to select the ones with the densest calorie counts.
Jack leaves the box on the counter and folds his arms across his chest as he watches the young woman stare mutely at the colorful packaging, almost as if the concept of chocolate and whole grains is entirely foreign to her.
“I’ve got a meeting in ten. When I come back, I expect those- ” he points at the bars. “- to be gone. I can’t have you keeling over on your first shift, alright?”
She looks up to nod at him with wide eyes and Jack forces the primal delight at her reaction into the farthest, darkest reaches of his mind.
“Good. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He’s almost at the door when her soft voice briefly slows him in his tracks.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
Sweet. Almost timid.
Every cell in his body is screaming at him to stop right there, to take her gratitude and go, but he can’t help it.
Jack’s never been good at leaving well enough alone.
He lazily rocks back on his feet and gives her a sly wink over his shoulder.
“Don’t mention it, kid.”
Then he strolls out of the room, fighting a smile all the way to the elevator.
a/n²: Yeah, he's down bad - exactly how I like my fictional men 💖
summary: Joining the night shift isn’t usually a resident’s first choice, but Lyra Beaumont is exactly where she wants to be.
The Pitt is never quiet, never still and never fucking lets up - especially once the sun has set.
After a life lived in a permanent state of grief and silenced ambition, Lyra wants nothing more than to finally test her boundaries somewhere that isn’t Burlington, Vermont.
The fact that the annoyingly charming attending in charge of the motley group of ‘nightcrawlers’ is slowly working his way under her skin is an inconvenience she can deal with.
Probably.
chapter summary: Lyra Beaumont's first day in Pittsburgh starts with memories she'd rather leave behind.
warnings: /
word count: 967
spotify playlist: 🩺
ao3: 🚑
a/n:
Welcome! The Pitt brainrot is real and this is my humble attempt at adding to the fandom in some sort of meaningful way. 'Meaningful' meaning writing copious amounts of thirst and very explicit content for Jack Abbot, but if you're reading this story, you're probably expecting that 👀
And since he's chronically online (like the rest of us) and unfortunately knows about the fanfics, I'd like to offer a sincere apology to Shawn Hatosy in advance. It's kind of his own fault though. He's not beating the silver fox allegiations any time soon if he keeps showing up everyhwere with his stupid curls and bulging biceps 💪🏻
Now, before we get into the good stuff, I'd like to go over some things.
First: I will try to keep to a regular update schedule, but I can't promise a chapter every week due to work and, y'know, life. Luckily I'm off for the next three weeks so I can focus on writing for the time being. Two chapters will be posted today, as the first is an introduction/prologue of sorts. The third one will be posted next weekend and I'm currently working on the fourth.
Second: Every chapter is planned out and has a song I associate with it. To avoid spoilers, each chapter's song will be added to the Spotify playlist with every new update 😊
Third: English is not my first language. I like to think I'm fluent enough for it to be alright most of the time, but please be aware that there may be errors.
Fourth: Fuck AI. Not literally. Definitely not in the fun way. I hate what's doing to the environment, to fandom spaces and to art in general. My writing may be mid, but at leasts it's mine. Also, you can rip the em dash from my cold, dead hands. I had it first.
Hope you have fun!
xoxo Mar
next chapter
Now you got that funny feeling
Will you make it out alive?
It might take another minute, but it's alright
- Blue Hour by Anna Graves
Time feels hazy when sleep finally decides to release its hold on her.
Lyra blinks sluggishly into the dim light filtering in through the windows, gray sky and billowing clouds barely visible through the dirt-speckled glass.
It takes a few seconds for her to realize that she’s not in her childhood bedroom looking out on an endless sea of trees, that she can’t hear her sister bustling around the house, can’t make out the faint sounds of her mother making breakfast in the kitchen.
Instead, there’s the unmistakable rush of the afternoon traffic outside. Cars honking impatiently, bikes ringing, tires rolling over damp pavement.
For a brief moment, her heart aches and lurches at the unfamiliarity - then the pain recedes, the traitorous organ continuing its rhythm as though the feeling had never been there in the first place.
Pittsburgh, she reminds herself. New apartment. New city. New state.
At the foot of the bed, North starts to purr, fluffy tail swishing back and forth lazily on the crumpled blankets.
Lyra sits, reaching over to run a hand through his thick fur, laughing a little when he opens one green eye to peek up at her with something akin to disdain.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” she says, apologetic. “Trust me, I’d love to stay in bed with you, but I have to get going soon. Big day.”
The cat purrs louder and rolls onto his side, pointedly ignoring Lyra’s explanation and kneading his paws into her calves.
“Fair. Still, I think we both need to eat. And if you want to keep getting churus, I’ll have to go and save some lives.”
At the mention of treats, North swiftly abandons his plans of cuddling forever and leaps off the mattress with an excited chirp.
He rounds a few of the cardboard boxes scattered throughout the room, meows increasing in volume with his growing impatience.
“You’re spoiled, you know that? And it’s entirely my fault.” Lyra collects her phone from the nightstand, carefully avoiding the spots where white paint is flaking off the wood. She checks the time, relieved to see that she didn’t sleep through her alarm.
Not that she ever had. Lyra despised being late with every fiber of her being - and being late to a new job? The stuff of nightmares.
She shivers when her bare feet touch the floor, weathered boards creaking softly as she follows North into the kitchen, still stripped of everything but the necessities.
Namely, a few paper plates, three of her favorite mugs and a new coffee machine - an expensive thing with a million settings she hasn’t quite figured out yet. A reward she had gotten herself for landing the spot at the PTMC.
Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center - also called ‘The Pitt’. A hospital that keeps making headlines in newspapers across the country, for better or (more often than not) for worse. Many of her attendings at UVMMC had advised her to reconsider the transfer.
Being a third year resident is hard enough, they had said. Don’t add to the stress by choosing a hospital doomed to crash and burn.
Lyra scoffs quietly as she pushes the one button she knows will at least provide her with some sort of caffeine. She watches the steady dripdripdrip of dark liquid before opening the fridge to search for her favorite hazelnut coffee creamer.
None of her coworkers could have suspected that a job at a hospital like PTMC is exactly what she’s wanted her whole life.
Practicing medicine against futile odds.
Actually making a difference in healthcare.
And now that she finally could, nothing was going to keep her from that. Especially not the arrogance of people who had chosen the medical field for the size of their paychecks.
North sweeps around her ankles, pulling the young woman from her thoughts with a pitiful meow.
“Starving, huh? Me too, buddy.”
Feeding her cat turns out to be a difficult task with most of her stuff still hidden away in boxes and suitcases. By the time Lyra finally pulls North’s bowl and kibble from the depths of a box labeled ‘kitchen and kitty’ (tucked into a corner of the bedroom of all places), she’s way behind her planned schedule.
Food would have to wait until her first break.
“Should’ve unpacked when I got here,” she mutters, giving the pizza she’d left on the counter yesterday a mournful glance before rushing into the bathroom instead, half empty coffee sloshing precariously against chipped ceramic.
The pipes moan and rattle in the walls when she turns the shower on and Lyra eyes the faucet warily until steam finally starts to fog up the old, garish mirror that had been left by previous occupants.
The hot water is almost uncomfortable on her skin, but she’s too relieved to wash the previous day down the gurgling, rusty drain.
After a grueling ten hour bus ride from Burlington to Pittsburgh she’d been too exhausted to even consider showering and had spent the rest of her fleeting energy cleaning the dusty floors and setting up furniture around the tiny apartment.
Home sweet home.
South Side isn’t exactly a reputable district, but it sure as hell is cheap enough for a third year resident with a crappy salary - especially after having to pay for an interstate moving company and ordering a ridiculous amount of decorations from IKEA and Home Depot.
Apparently, throw pillows and fairy lights have somehow maneuvered themselves into the category of luxury goods in the big 2026.
She’d have to budget for the next few weeks, but it'll be worth it in the end - it has to.
Lyra blinks water and foam from her eyes, staunchly ignoring the sudden tears that follow and the painful, stifling feeling at the back of her throat.
Breathe, she thinks.
Breathe and don’t look back.
a/n²: Lyra is my child and I love her very much.
But I'll put her through heaven and hell two times over before the end - for your enjoyment, naturally 🙂
Writers have two modes and they are "i haven't written in three weeks and i am rotting from the inside and everything feels wrong and i don't know who i am anymore" and "i wrote for four hours straight and forgot to eat and it's dark outside and when did that happen and i feel like a god" and there is nothing in between. no chill. no medium setting. just famine or feast and a very confused nervous system.
summary: abbot offers up his house for a simple family bbq to help you out of a jam...unfortunately, neither of you are capable of keeping it simple.
warnings: smut! fingering, abbot jizzing in his pants, porn but with a lot of plot & build up, tension, inappropriate thoughts, masturbation implied & discussed, alcohol consumption, minor injury (small cut), petty abbot because he snatches r's phone, brat tamer abbot if you squint?? he likes to mock you okay???? slight angst at the end :)
wc: 9.5k
pt 2 can be found here!
Now that you’re actually standing in front of it, it’s…offensively small.
You tilt your head like that might miraculously improve the situation, like there’s some hidden angle where this becomes a perfectly reasonable barbecue and not what looks like a prop from a dollhouse garden party. As if, with enough optimism and a slight squint, the laws of physics will rearrange themselves out of sheer pity.
Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding.
And your patio?
A grill that could maybe handle…four sausages. Five if they’re prepared to be very close.
You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise you’ve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of… grilled meat tetris.
You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for food…People expect to wait for food.”
Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.
And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know it’s Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
Now it’s feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show.
You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, he’ll go away.
He doesn’t. He just knocks again.
You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. It’ll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together.
You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in it—like tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. You’d take two of those right now.
“Hey,” you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation.
“Hi.” There’s a slight raise in his brow, like he’s already caught on that something here is…off.
“Come in.” You move to the side, gesturing him in.
He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time he’s ever been inside.
Momentarily, you feel like you’re under an imaginary microscope, like you’ve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except there’s no microscope, no audience.
Just Abbot.
And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than you’d like.
You’re not sure what he’s going to think of your home. It’s smaller than his, you know that much without asking. It’s cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. You’d love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the time…or if you were sure he wanted to hear them.
He probably doesn’t.
And you definitely don’t have time.
“Cute place.”
“Cute?” you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. “Is that your way of dressing up the word small?”
“No.” His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like he’s actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. “It’s cute. Very you.”
That annoyingly lands somewhere you weren’t prepared for.
You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. “Right. Well I’m glad my personality translates into…square footage.”
There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what I heard.”
He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.
You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because you’ve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you won’t be needing his help at all.
Unless he’s particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway.
“Anyways,” you say briskly, turning to the back door. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You’re absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brain’s decided now’s a good time to develop new problems.
You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he does—close enough to be mildly distracting—you gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. “There she is.”
He looks.
There’s a faint pause.
“She’s, um—”
“Cute?” you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow.
“I was going to say compact.”
“It’s second hand,” you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldn’t you? You’d much rather spend your money on something you’ll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.
It is now very clearly the opposite of that.
“It looked bigger before I picked it up,” you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. “Please say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.”
“I’m thinking.”
“It’s not that big of a deal, right? I’ll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. It’s hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?”
He finally meets your gaze.
“...No.”
You blink. “No?”
“No.”
You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. “Wow. Okay. That was…very immediate.”
“You’ll have people waiting too long between rounds,” he says calmly. “Half of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.”
“Great.” You throw your hands up. “Just kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.”
There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“I will never hear the end of this,” you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. “They don’t take me seriously enough as it is—” you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what you’re about to admit, “—and they’re constantly expecting me to mess things up before I’ve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypes”
You glance at the grill, then back at him. “And this will absolutely prove them right.”
“Have it at my house,” he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.
“Sorry?”
“It’ll be easier,” he explains, like he’s just suggesting you move a chair. “More space. Proper grill.”
“That would mean my entire family going to your house.”
“Yes.”
“And you being there.”
“I live there.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think you realise what you’re suggesting. It’s not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and I’m fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.”
“And you couldn’t say no?”
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.”
He doesn’t even look slightly concerned. “I’m not saying no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it solves your problem.”
“We’re not at work.” You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. “You don’t have to solve my problems.”
He tilts his head like he’s considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like there’s still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.
It does not.
“Well,” he says, almost absently, “if it makes you feel any better, you’re rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.”
You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. “But don’t you think it’d be weird? What am I meant to say to them?”
“That we work together. That I’ve got the space and offered to host. That’s it.”
“You’re making this sound so simple,” you scoff, shaking your head.
“Because it is simple. I’m offering a solution. Take it. We’ll load up my truck with what you need and go.”
“And you don’t think they’ll assume things?” You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you should’ve outgrown years ago.
“Assume what?” he presses, and you don’t know if he’s genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasn’t seen nor reciprocated.
“Nothing!” you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. “I’m being stupid and I’m out of options so I guess we can have it at your house—if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Great. Amazing. Perfect.” You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, you’re not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQ—or your next shift with Abbot—without saying something you absolutely cannot take back.
You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative.
Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, it’s your family.
Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.
Your boss.
Who you might be slightly crushing on.
And your earlier exchange?
Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming that’s very much a one sided situation.
“You’re sure you don’t need me to drop by the store first?” he asks.
You’re not sure if he’s looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.
It hasn’t been working.
If anything, it’s considerably worse, because you’re now hyperaware of everything you’re trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way he’s driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off.
“No.” You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. “I pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.”
He hums like that checks out. “Alright.”
“You still haven’t changed your mind?”
He glances at you again. “About?”
You stare at him.
You’re not sure if he’s doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like he’s deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences.
It’s incredibly annoying.
Because it has your mind drifting to…other situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way he’d look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him.
Like he’d make you tell him exactly what you want.
Exactly how you want it.
And look at him while you do it.
“Oh my god,” you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.
“Everything okay?”
“No. No—” you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. “I think we need to stop by the store.”
“You just said you had everything.”
“Why are you asking so many questions today?” You turn to face him, and you’re pretty sure you’re glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve.
“That wasn’t a question.”
You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesn’t deserve you snapping at him, but he’s also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. “My mistake.” You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. “I’m not sure I’ve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the store, that’d be great.”
He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. “I love the customer service voice.”
“I’m not doing a customer service voice.”
“You are. It’s very polite.”
You blink at him, lips parting like you’re about to argue it, then stopping when you realise there’s probably no winning this.
“Can you stop by the store or not?” you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest.
“Of course,” he answers easily. “You’re the boss today.”
You don’t dignify that with a response, mostly because you’re too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have it—it does—but he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity.
You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye.
“What’re you doing?”
“Going to the store? What’s with all the questions?”
“No you’re not,” you reply, pointing at him. “You’re staying here.”
“Am I?
“Yes.”
“And why’s that?” he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.
“Because I’m the boss today.” You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual.
You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air.
This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you don’t usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse.
Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to be…that. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbot’s house.
And now, just to round things up nicely, you can’t even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings.
You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesn’t even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again.
With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients you’re missing.
By the time you’re paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that there’s a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown.
You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbot’s car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier.
“Got everything?”
“Mhm.” You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal.
When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening today—you’ve never been to his house before either.
You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking it’ll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of room to spare.
The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. It’s dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used.
You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like he’s got nowhere else to be.
You’re already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that you’re almost certain the back will look even better.
That’s your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. You’d have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself you’d replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if it’s just herbs you’d forget to use anyway.
You think about hosting without overthinking it. People just…spreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isn’t enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave.
Or just to soak up the sun on days like this.
“Ready to go?”
Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like you’ve ended up somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. “Beautiful house.”
He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like he’s seeing it through your eyes. “It does the job.”
“Does it very well.”
You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.
You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What it’d feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill.
You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe you’d end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesn’t really matter because you’d be doing it with him.
These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because that’s all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that you’ve inconveniently grown attached to. There’s nothing real or solid behind them.
“Where do you want everything?” you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat.
Abbot doesn’t answer straight away.
You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision that’s led him here.
Your stomach continues to drop.
“Kitchen?” you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.
He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. “Yeah. Through there.”
You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the door’s not even unlocked.
You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest.
“Shit—” The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling.
“Got you,” he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. It’s a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something they’re not.
“Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Should’ve given you the keys.”
You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasn’t quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly.
“It’s fine.” Which is both true and very much not.
His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again.
“Kitchen’s just straight ahead,” he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open.
Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. It’s less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. You’re not sure when you’ll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around.
When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.
Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. There’s even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, there’s a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably.
So this is where he disappears to when he’s not at work.
“Is it okay?”
You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbot’s voice, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. Your brows pull together, because you’re not entirely sure what he’s asking is okay.
“The house,” he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like he’s suddenly aware of how that sounded. “For tonight.”
“Oh.” You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. “Yeah. No, it’s—” you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, “—more than okay.”
He nods once, like that’s all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before he’s going out again.
You’re almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. It’s so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like that’s the only medical training you’ve managed to retain.
There’s already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than you’d like, making you wince.
“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly it’s not being put to any practical use.
And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in.
Great.
You immediately turn your back to him because he doesn’t need any more reasons to think you’re incompetent.
“Everything okay?”
“Mhm,” you hum, because you still haven’t spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like that’s a reasonable long-term solution.
“Grill’s coming along,” he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. “Got it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.”
“Mm, that’s good. Thank you.” You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadn’t realised how close he was. “Could I have one of those?”
You reach for the roll but he doesn’t hand it over.
“You’ve cut yourself.”
“Yes. I’ve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. It’s fine. Very minor.”
“Give me your hand.”
You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something you’ve just described as very minor.
“It’s really no big—”
“Give me your hand,” he repeats, reaching for your wrist.
You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light.
He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. “Here, hold that. I’ll get you a plaster,” he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor.
You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again.
You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and you’re instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure it’s properly stuck down.
“Thank you.”
He meets your eyes. “You have—” he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin “—a little blood there.”
Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, but isn’t stopping himself from finding out.
It’s nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chin—he’s just being kind.
But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it.
“There.” He retracts his hand, and once again you’re mourning the loss of contact.
You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. “So, is the grill behaving?” you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldn’t care less about the grill right now.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Heat’s holding. I’ll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they don’t dry out.”
“Love a man with a plan,” you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought.
Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe he’s just giving you a second to realise what you’ve said.
“Good to know.”
Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and you’ve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.
Dad: We’re running late, honey. Hotel’s messed up our rooms…long story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when we’re on our way…
“They’re running late,” you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out.
“I’ll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.” You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir.
“You’re putting them up in a hotel?”
“Well, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?”
He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time.
“I’m all done with the prep on my side, and since they’ll probably be a little while…would it be absurd if I used your shower?”
“Yes. It would be absolutely absurd.”
He’s mocking you. Funny.
“Right. I’ll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?”
“No complaints on my side.”
Now he’s…flirting?
“Sure. Let me just get out of these clothes—” You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.
“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he cuts in quickly.
You grin at him. “Thank you.”
“Spare towels are in the cabinet.” His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.
“Thanks,” you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway.
“Mm.”
The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again you’re stuck dissecting every interaction you’ve had with him today. It’s enough to give you whiplash. One minute he’s distant, the next he’s standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like it’s nothing. You don’t know where you stand with him, and moments like this don’t exactly help.
You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.
What was that?
Does he even realise he’s doing it?
You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because that’s easier than thinking but that doesn’t seem to last long.
Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. It’s walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. There’s an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which you’re immediately grateful for because you definitely don’t have time to deal with washing your hair.
After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once you’re under the water, you realise you’re stuck using his shower products because you’d only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset.
Now you get to smell like him even when you’re not near him.
You’re hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You don’t entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless.
On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyone’s on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work.
Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How he’s gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice.
You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside.
The humidity hasn’t let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane task—just by existing.
You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing.
You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your body’s decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that there’s something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like they’re running laps all at the same time.
There’s probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain that’s confused admiration with something far less convenient.
He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep.
“Thought you could do with something cold,” you say, holding out the beer to him.
“Perfect timing,” he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. “How was the shower?”
“Necessary,” you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. It’s probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.
He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like it’s something he has to consciously pull away from.
“You look nice,” is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill.
“Thank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. You’ve gone through so much trouble and I don’t even know where to begin in repaying you.”
He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. “You don’t need to repay me.”
“Mm,” you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. “I’d like to.”
“Yeah?”
You tilt your head, watching him the way he’s been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. “Yeah.”
“You always like having the last word?”
You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”
“Thought you had a problem with those today.”
You grin at him. “Think I’m over it now.”
“Is that so?”
You nod, taking another sip.
“Okay,” he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. “You want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?”
“I can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but you’d have to tell me something first.” You’re not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.
He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where you’re perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. “Go on. I did say you’re the boss today.”
“Why go through all this trouble?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where he’s standing.
“I don’t want the same answer as earlier,” you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. “Because it’s bullshit.”
For a moment he doesn’t respond, but you’re not panicking. It's probably because you can tell you’ve nudged something, pressed a spot he’d probably rather you didn’t find.
He takes a step closer.
You feel the plate before you register what he’s doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but that’s not what holds your attention.
It’s his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.
“Bullshit?”
You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadn’t planned on that being noticeable. You gather what’s left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. “Yeah.”
“Then ask properly.”
Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh.
You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but it’s harder than it should be with him this close.
“Ask properly,” he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer.
You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.
“Why,” you start, your voice wavering, “are you doing all of this…for me?”
He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.
“You think I do things I don’t want to do?”
You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “No.”
“Then that’s your answer.”
“That’s not an answer,” you push, a little breathless now. “You can’t answer my question with a question.”
“You want me to answer it properly?”
You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point.
“I did it because I wanted you here.”
You don’t quite know where to file that information.
There’s no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word.
It’s not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, and that’s the problem. You’ve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt.
Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way you’ve been imagining everything else.
He’s still there, looking at you like there’s absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back.
“Not the answer you were hoping for?”
“No.” You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. “It’s exactly the answer I was hoping for.”
Abbot’s grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, not arguing it. “But I haven’t even told you what I was thinking of in the car.”
“Jesus,” he hisses under his breath. “You should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.”
“You want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?” you press smugly.
“I need you to go inside,” he replies, more firmly now. His hands don’t leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees.
Then he lets go, taking a step back like that’s going to fix anything.
Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter.
You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.”
“We’re outside, honey.”
“Okay,” you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbot—more specifically at his very evident hard on—before you’re tuning away. “Now coming.”
“That went well, don’t you think?” Abbot’s voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses.
He’s right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And you’re not entirely sure whether you’re glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, it’s a good thing. In practice, it’s…inconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.
You’re tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You could’ve gone out there, hovered and earwigged—you’d even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine.
Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going boss…that you’ve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.
You nod, switching the tap off. “Sorry for the mess.”
“Didn’t notice one.”
“That’s because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.”
You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, you’re back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like there’s some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not.
You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.
Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrug casually, “it’s the least I can do. You’ll finally be able to have your place to yourself.” You turn to reach for your phone. “I’ll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.”
There’s a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app.
“Out of my hair?”
His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder.
He seems…tense.
“Well, yes Abbot. I’m not planning to crash at your place, you’ve done enough for me today.”
“Right.” He nods, but there’s an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow.
“You told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?” You tilt your head. “You know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.”
He stays silent.
“What do you want?”
Nothing.
“Huh?”
Still nothing.
You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because you’ve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something you’re adding to the list.
You’re halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.
“What the hell?” You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.
“I can’t tell you what I want, because then I won’t be able to take it back.”
“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone.
He takes a step back.
“Give it back.”
“No.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely insane.”
“And you’re not listening to me.”
“Oh, I’m listening. Loud and clear. You don’t know what you want, you won’t say what you want, and apparently now I’m being held hostage because of it.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Okay,” you scoff. “Well, enjoy whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I’ll just walk home.”
His expression shifts, like he doesn’t believe you, like you’ve just told him something mildly ridiculous…which you have…because there’s no chance in hell you’re actually walking back.
“You’re not walking.”
“Watch me.”
You turn away from him, but you don’t even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before he’s pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.
“Quit being such a brat,” he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.
You buck into him out of instinct. “I am not—”
One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t. Obviously.
“You are,” he repeats, voice threading through you. “Threatening to walk out just to see if I’ll stop you.”
You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. “I don’t need you to stop me.”
His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like he’s testing the truth of that. “No?”
“No.”
His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if that’s even possible. “Then go.” His words don’t match what he’s doing.
You don’t move.
Not even an inch.
His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs.
“Funny. Could’ve sworn you were in a rush.”
You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like they’re waiting for instructions you’re not giving. “I was.”
“Yeah?” His nose brushes along your jaw. “What happened?”
“Y-you’re in the way.”
“Am I?” His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.
Your head tips back before you can stop it.
“That doesn’t look like I’m in your way,” he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.
You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. “You’re very confident for someone who didn’t even know what he wanted five minutes ago.”
“I know what I want,” he assures you. “I just don’t think we’d be able to go back from it.”
“So let’s not,” you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. “This is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.”
“Is that something you can do? Because I don’t think I can.”
“Yes, you can,” you breathe, pressing your ass into him. “I can,” you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You don’t think you can ever come back from this, not really—but you’d try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.
“Yeah?” he murmurs into your neck.
“Yes—please. I’ll even move to the day shift,” you say, half-delirious, as though that’s a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. “We’ll never speak of this again.”
“Don’t do that,” he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. “I need you on the night shift.” His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.
“Okay—okay, sorry—I’m sorry—” The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent.
He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response.
“One off?” he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin.
“One off.”
His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you are—actually hear it—and feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm.
“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, the words half a laugh. “Have you been this worked up the whole day?”
You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.
“Whole day,” he repeats, like he’s piecing it all together. “Walking around like that…talking to me like nothing’s wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?”
You nod—once, then again, and again—your body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out.
It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.
You’re that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you don’t manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesn’t quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like you’ve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.
Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it then—how saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.
It's humiliating.
“Did you touch yourself in the shower?”
“N—” you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.
“Liars don’t get to come,” he warns. “Did you touch yourself in there?”
“Yes.”
He tuts. “Dirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.”
You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers you’re trying to swallow down.
“Did it feel as good as this?”
“No—fuck,” you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesn’t let that happen for long.
His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. “Don’t go shy on me now, baby. You still haven’t told me what you were thinking about in the car.”
Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of it—or the shower—but he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.
“Jack, please—” you beg, for what, you’re not sure.
“Say that again,” he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.
“Jack,” you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, “I’m so c-close.”
“Yeah,” he pants, fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah, I can feel that.”
Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.
“M’gonna—fuck—Jack—”
“There you go. Just like that.”
He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesn’t know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbot’s heavy breathing in your ear.
“Shit–” he exhales, his hand slowing against you, “—fuck.”
For a second, neither of you move.
Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you don’t trust your legs to do their job just yet.
“Shit.”
“Yes, you’ve already said that,” you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.
There’s a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.
Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because there’s a knock at the door.
You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.
“Who is that?” you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.
“I don’t know—can you—” He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. “Can you get that?”
You turn to look at him, brows lifting. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not answering the door like this.”
“Like what?”
He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like you’re trying very hard not to smile.
“…Right,” you concede, softer this time.
“Thank you,” he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.
You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.
“Hey man—” the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises who’s opened it. “Abbot around? My car won’t start and I’m late for my night shift—” he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.
“Uh yeah, he’s…”
You don’t even need to turn to know he’s there now.
“Yeah,” Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “What’s up?”
“Oh man—I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.
And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.
He’s now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Think the battery’s dead,” the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. “It just won’t turn over.”
“Alright,” Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like he’s just remembered. “Give me a second.”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. I’ll wait outside.”
You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears.
“...I’ll book that Uber now… if I can have my phone?” You hold your hand out expectantly.
There’s a pause.
“...Right.”
You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.
“You could stay,” he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.
Your fingers close around the device. “That’s not what we agreed on, remember?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s a one off.”
Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like something’s been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared.
“Yeah…One off.”
You nod like that’s the end of it, pretending you’re not feeling a little hollow. “Take your time,” you add, stepping back. “I’ll let myself out.”
He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.
And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesn’t feel like a ‘one off.’ Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when you’re still standing here in his space—thinking about how easily he asked you to stay.
