I think this schedule could be very nice / Call up the boys and crack a Miller Light / Watch the fight / Us girls are fun but stressful / Am I right? / And you got a right hand anyway
Overview: You knew it was a risk, dating a cop and all, but Sammy is different. Or, he was, at least. He was probably the best boyfriend you've ever had, the only one you ever saw yourself getting serious with. But then, he had to go and make buddy-buddy with the assholes in his department. Now your sweet boyfriend is gone and you're left picking up the pieces.
a/n: I actually got pissed at myself rereading this because she let him off way too easily at the end. So it's been revamped and, in my opinion, I think she gives him a proper amount of hell (Also, note the lyrics of this song, it’s going to be following those slightly misogynistic points for the first section of the plot)
more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
wc: 12.7k
By no means are you the type of woman to throw on an apron and go all June Cleaver for a man. However, Sammy seems to be the exception to your rule. The first time you surprised him with dinner, there had been such earnest gratefulness in his eyes that you couldn’t help yourself. Every time you think of how stressed he gets at work, how much hell he receives on patrol, you just get the urge to take care of him.
It’s bad enough you’re spreading it for a cop, now you can add traitor to feminism on the list. Who can blame a girl, though, when he’s got biceps like those? Every time you see him, you just want to sink your teeth in him. Mark your territory for any doe-eyed woman that tries to flirt her way out of a ticket.
Most of your time is spent at his place so you can cook for him like you are tonight. Usually, while you wait for the food to finish, you find yourself cleaning up a little. The way he practically drops to his knees every time you take care of him has your sixth sense going off.
You know it’s coming soon, him asking you to move in with him. Your female spidey-senses are primed to go off the second you find a man ready to commit. It is such a rare trait nowadays.
It would be smart to say yes to him; you practically live with him already. But something is holding you back. No matter how much you care about him (maybe even love him), there is this gnawing thought that’s been plaguing you. Everything's been going good.
Perfect, even.
You’re crazy about each other, your fights are always resolved quickly, and he does anything he can to make you happy. But things are too easy, too conflict-free. Something bad is coming, you just know it.
The lock clicks on the door, and you find yourself smiling, already untying your apron. Turning the heat down on the stove, you turn in time to see Sammy walking in. His face lights up as he sees you.
He drops into your embrace the second you open your arms. You laugh a little, shifting your hips so his holster isn’t digging into you. He mutters into your neck how much he missed you, and you feel the rest of your carefully enforced independence shrink away.
It’s inevitable. You’ve gone full housewife.
“How was work?” You ask, dragging your hand through his hair as he pulls back. He shrugs you off, and you sigh, realizing this is going to be a man-no-talk-about-feelings night. He huffs and tosses his jacket on the kitchen island.
Your gaze narrows, and you click your tongue once. Sammy’s eyes widen before he picks it up, moving it to the entryway closet. Where it belongs.
“Good boy,” you murmur, smirking when you see the color that grows on his cheeks.
He comes up behind you, arm winding around your waist. You glance down at his thick forearm and physically hold back the urge to dig your teeth into him. “God, sweetheart, this looks amazing,” he lets out a breathy exhale as he watches you finish up dinner. You grin, making him a plate as he lets go and takes a seat at the island.
“Beer?” You ask, already getting it for him. I’m a traitor to my people, you think as you hand your man a cold one to go with the steak dinner you’d cooked. You’re making yourself your own plate when you catch him frowning at the stove.
“What’s wrong?” He finally looks over at you and raises his brows. “I thought you liked this,” you tell him, nodding toward the food.
He lets out a scoff and gives you an incredulous look. “‘Course I do, are you kidding? I love anything you cook.”
You fight back your smile at such simple praise. “Alright, why do you look like someone pissed in your beer, then?”
His face screws up and you can’t help but laugh. Almost sheepish, he rubs the back of his neck, no longer meeting your eyes. “Got a couple guys from the station coming over.”
Shrugging, you finally take a bite of your dinner. Compliments to the chef, you think smugly. “What’s the big deal? Ben comes over all the time.”
Sammy moves his food around his plate and you glare down at the action. “They might be a little hungry.”
You let out an astonished scoff and he shrinks back with that boyish grin on his face that makes it nearly impossible for you to be mad. “Jeez, what am I, Sammy? Your girlfriend or maid? You know I don’t cook for any man.”
He glances down at his plate and then back at you with a pointed look. Rolling your eyes, you wave him off. “This is a rare exception because we have such amazing chemistry in bed. I swear, if you were an inch smaller down there, you’d be nuking stouffers.”
Sammy lets out a small huff of laughter that makes the constant tight feeling in your chest ease ever so slightly. “Glad to know what I’m worth. I’ll just order a pizza.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, already digging around in the fridge for some food to make his friends. You cut open a pack of kielbasa and toss it in a pan, your dinner going forgotten on the counter. Pointing a spatula at Sammy you warn him, “Don’t get used to this.”
He laughs at the sharp look on your face, his smile dropping when you pinch your lips, openly glaring at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”
You turn back to the stove with a weak sigh. “I’m only doing this because you’ve got that pathetic kicked puppy look on your face.” Quietly, he makes his way up to you, arms once again tugging you into his firm chest.
“I promise,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a soft kiss there that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “I’ll make this up to you with my amazing bed chem,” he mocks. You laugh but it trails off as you melt further into him, an ache between your legs getting stronger the longer he kisses you.
“You play dirty,” you mutter, and he smiles against your skin, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
The guys he invites over seem nice enough. They’re loud, brash, and a little abrasive in the way your dad’s old friends used to be. Nothing you can’t handle or don’t expect from a group of off-duty cops.
Though, your skin does crawl when you set the food out in the living room and you realize just the type of men you’re currently serving. Never ever again, you swear to yourself. There’s a knock at the door and you go to open it.
A little piece of you relaxes when you look through the peephole and find Ben waiting on the other side. He smiles as you tug open the door. “Hey,” you greet, already pulling him into a hug. He presses a brief kiss to your temple and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the apartment. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” you tell him.
“Yeah?” He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disaster area that is Sammy’s kitchen. “When’d you have time for all this?” He chuckles, plucking some of your leftover steak and popping it in his mouth.
“When I skipped dinner,” you grumble, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you. “It’s just a one time thing,” you tell him. “Sammy’s seemed a little off lately, I figured he needed an easy night.”
“Yeah,” Ben walks up to you, hand once again finding your shoulder. “I’ve noticed that, too. Was getting a little worried.”
Any further conversation is interrupted as someone shouts, “Beer!” from the living room. You shoot Ben an astonished look that he only laughs at.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Sammy trails off, eyes narrowing at Ben’s completely platonic touch on your arm. He walks over and swats his grip away, tugging you back into his chest.
You let out a short chuckle at the amused look on Ben’s face. “I’ve been designated the beer wench,” you tell Sammy. He scowls, brows furrowing as he scoffs.
“I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over for the dinner you’d abandoned and places it firmly in your hands. “Finish eating, sweetheart.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, redirecting you to a seat as he points at Ben. “You’re with me, come on.” Ben shoots you one last grin before he helps Sammy carry the beer into the living room.
The living room gets louder the longer they stay. For the most part, you manage to ignore it, flipping through your book as you pick at your dinner.
“We need more dip!” Your brows furrow and you look up with a scoff. There’s no way they think you’re actually going to bring them any. Right?
Shaking your head, you settle back into your seat and resume reading. “Dip!”
“Fuck me,” you mutter, shoulders tense as you work to ignore the assholes in Sammy’s living room.
It’s not much longer until Sammy’s walking into the kitchen. His brows raise when he spots you at the table. You give him a tense smile that’s met with a confused frown. “I thought you were in my room.”
You shake your head, “Nope. Been in here the whole time.”
Sammy glances between you and the living room with a cute little furrow between his brows. “Can you hear us in there?”
“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “Loud and clear.” Your point is almost instantly proven by a loud round of jeering laughter that makes your skin shrink back.
“Oh, well,” he hums, digging through the fridge to grab the dip. “How come you didn’t bring this?” He asks, holding up the container.
Your eyes narrow sharply. “Maybe because it’s not the fifties and they’re grown men who can walk their asses into the kitchen themselves. Besides, you’re the only one I’m sleeping with, you’re the only one who gets to ask for it.”
A grin breaks out on his face as he walks over to you. You lean forward, chin tilting as his hand slides around your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. “I’ll get them under control,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips.
You just nod, head tilting as you admire his ass as he makes his way back into the living room. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself out of your chair and start cleaning up the disastrous array of dishes.
Your hands are pruny and dried out by the time you’re done. So, with the most reluctant gait, you force yourself out into the living room to fetch your favorite lotion. A football game is playing on the TV at an obscene volume, but they seem to be ignoring it in favor of whatever card game they’ve got going on.
Ben shoots you a small smile as he catches you creeping around the perimeter of the living room. Just as you’re about to sneak out, he calls your name, cutting through the buzz of chatter. “Gonna join us?”
His smug grin is met with a stare that promises death. “Oh, sure,” you grit out, wishing you could choke him out. Sammy waves you over and you perch on the edge of the couch’s armrest. “You winning?” You ask, glancing over his cards and finding yourself completely lost on whatever game it is they’re playing.
One of his buddies lets out a loud laugh and Sammy’s cheeks go red. You’ll take that as a no. The guy reaches over, slapping Sammy’s shoulder. “Hey, who knows, maybe your little lady can be a good luck charm.”
“Don’t love that,” you whisper to Sammy as he takes you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap.
“What,” he teases, “you don’t like being my little lady?”
You slap at his shoulder and he just laughs. You make yourself comfortable, head resting in the curve of his neck as you watch a few more rounds of this odd game play out. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s particularly good at it. Every turn ends with someone muttering something obscene under their breath.
When your brain has reached its threshold for drunken cheers, you turn your lips toward Sammy’s ear. “I’m going to bed,” you tell him. Already struggling to keep your eyes open.
He peers over at you, eyes a little wide. “You’re staying the night?”
You pull back, slightly offended by his tone. “Don’t I always?”
Something shifts on his face, this fleeting emotion that he doesn’t let you get a decent read on. “Yeah, yeah,” his tone is too light, so casual you don’t believe it. “I just don’t want us being loud and keeping you up.”
You just shake your head and press a firm kiss to his cheek. “You know I sleep through anything.” Balancing slightly on his shoulder, you push yourself up to your feet.
“Calling it quits?” Ben asks, looking just as bored as you are. You just offer him a tired smile and move to head to Sammy’s bedroom.
“Hey, sweetheart, you mind clearing some of this away so we can use the table?” Turning, you’re shocked to find one of Sammy’s buddy’s addressing you. Although, you’re not sure how you can be certain considering he doesn’t even look at you when he’s speaking, eyes too focused on his cards.
“Excuse me?” You mutter, so taken aback you forget to tell him off.
“You’re a doll,” he dismisses, swiping one of the other men’s cards. Stunned by the audacity and such blatant dismissal, you actually find yourself doing what he asks. It feels wrong as you bend down and scoop up the plates. You practically made them a feast, the least these assholes could do is help you clean up.
With a low huff and a pointed glare at Sammy, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You don’t even want to clean them. You’ve already spent half an hour doing that tonight. But the idea of all this food being dried on the ceramic tomorrow disturbs you just enough to grab the sponge.
Ben walks in from the living room, a couple of plates and glasses in his hands. He drops them by the sink and you send him a grateful smile. “Thought you were going to bed,” he muses, digging around in the fridge for another beer.
A little bit of shame curls in your stomach as you clean up after the men in Sammy’s apartment. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I just don’t want to worry about this in the morning.”
He lets out a snort which snags a laugh from you. “Why would you worry? This ain’t even your place.”
Your hands still, soap and soggy crumbs dripping beneath your fingers as you hesitate to meet his eyes. “Well,” you force a cheeky smile and shrug. “Not yet, at least.” God, how pathetic are you?
He holds his hands up, surrendering even though you can see there’s more he wants to say. You watch him as he heads back into the living room and drop the dishes in the sink. You’re done for the night, you’ve done far more than you even wanted to. Sucking in a sharp breath you dry your hands and try to head back to bed.
A quick, “Beer!” has you pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. It pains you, but you’re already in here and you don’t feel like looking petty in front of Sammy’s friends. Grumbling under your breath about men and getting off their fat asses, you pluck a beer from the fridge and plop it in the first outstretched palm you see.
The man chuckles while Ben shoots you a surprised look. “Nice, Sammy. You’ve got her well-trained. Must’ve learned from the first marraige.” Your jaw actually drops as you stare at the balding man addressing your boyfriend.
Another one pipes up, his laughter making your skin crawl. “Everyone knows the first is just a starter. It’s not until, at least, the third that you actually land a decent broad.”
You suck your teeth, staring pointedly at Sammy while you wait for him to pipe up. When he doesn’t, a low chuckle leaves you. “Hear that, baby? You got one more after me.”
Sammy finally meets your eye, just barely. His head ducks down as he shrugs. “They don’t mean it like that.” You let out an astounded gasp, looking around for anyone to support you on just how insanely backwards this whole conversation is. But the only one who will meet your eye is Ben and his stupid face just says “I told you so.”
“Right, okay.” You finally make your way into Sammy’s bedroom, just to grab your bag and turn your happy ass right around. “I’m going home, Sammy,” you call over your shoulder.
“Wait- What?”
You hear Ben let out a little laugh while you grab your coat from the hook. “Hope you’re ready to get reacquainted with your right hand, man.” His tone is malicious.
It’s strange, going to your own place after work. Not immediately starting on dinner. It’s a slight wake-up call that you’re committing too much of your time to a man who hasn’t even asked you to move in yet.
Still, that doesn’t make you miss the smile he always greets you with any less. Tossing your coat on the back of your couch, you head into your kitchen. Your cabinets are hardly stalked, the majority of your meals taking place at Sammy’s apartment. Meaning your dinner tonight is going to be expired ramen and some saltines.
You’ve had worse.
Your phone rings just as you toss the ramen in the microwave. Glaring down at the screen you watch Sammy’s picture light up. Crossing your arms, you lean back on the counter and wait for it to stop. He immediately calls back and you decide to let him stew a bit. You allow three ignored calls before you finally pick up on the fourth.
“Hey, sweetheart, where are you?” He’s doing a horrible job at masking the stress in his voice and it almost makes you smile.
“I’m at my place. Where else would I be?” You turn to the microwave, watching as the water bubbles and froths over the lid of your ramen cup. Grimacing, you redirect your attention to Sammy. More importantly, the leftovers you know he has and you really want to dig into.
“With me,” he supplies, laughter light and uneasy.
You hum a little and shake your head. “I don’t know. Is this because you miss me? Or is it just because I’m so well trained?” You make zero effort to hide the venom in your tone. He should know he screwed up. He should have also already figured out that he was going to be put on a week-long sex probation after last night.
Sammy lets out a low groan and you can picture the way he probably slides his hand across his jaw, eyes clenching shut. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I swear, I told them off the second you left. I just got drunk and…”
“And… acted like the sort of jackasses I’ve already spent a lifetime dumping?” You supply for him.
He lets out another low laugh and you hate how you find yourself smiling at the sound. “Exactly. So, would you come over? Let me make it up to you?”
You let out a sharp breath, eyeing your boiling dinner with disdain. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to eat over here.”
You let yourself in with the key Sammy gave you. Not an invitation to move in, just an easier way for you to get in before him and have dinner ready. Maybe his friends were right, he does have you trained.
Shaking away the disturbing thought, you narrow your eyes as Sammy walks out of the kitchen. He gives you that familiar smile of his you love and it takes every iota of self control not to return it.
He frowns when you don’t reciprocate. “Really, sweetheart?”
“What?” You take your coat off, kicking the door closed behind you.
Sammy shoots you a flat look, palm finding a spot on your lower back as he guides you into the kitchen. “Is this how we’re playing it tonight? You want to be passive-aggressive?”
You scoff, some of your anger easing as you realize he’s made dinner, tonight. “I actually just prefer aggressive-aggressive, you should be happy I’m being passive.” Sammy just laughs and presses a firm kiss to your temple.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” You hum, watching as he grabs two plates and drops them on the dining table. You follow him, moving to take a seat when his hands snake out and take a hold of your waist.
“What’re you-” There’s no stopping the laugh that bubbles out of you as he tugs you onto his lap. And that knowing smile he sends you means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Yeah, I’m the impossible one,” you scowl, but it’s defeated by the smile tugging at your lips.
He reaches up, brushing some hair over your shoulder as he shifts you in his lap. He’s got a better view of your face now, his expression softening into something sincere. “I really am sorry about last night, hun. There’s no excuse.”
You bite your lip, arm lifting to wind over his shoulders. Inside, you’re still fuming, raging at him for not even attempting to defend you, just letting those guys speak to you like you were some maid. But you’ve spent years being the “cool” girlfriend, always letting shit slide so that guys don’t get tired of you after a month.
So, instead of doubling down, you lean down and kiss him. “It’s fine, Sammy,” you tell him.
Unfortunately, the cool girl syndrome has and always will be a chronic blight on your life.
“We, uh, have a schedule, now,” he tells you. His eyes drop from your face, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweater, instead.
You swat his hand away before he ruins the hem. “What do you mean?”
“Every Thursday night,” he tells you, head resting against your shoulder as you pick at the food he made. “There shouldn't be any more surprise drop-ins for you.”
You let out a huff that he tenses at. As much as you want to object, you’ve been on the receiving end of one of his rants when he was first divorcing Tammi. She had never wanted to go to his office functions. Never wanted to meet any of his cop buddies. She was always so neurotic and steadfast in being as separated from his work as she could be.
You didn’t want to do that. You weren’t looking to be the girl that shit on her man hanging out with his friends just because you don’t like them (cool girl strikes again). You don’t want his friends to be right, you don’t want to just be the stepping stone while he looks for the third wife.
“Alright,” you acquiesce and he perks up. That stupid, crooked grin almost makes it worth it. “But that bar-wench shit isn’t ever happening again,” you warn him, tone icy as you pull him back by his hair, forcing him to meet your eyes.
Sammy nods eagerly, “I know, baby. We’re just gonna order pizzas from now on, you won’t have to do a damn thing.” Your gaze narrows into something sharp and he offers a timid smile. “And for the rest of tonight, I’m at your beck and call, promise.”
Slowly, you loosen your grip on his hair, running your fingers through the curls. And the way he preens when you call him a “Good boy” almost makes you think his friends won’t be a problem.
There’s a game on the TV, soccer or football, you don’t know. Sammy’s got it turned down low so you can focus on your book. He’d dropped onto the couch an hour ago and hasn’t found the energy to move since.
Peering over the edge of your book you watch as he pulls your legs into his lap, eyes never leaving the TV. A little smile curls on your lips as his hands idly stroke over your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s aware he’s awake and he still needs his hands on you.
You hide behind your book as your smile grows. Asshole, making you all flustered over something so small.
Really, though, it’s not your fault that all your exes were pieces of crap. That now your standards are so low you think a man respecting your “no” is a sign of saintliness.
Just as you settle back into your book, Sammy’s door slams open, loud footsteps sounding through the entryway. Your heart jumps to your throat, legs jolting as you try and get a look over the couch. Sammy’s hands tighten around your legs, stopping you from bolting. Despite the way you can feel your heartbeat in your abdomen and are about to soil yourself, Sammy looks utterly unbothered.
“Where you at, man?”
“Shit,” you hiss at the unnecessarily loud voice coming from the door. Grabbing your phone you check the date and, sure enough, it's Thursday. Like an idiot you’ve already forgotten that he and his buddies are now on a strict schedule. You’ve been getting good at staying away or making yourself unavailable during his Thursday night games. Not tonight, though.
The bald cop, Tony, you think his name is, makes his way to the living room. He eyes you and Sammy, cackling when he sees your legs in Sammy’s lap. “Shit, man,” he slaps Sammy’s shoulder. “She’s got you whipped.”
It’s almost subtle, the way Sammy brushes you off, reaching up to greet the man with one of those bro hugs. But you know him too well, you’ve gotten too good at recognizing the slight flush on his face is embarrassment. As if showing your girlfriend affection is something to be ashamed of.
No wonder they’re all divorced.
Curling completely into yourself, you watch Sammy jump up, heading into the kitchen to greet the rest of his friends streaming in. At the very least they’ve decided the dining table is a better place to play than the living room. That way you don’t have to sneak past them when you try to head into Sammy’s room.
With something venomous burning inside you, you pick up your book again. You’ll just ignore them, read, and go about your night like they aren’t a newfound plague on your peace. As they all settle, it grows increasingly difficult to try and drown them out.
They’re filling the apartment with expletives and insults straight from the eighties, clearly none of them are any good at whatever they’re playing. You’re not even sure why they get together. You’ve never witnessed one successful game.
Through the tin of rowdy men, you manage to make out a knock on the front door. You can’t imagine it’s anyone from this group, they prefer just busting through like the Kool-Aid man.
Sitting up, you tilt your head, trying to hear if anyone’s moving toward it. Another knock and then Sammy’s shouting, “Babe, can you get that?”
“Babe?” You scoff, nose wrinkling as you push off the couch. Sure, you’ll get the door he’s five feet from. You send him a glare he doesn’t bother acknowledging as you throw open the door.
Ben’s waiting on the other side with an easy grin. He’s balancing an obscene amount of pizza boxes as you pull him inside. “Glad you’re here,” you tell him, taking half of the stack from him.
“Thank you,” he mutters, trailing after you into the kitchen. Without even thinking, you’re grabbing plates, already pulling out slices for the others.
Ben gives you an odd look, leaning against the island, head tilted as he watches you. “You’re turning domestic.” His tone is teasing, but it’s not friendly. It seems like a warning.
Swallowing thickly, you shrug, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You pause, finally looking up at him and he offers you a knowing smirk. “Right?” You whisper, suddenly unsure of yourself.
“Sure,” he grins, taking some of the plates for you. “Whatever you say.”
“You’re such an ass,” you hiss, following him into the dining room. His shoulders shake a little as he laughs and you roll your eyes. Sammy gives Ben a brief greeting, smiling up at you when you pass him his plate.
You toss Tony’s plate on the table with barely enough control to not have the glass shatter. Just as you begin to walk off, his arm snaps out, hand wrenching your wrist back. “Ow,” you curse, frowning down at the tight grip.
“How about a beer, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look at you.
You’re just about to tell him off when Sammy’s voice cuts through the chatter. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, Johnson?” The rest of the guys go quiet, looking up from their cards with nosy intrigue. Sammy’s just staring at Tony, and you swear you’ve never seen him so angry.
You’ve heard him yell before, sometimes into the phone, a lot of the times when he’s ranted to you. But this was a lot colder than what you’ve experienced. Too calm to be safe. Slowly, Tony’s disgusting, clammy hand releases your arm.
Sammy doesn't look away, cards splayed carelessly on the table as he leans forward. “You touch her again and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”
God, that’s hot.
Tony cows under Sammy’s glare. He shrugs, picking up his cards and muttering how he didn’t mean anything by it. You just scoff, glaring down at the bald bastard. Then, just as you’re thinking about dragging Sammy into the bedroom for being so commanding, he laughs.
Your lips part in astonishment, Ben’s head snaps to him with a furrowed brow. Sammy reaches over the table and slaps Tony’s shoulder. “Ah, come on, man. I’m fuckin’ with you. No big deal.” The other men let out stilted laughter, trying to get over the sudden tension.
Sammy looks over at you, “Right, babe?”
No, it’s a big fucking deal. If I feel those clammy palms one more time, I’ll cut off his fat fingers and serve them to you all on the next game night.
And stop fucking calling me that!
“Whatever,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at him as you swallow every venomous word down. Your dignity burns as it tries to crawl its way back up your throat. But, you force it down, making yourself turn around before you say something you regret.
But, then, Tony chuckles. “Well, the beer, sweetheart?”
That fraying thread of self-control unwinds just a little more as you turn around to glare down at Tony. “You got legs, don’t you? Go get your own fucking beer.”
One of the other guys pipes up, snickering at you like you’re just a little dog yapping at them. “You on the rag or something? Just bring us another round.”
At this point, you don’t even look to Sammy for help. You already know he’s not going to do jack shit. He’s clearly too much of a pussy to snap back at guys with seniority over him. “Pigs,” you mutter, not caring if they hear as you storm off to the bedroom.
The door to Sammy’s room is closed in a poor attempt to block out the noise that’s starting to give you a migraine. You can still hear them, laughing and making fun of each other like they didn’t just humiliate you. Like they didn’t just drag your sweetheart of a boyfriend to the dark side.
You glare down at your phone, an article about that jackass Tony glaring back up at you. You’ve seen multiple bodycam videos, smaller articles, all about this asshole who uses excessive force and has been involved in multiple internal affairs investigations. Sammy might have a shorter temper than most, but he’s not corrupt and he doesn’t just casually hang out with pieces of shit like this. He definitely doesn’t play about someone putting their hands on you. There’s something about this whole situation that seems wrong. You just haven’t figured out what, yet.
The door slowly creaks open and you look up with a scowl. Sammy never checks on you when these guys are over. So, it’s not much of a surprise when you see Ben poking his head inside. “Hey,” he offers a tentative smile.
You sit up, patting the spot on the bed by the footboard. “What’s up?” You ask, anger simmering down slightly as he drops himself beside you.
“So,” he flexes his hands, gaze darting to the door before landing on you again.
You give him a shaky smile. “What’s up, Ben? You’re acting weird.” You tilt your head and shrug. “Weirder than usual.”
He lets out a low laugh, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up.” For the first time since game nights began, there’s a genuine smile on your face. “What do you think of Sammy’s new buddies?” He nods toward the dining room and you scoff. Whatever face you make clearly says everything you haven’t because he sucks his teeth and nods.
“Yeah, I’m not much of a fan, either.”
“What the hell is going on? I’ve never even heard half their names before and suddenly they’re infesting our apartment.” Ben’s brows perk at the slip up and you shake your head, brushing it off.
He rubs the back of his neck, shifting further up the bed. “I don’t know, there was a change in the shift rotation, we’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately. I can’t believe he’s actually getting along with the assholes.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, but it does nothing to mask the hurt in your voice. “How the hell do you think I feel?” He looks over at you, expression softening at the pain on your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a brief hug.
He seems hesitant to even touch you, probably out of respect for Sammy. But you’ll take whatever comfort you can get, as small as it may be.
Just as you rest your head on him, the bedroom door creaks open completely. Sammy walks in, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he takes in the both of you. “Was wondering where you went,” he mutters, glaring at the arm Ben has around you.
Ben lets out an awkward sigh, slowly letting you go. You almost complain, but you don’t feel like dealing with any more machismo drama tonight.
“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. He stands in front of you both, arms crossed in that way that usually makes you want to bite him. But your attraction to him tonight has been severely and utterly depleted.
“We were just discussing the impeccable manners of our guests,” you joke, trailing off when he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“My guests,” he corrects, tone painfully sharp.
“Right, well,” you stutter, completely unsure of yourself. You’ve had too manny slip ups tonight. You’ve allowed yourself far too many moments of delusion thinking that Sammy might actually take the relationship a step further.
Ben jumps in, a scowl on his face as he gets to his feet. “You’re acting like she doesn’t practically live with you, man. Cleaning the place and-”
“Butt out,” Sammy snaps, taking a step closer to Ben. You can feel it brewing, the tension that always seems to linger between them. They’re one pissing contest away from just beating each other bloody.
“Hey, you know,” you get up and stretch with a dramatic yawn. “I’m pretty tired, think I might go to sleep.” Sammy’s eyes dart toward yours before he takes the hint, scoffing as he storms out of the room.
Ben shoots you one last look before he follows after him. In the wake of their absence, something like shame seems to fill you. Your relationship is deteriorating right before your eyes, slipping through your fingers. It feels like you’re just letting it happen. Should you be doing something more?
Is this just a phase he needs to go through?
He did skip the whole bachelor pad thing after his divorce, pretty much already ready to date you. Maybe some part of him never got to expel that chauvinistic resentment of Tammi and he’s doing it now. Not that it makes it any better.
Turning off the lamp, you lay down over the comforter and force your eyes to close.
Barely a few hours later, you can feel the bed dipping behind you. Sammy’s arms wind around your waist, careful as they pull you into his chest. He’s trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you’ve been up the past few hours debating the future of your relationship.
There's a part of you that thinks you've figured out why he's acting like this, why he would ever possibly hang around these clowns. But it's not good enough to excuse how he's been behaving.
“They gone?” You grumble, holding stubbornly to your pillow so you don’t give in and turn around to hug him.
“Yeah,” he hums, the noise vibrating against your back. He pulls you closer, lips slowly trailing along your neck, hands dipping to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes narrow and you bite back a scoff. He can’t seriously think he’s going to get lucky tonight?
“Just need to clean up,” he tells you, hands pausing their descent. The silence between you is loud, it takes a moment before you catch his meaning.
“When the hell did I turn into your maid?” He stiffens behind you, arms tightening around you. “Not my guests,” you spit out, “not my fucking problem.”
“Oh, baby,” he rolls you over and you hold tight to the pillow. He frowns down at it as it pushes him back from you. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises, attempting to tug the pillow from your hands.
You kick out at his ankle and glare. “What did you mean it like? And what was all that with Tony? You’re just going to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal?”
With a low grunt, he wrenches the pillow from your hands. You scowl as he pulls you into him. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he whispers, brushing some hair off your cheek. “That was just…” You raise your brows, so fascinated with whatever BS excuse he’s got this time.
Sammy just sighs, forehead falling against your own as he gives up entirely. “Pathetic,” you whisper. “You’ve got nothing?” Your finger digs into his side and he lets out a low laugh.
“No, nothing.”
“Well then-”
“‘Cept this,” he cuts you off, lips finding yours as he rolls over, taking you with him and settling you comfortably on his lap. You can’t help the little moan that slips out, hips Pavlov’d into immediately moving against his.
His hands drift down, palms finding your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. “You do not play fair,” you mutter against his lips. He just lets out another laugh, thrusting up into you and shocking another moan from you.
“Never said I did,” he teases, hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt. With a defeated sigh, you relent, sitting up and peeling off your top. His hands trail up your body, rough callouses ticking the sensitive skin as he cups your breasts.
You fist his shirt in your hands, dragging him up to meet your lips. “Off,” you demand, tugging at his t-shirt. Sammy’s quick to oblige, soft muscles of his abdomen flexing as he tears it off. What little patience he has snaps as you finally take off your bra. You can't help the laugh that tears out of you when he grabs your waist and flips you over, pressing you into the pillows.
His lips carve a path down your body, skin igniting under every touch as he hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks, shoulders already parting your thighs.
You consider it, he does look handsome between your legs like that. But there’s a barbed hurt in your chest, and humiliation from earlier tonight that makes your tongue knot.
Mouth souring, you shake your head and pull back. “No,” his face falls and you can’t help the cruel laugh that slips from you. You tug him up by his chin and offer a sharp smile. “No sex until you get your little buddies under control.” His jaw drops before his head is falling to the crook of your neck.
“You don’t play fair,” he grumbles, and you can feel just how unfair you’re being by how tight his boxers are.
“Never said I did,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple and rolling over. Sammy follows, arms winding around your waist as he mutters to himself.
He can clean his apartment by himself. He can cook his own meals and talk shop with his friends as much as he wants. But he does not get to disrespect you and think everything’s going to be fine and dandy.
You’ll just have to discuss this with him when you’re both not pent up and disappointed.
Your head is resting on his lap, his hands idly stroking along your spine when he laughs. You peer up, curious as you try and catch a glance at his phone. “What is it?”
“Come here,” he pulls on your arm and you sit up, curling into his side. “Just some stupid shit from the guys.” He offers you his phone and you take it, stomach already burning with anticipation. Please just be Ben being a sweet dumbass and not something horrible.
T > Rookie lost it on me today
J > That one’s got a stick up her ass
T > I swear to God I can’t even get through a goddamn conversation without her calling me a Pig.
Your stomach knots itself completely as you glance over at Sammy. He’s already turned his attention to the TV, completely unaware of your internal meltdown. Then, the kicker, Sammy, replying to J’s message.
Pretty sure it’s just a tampon
It’s immediately followed by one of those morons sending a gif of Miss Piggy losing it.
Not only did your man just make a goddamn period joke, they dragged Miss Piggy into this. How the fuck dare they?
You toss Sammy’s phone onto his lap and he lets out a slight groan as it nails his groin. “What,” he trails off at the look on your face. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal.”
Crossing your arms, you put as much space between the two of you as you physically can. “You really think that’s funny?” Sammy rolls his eyes, turning back to the TV and ignoring you. “Fuck that,” you hiss, reaching over and turning it off.
Sammy’s glare is sharp and for the first time he looks like he has no interest in you. That look on his face is just flat, empty as he waits for you to get your rant over with so he can go back to his game.
“So, you agree with that shit?” You demand, heart pumping a little too fast.
Sammy’s head sinks back into the couch cushions with a heavy sigh. “No, come on, leave it alone. It’s just a joke.” Tears sting your eyes as you're reminded of every failed relationship. Every moment you were dismissed or appeased so they could just go back to whatever they want, not giving a damn about how you feel.
“Seriously, Sammy. When I’m upset and just happen to be on my period, do you just dismiss how I’m feeling? Pretend to give a shit so you don’t have to deal with me? When I’m upset do you just think I’m being ridiculous?”
You’re honestly not trying to start a fight. But you’d grown up around the type of men who knew blaming it on your cycle was the best way to shut you up. The most effective way to invalidate your feelings and make you feel so small. You need to know if the man you care so much about has secretly been that sort of man this whole time.
Sammy scrubs his hand down his face and lets out an incredulous laugh. “This is different,” he defends, staring at you like you’re overreacting.
And maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because there is no excuse for just how much he’s changed over a few weeks. “How is it different?”
Sammy just shakes his head. He gives you a flat look and scoffs, turning the TV back on. You purse your lips, biting your tongue so the tears don’t spill. “I don't like your new friends.” He either doesn’t notice how choked up you sound or doesn’t care.
“Good thing you’re not my mom,” he mutters.
“No,” you stand up and he sighs. “Just your live-in maid.” Sammy lets out another tired sigh, head sinking into his hand as you collect your things.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going home, Sammy. “ And as the door slams behind you, he doesn’t try to stop you.
As you head to his apartment, making sure it's not a Thursday, you have to build yourself up. Give yourself a dozen pep talks before you manage to crawl up the stairs.
You’re going to sit down. You’re going to have a conversation. After a copious amount of research on his new friends, you've come to your own conclusion. This has to be some sort of undercover shit he's doing for internal affairs to try and bust these asssholes. But that doesn't change the fact that prolonged exposure to their behaviors has shifted who he is as a person. Changed him into a man you want nothing to do with.
He should have given you a heads up. Told you to stay clear for a few weeks while he works on this. Anything other than throwing you into this deep-end blind.
By the end of the night you’re either going to be single, again, or have the man you care about back.
Tonight, you knock instead of using your key, just needing another minute before you face him. When the door opens, you’re caught off guard by the wide smile on his face. “Oh, thank god.” He reaches out, arms wrapping around your waist as he tugs you into him.
“Uh, hi,” you smile, taken aback by the sudden surge of affection. You barely have a moment to hug him before he’s pulling back.
“Guys are coming over tonight,” he tells you, and your heart drops to your ass as the door closes behind you. “Think you could whip something up for us, baby? I didn’t have time to call the pizza place.”
You’re stunned, absolutely gobsmacked by his audacity as he pulls you into the kitchen. While you’re frozen, jaw permanently dropped, he pulls off your coat and positions you in front of the stove. He even goes so far as to tie on your apron for you.
“I thought you guys meet on Thursdays?” You mutter absentmindedly, blindly pulling ingredients out of the fridge.
“Had a change of plans today,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, and then he’s gone. A minute later you hear his shower start up. You stare down at the stove for a long time before you finally move.
You whip up a feast for him, a last meal if you will. Because you don’t need a conversation anymore. You know exactly how this night is going to end. Might as well give him something decent to eat while you dump him.
The guys start to flood in while he’s still in the shower. They don’t take their shoes off, tracking mud across the linoleum, something Sammy can look forward to cleaning up on his own. They don’t greet you, acknowledge your existence, just grab a beer and carry on.
Feeling numb, you dig through the fridge, finding an expired carton of milk that smells nauseatingly like sulfur. You pour it into your pan, expression flat as the clumps begin to slough out.
The door opens again, you can hear the person taking their shoes off and know who it is before he walks in. “Need any help?”
You don’t turn to face Ben, just toss a handful of vegetables into the pan. “Don’t eat the dip,” you warn him.
“Uh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle. You turn, eyes narrowed as you shake your head. “Well, shit, alright. You got Visine in there or something?”
“Might as well,” you shrug. Slowly, eyes a little wide, he backs out of the kitchen. You just swallow down another wave of fiery rage as you brew up a crime against cooking. But, it will absolutely give them diarrhea for the next week, so you’ll pardon yourself this one time.
Your anger and hurt just builds and festers with every call for beer. Every shouting bought of laughter that makes your shoulders jump and your head throb. By the time Sammy makes it out of the shower, your mind has been entirely made up. Humiliation has gone cold and turned your blood to ice as you stand in his kitchen.
No part of you melts or swoons when he comes up to you with wet curls and presses a kiss to your cheek. His hands hover over your waist, brows furrowing when you don’t turn to reciprocate. You quietly plate his food, giving him an extra serving of dip, and pass it off to him.
“Hey,” he puts the plate on the counter, voice low and soft. “What’s wrong?” He tries to get you to look at him but you stay stubbornly rooted in place, idly pushing the food around in the pan.
“Were you ever going to ask me to move in with you?”
He goes stiff, backing up with a frown that somehow breaches your walls and makes your chest ache. Never been good with rejection, you remind yourself, poorly attempting to build those walls back up. “It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”
You can’t look at him. The second you do, you know you’re just going to cry. You finally thought you were good enough for someone. That someone actually liked you, flaws and all. But, like every other relationship you’ve had, you were just deluding yourself.
Sucking your teeth, you just nod. “Are we okay?” He asks, taking the food and backing up.
“Fine,” you tell him, turning to bring the rest of the snacks to the dining room. Sammy takes his seat, still looking worried as you set everything up. Ben reaches for the dip and you swat his hand, his eyes widen slightly as he remembers your warning and he backs off.
The last plate you set down is with barely any care. You’re angry and hurt, about to leave the one relationship you really thought would last. So, a little sauce splatters on the guys shirts. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to have them bitching.
“Damn it!”
“What’re you blind?”
Smiling, you straighten up and let out a sharp laugh. “Alright, I’m done.”
Sammy frowns, hand tightening around his fork. “With the food?” Oh, and that poor pathetic ounce of hope in his voice makes something in you burn.
The TV is blasting behind you and it’s just another noise adding to the pain in your head. You pick up the remote, shutting it off for a moment of peace. Immediately, the grown men in front of you boo, one even tosses a napkin at you, hand reaching for the remote.
And you just… snap.
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, I am so sick of this, of all of you.” They go quiet as you slam the remote on the table, plates trembling. “You are grown men, you want a beer, then you go get it your goddamn selves. And before any one of you fuckers says some shit about me being on my period… I want it to be very clear that I have never been dryer in my life than I am looking at you pathetic excuses for men.”
Sammy stands as you undo your apron, tearing it off and tossing it at him. But you’re not done, it’s just pouring out- everything you didn’t say. Everything you held back for a man who never really wanted you.
“God, you wonder why the female rookies don’t like you people! It’s because everytime she performs better than you, everytime she calls you on your shit, you undermine her and blame it on the ‘rag.’ You’re just pathetic little men who can’t handle a woman who is secure in her job because it reminds you of just how small you are.”
Your face is hot, chest heaving as you stand there, staring at them all. You’re sure they’ve seen this meltdown before. During their divorce proceedings, watching as their marriage fell apart or their daughters stopped talking to them. But, for once, they are blessedly silent and you feel like you can actually breathe again.
There’s laughter and you look up to find Ben leaning back with a grin. He surveys the other’s faces and lets out a low whistle. You’re almost tempted to laugh with him.
Then, Sammy reaches for you, hand hesitant as it lands on your shoulder. “Sweetheart-”
“No,” you snap, voice quieter now. He flinches as you slap his hand away, hazel eyes wide and shining with hurt. “I am done with you, Sammy. Alright?”
“What?” His eyes dart to the others and he takes a desperate step closer to you. But you just shove him back. “Hun, let’s talk about this.”
“No, no I’m done doing that. So, uh, enjoy cracking a beer with the boys without the drama of your untrained woman. You’ve got a right hand, what the fuck else do you need me for?” You grab your purse and shake your head.
Sammy chases after you but you’re not letting him weasel his way out of this again. You’d made a promise to yourself. You’re leaving single tonight, he’s had far too many chances to get his act together.
Just as you’re running into the parking lot, you hear footsteps racing toward you. You whip around, watery glare turning confused when you see Ben catching up with you. “Hey,” he calls out your name and you let out a tired sigh as you stop.
“Look,” he darts in front of you, slightly out of breath. “As entertaining to watch as that was, what’s happening… It’s not what you think.”
“I know,” you interrupt him.
His mouth droops before snapping shut again. “Huh?”
“It’s got to do with an investigation, right?” Slowly, he nods, infuriatingly surprised by you connecting the dots. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago, Ben. But he didn’t give me any warning before he turned into this Don Draper wannabe. He didn’t prep me or just keep me out of this. This all being a part of something bigger doesn’t change or excuse how humiliated he made me feel.”
Ben wants to say more, you can see it on his face. His arm lifts before falling limply to his side. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and offers you a sorry smile. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks softly.
“No, but I appreciate it.” He nods, and you blink, eyes burning as you stare down at the pavement. Hesitantly, his hand lands on your shoulder, softly squeezing before he backs up.
“Take care of yourself.”
You hum, throat too tight for words and wait for him to go back into the building before you let the tears fall.
When you wake up the next morning, your eyes are crusted from crying too much and your head is throbbing from, again, crying a ridiculous amount. Blindly, you grope around your nightstand until you find your phone.
It shouldn’t be a shock that Sammy’s reached out, but the amount of missed calls on your screen is a number you didn’t think you could ever reach.
He’s also blown your messages up. The majority of them promising to explain his behavior. Asking you to call him. Give him one more chance (he’s had plenty). And then there are ones where you can tell he’s starting to get pissed off that you’re just ignoring him.
Serves him right.
Your thumb twitches against the call back button. Almost wanting to hear how he’s going to explain this away. But you force yourself to put the phone down. You swore to yourself, no more cool girl BS. You’re not going to just let him treat you how he did and get away with it.
So, as difficult as it is, you mute his notifications. You don’t have it in your heart to block him, not yet. But you can at least spare yourself the misery of watching his picture light up your screen every ten minutes.
Occasionally, though, throughout the week you have a moment of weakness. You’ll check to see just how much more he’s reached out and then listen to a few voicemails. They all relatively sound the same:
“Please, sweetheart call me back” and then you’ll hear Ben in the background “Man, this is pathetic” Sammy will tell him to shut it and, again, plead for you to just give him a minute of your time.
When you start to feel really lonely, when your bed is just too cold and too big, you almost do it. You’re so close to just calling him so you can hear something other than the quiet of your apartment. This space that has become foreign to you because Sammy’s place was becoming home. And then, you’re reminded of how he treated you, what he took from you both by not just giving you a heads up on the investigation. And you put your phone down, hurt and angry all over again.
By weeks end, your friends call you out to go to a club with them. They don’t know you broke up with Sammy, they think you’re still the perfect couple. Which leads to a night filled with painful, barbed reminders of how alone you are now, while your friends bemoan how perfect and sweet your relationship is.
You should have told them the truth before you went out with them. But they’ve witnessed so many messy breakups from you. They’d probably just blame you. If you can’t keep a decent guy like Sammy than it has to be you whose the problem.
So, after a long night of playing the designated driver (because you’re the only one happy and dating someone, in theory) and being reminded of how amazing your relationship used to be… You’re already in a foul mood when a passing cop decides it’ll be funny to get a handful of your ass.
Not just a slap or a quick squeeze, either. This man puts both palms, cups your cheeks, and nearly lifts you in the air he squeezes so tight. And you, completely ignoring his badge, treat him how you would any other creep.
You deck him.
Suddenly your face is pressing against the hood of a patrol car. Your friends are shouting “We’re recording this, babe!” And you’re being cuffed and thrown into the back of their car.
But, hey, at least your friends recorded it.
“Whoa!” Ben is the first one to see you as you’re pulled into the station. You’d consider yourself lucky if seeing him didn’t mean Sammy was around somewhere.
“What the hell are you doing?” He snaps at your arresting officer while the piece of shit jerks your arm out of socket.
“She assaulted an officer,” his partner pipes up. Your gaze goes to the deep black bruise ringing his eye and you grin.
“All right,” you huff. “Like he didn’t assault me first.”
Ben’s eyes dart between the both of you, his jaw clenching when he sees the marks on your arm from your rough detainment. “What happened?” He asks you, holding up a hand when the cop tries to talk.
“I was out with some friends and this asshole thought he could just stick his hand up my dress.”
“Didn’t take much,” that bitch smirks. “Look at the length of that thing-”
“Hey!” Ben snaps and it catches the attention of some of the others milling around. “That’s enough. Now let her go.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Ben pushes the guy away, taking his key and working off one of your cuffs. “This is Sammy’s girl, you’re lucky I’m the one that found you, not him.”
The guys eyes widen and he backs off with a huffy sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” your stomach rolls with disgust. “But if it were any other woman, you’d still somehow make yourself the victim? I see I only hold value when there’s a man attached to my name.”
“Alright,” Ben puts his hand on your back, turning you before you provoke another fist fight. “I’m sorry about that.”
He sits you down at his desk and watches you carefully. “I should file a lawsuit,” it’s an empty threat but you seriously considered it on the ride over.
Ben snorts, eyeing you up and down carefully. “How’ve you been doing?”
“Fine,” you shrug. “About as well as anyone is after a breakup.”
Ben leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, a seriously concerned look on his fac. “He’s falling apart.”
“Ben…”
“Seriously, and not just because you poisoned him with spoiled dip,” that brings a small smile to your face. Ben returns it for a moment before his face settles into something more serious. “I don’t know how much more I can take. He’s snapping at any little thing. He won’t stop bitching at me. I’m losing my mind.”
“Look,” you rub your wrist and look away. “Am I being booked or not? I want to go home.”
Ben sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re not getting booked.”
“Thank you,” and before you can even get up, he’s grabbing the loose handcuff and snapping it to his desk. Your eyes widen, stomach sinking as you tug futilely at it. “Ben,” you hiss. “What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry,” he shrugs off his jacket, laying it over your lap so your dress doesn’t ride all the way up. “But I can’t take this anymore.”
Your jaw drops as he walks off and you know exactly where he’s going. “Traitor!” You shout at his back, he gives you a sarcastic thumbs up that almost make you wish you had a gun.
You’re sitting there for about ten minutes before Sammy’s rushing up. Most of the guys in here know you, but the few that don’t keep asking how much a night will cost. You’re starting to think it might be time to retire this dress.
“Hey,” your name rushes from him in one panicked breath. “What’s happening? Why are you cuffed?”
You suck your teeth and give him a sharp smile. “Your partner decided to play Cupid.” Sammy’s brows furrow, his hands already working on taking the cuffs off.
“Yeah, but why are you here?” He asks, thumbs brushing over the split skin of your knuckles. You jerk your hand back before his soft touch weakens your resolve. Sammy frowns and you can’t make yourself meet the hurt look in his eyes.
“Some asshole grabbed a handful outside The Strip tonight.”
“What the hell were you doing over there?” His tone is far too sharp for a man you’ve already broken up with. Eyes narrowed, your face snaps to his.
“Tone,” you snap. Sammy’s jaw clenches but he backs off a little. “I was out with some friends. Still, being near that place doesn’t just give guys an excuse to grope me.”
Sammy takes a hold of your arm, pulling you away from Ben’s desk and leading you toward an empty room. “I’m not saying it does. I just thought I’ve told you a lot about staying away from there. You know how many half-naked girls we’ve had to pull from their alley?”
“Jesus,” you huff, pulling your arm away as he closes the door. “I got it. I was trying to go home, anyway.”
“Why-” Sammy stops himself, taking a deep breath as color grows on his cheeks. You wait for another lecture but he seems to love proving you wrong. “Why haven’t you called me back?”
Your jaw slacks, an unintelligible garble of words stuttering its way free. “Seriously?” You land on, voice pitched with anger. Sammy’s eyes widen, glancing through the windows of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention. Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to keep your voice mellow.
You really don’t need to be arrested tonight. Again.
“Sammy, that’s why you dragged me in here? Not because a cop copped a feel?” His expression falls flat at your poor excuse for a joke. Fuck me, then, God forbid you try and ease the tension.
“Obviously I’m upset about that, sweetheart. But it’s not your fault and it’s not you I’m going to be telling off for it. I’ll deal with him later.” You’re sure that means Sammy’s going to beat the guy half to death and Ben will have to clean up the mess.
“Right now, I want to know why you’re just pretending I don’t exist. Like we haven’t been dating for six months.”
Your feet are aching from the obnoxiously tall heels you took out tonight. Not bothering to look at him, you take a seat at one of the desks and peel them off, letting out a low sigh of relief. Sammy just watches with his arms crossed, clearly at the end of his thread.
“Look, babe, I don’t know what you’re not getting about me being done with you, but we’re through. No sex. No calls. No texts. This is what happens when people break up, Sammy.”
Sammy lets out a stressed sigh, lips pulling down as he drags his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. I had to act like an ass, baby, I’m-”
“Working on an investigation?” You finish, giving him an unimpressed glare. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m not a moron, I figured out why you were acting like a chauvinistic pig all of a sudden. The problem here isn’t that, it’s the lack of communication that led to me being completely humiliated.”
His arms drop to his sides and he just stares, mind spinning as he struggles to figure out a way out of this. Spoiler, there isn’t one.
“I don’t- What do you want me to do, hm? What can I do to make this better?”
You’re ready to dismiss him when you catch an officer’s eye through the window of the room. They’re all out there, his buddies, the asshole that arrested you. Watching and trying to pretend like this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened tonight.
Slowly, you drag your gaze back to Sammy, a cruel smile pulling on your lips. “Beg.”
He stills, eyeing you warily. “What?” His tone is incredulous, slightly taken off gaurd.
You shrug, “You really want me back?”
“You know I do.”
“Aright, beg.” You tilt your head, wondering if he’s actually capable of swallowing down his pride.
Slowly, Sammy takes another step closer. “Please, sweet-”
“Hm, no,” you click your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment. “Do this properly, Sammy. On your knees.” His jaw clenches and it's audible how he swallows. Sammy turns toward the blinds and you sigh. “Blinds open. Unless you’re just full of it?”
“You know I’m not,” he grits out, cheeks flushing as a few officers fail to hide their peeping. You almost think he’s going to give up. Before you can scold him for taking too long, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you.
Your eyes widen imperceptibly and it’s an effort not to give away your shock. Sammy’s hands skate over the smooth skin of your legs, squeezing around your calves. “I fucked up, honey, I know that. I will do anything I can to make up for it, just, please, give me another chance.”
It’s a power rush, having such a domineering man on his knees in front of you. That boost to your ego is almost enough to make you cave. But you know Sammy, he can certainly do better than this. He just hates the idea of any of his men seeing it.
Pursing your lips, you lightly kick your leg out. “Put my heels on for me.” He huffs, clearly upset by the lack of response, but he listens anyway. Getting to your feet, Sammy follows, expression expectant.
You pat his shoulder in that condescending way men always do to you. “That was cute, hun. But I’m not changing my mind. You want to fix this, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.”
Sammy doesn’t object, just scratches at his jaw and lets out a disbelieving sigh. You give him a sharp smile before you make your way to the door. “You're unbelievable,” he calls after you. You shrug, not bothering to look back as you make your way out of the station.
A week after your “arrest,” you’re flipping through channels when a familiar face catches your eye. Tony, the crapbag that Sammy had around, has been arrested. As well as a bunch of other game-night regulars. Extortion, violation of civil rights, spoliation, and a list as long as your arm that just keeps on going. Truly, they are the epitome of scumbags.
You can understand why Sammy was so bent on getting them put away. Even if it came at the risk of your relationship. As much as that makes him a good cop and an honorable man, it doesn’t make him a better boyfriend.
Still, you find your hand inching toward your phone, finger hovering over his contact. You bite your lip, debating the risks when someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you toss your phone on the couch and get up to take a look through the peephole.
It’s like he’s got a sensor for when you’re feeling weak.
Sammy stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. You step back with a huff and glance down at yourself. Taking an extra minute to hike up your shorts and adjust your boobs, you throw the door open.
“Can I help you, officer?”
He scoffs, lips pulled in an endeared grin. “Still mad, I take it?”
You pause, taking inventory of emotions. The sting of humiliation has eased slightly since you practically put him on a leash at the station. And you do genuinely understand the motivations behind his behavior, you just wished he hadn’t executed it all so stupidly.
“No, I’m not angry, Sammy. I just wish you a happy life of erectile dysfunction and involuntary abstinence.” Pulling back, you go to close the door when he slips his boot inside. Glaring up at him, you frown. “Got a warrant?”
“Enough,” he scolds, pushing the door open. You stumble back with an affronted noise. “You’re not breaking up with me.”
If it were any of your other exes, you’d probably be terrified right now. But he’s not being malicious or threatening to stalk you or take out your family if you don’t unblock him. Instead, there’s almost a slight thrill coming to life in you.
“What?” You scoff.
“I’m not agreeing to this,” he says simply, eyeing your skimpy pajamas with an appreciative gleam in his eye.
You scoff and cross your arms,“That’s not how this works, Sammy.”
He shrugs, “Tough.” When he takes another step closer, you’re almost tempted to run, to drag this out a little longer. But his arms are already winding around your waist and he’s heaving you over his shoulder before you even get a chance to blink.
“Uh, Sammy,” you grasp at his shirt as he marches through your apartment. “What the hell are you doing, you neanderthal?”
“I’m going to make it up to you,” you lift your head and peer around him to see he’s walking you straight into your room. Oh, that’s how he’s going to play this. “Then,” you let out a shocked laugh as he drops you on your bed.
His grin widens at the sound as he grabs your ankles, pulling you even closer to him. “I’m going to ask you to move in with me.”
Your heart races as your expression falls. Your gaze darts to his eyes, trying to figure out if he means this or if this is just a last ditch effort to get you back. “What?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let you pull away. “Sammy, do you really mean this?”
“‘Course I do, sweetheart,” he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek and leans down to kiss you. Your arms wind around his shoulders off muscle memory.
But you force yourself to pull back, noses brushing as you take a good long look at him. “I’m not playing housewife anymore,” you threaten.
He lets out a little laugh and nods. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you worry.”
And god help you, you actually believe him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “No,” you whisper. Sammy draws back, brows knit in hurt as he shakes his head. “No,” you scramble back from him, arms wrapping around your stomach as you shake your head.
“This isn’t how it’s going to work anymore. You don’t get to fix our problems with sex. Or just decide the course of our relationship. You fucked up, you made me feel like shit. For the first time, I felt safe with someone, and you just took that from me.”
Sammy’s face falls and he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. His head falls into his hands as he lets out a broken sigh. “I’m so sorry,” you believe him. There’s shame, disgust with himself in his voice, but that doesn’t fix this.
“I’ll move in with you, Sammy,” you promise, and his head lifts. “But not anytime soon. I think… I don’t think I’ve been honest about who I am. I’m so used to putting on a show, to trying to keep someone’s attention, I haven’t been myself. I want you to be with the real me. To actually see me, not this glamorized version of myself perfectly made for your gaze.”
“Honey,” he reaches over, taking your hands in his. “Of course I see you. You’re not as good actor as you think,” you let out a watery laugh while he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “But I’m a patient man.”
You shoot him a look and he offers you that boyish smile you love. “I can be patrient,” he swears.
Nodding, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. “Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay?” he questions, not quite believing you. You smile and let your head drop to the crook of his neck.
“But if you ever treat me like that again… Not even Ben will be able to find your body.”
Sammy lets out a little chuckle, it cuts off as you pinch his side. “Trust me, I believe you.” You lace your fingers with his and let out a small sigh. A fresh start might be the best thing for both of you. The both of you could do with learning to be independent outside of your relationship. And he really needs to know what you look like not being the cool girl before he makes such a big promise as being with you for real.
You’re not planning on making it easy on him. But you have an odd suspicion he might be into that. And anyways, how were you ever expected to say no to a man with arms like these?
Doppel-banger: a double of a living person who you wouldn't hesitate to tap
summary: five times you think you stumbled upon jack abbot vs. the one time it's actually him
tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, terry mccandless, titus dandforth, jack abbot, terry is lowkey creepy, titus mentions sacrificing somone, brett sammy and pope are all nice, canon pope staring, second hand embarrassment, younger fem!reader but age is not specified
notes: okay, so I had this idea of making a full oneshot about a reader mistaking pope for a concussed jack for an entire day, but the I thought it'd be really funny to make a collection of all the major shawn characters. i haven't seen any of the tv shows, but i read so much fan fiction, I am sorry if some of them are ooc, if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!
word count: 9.6k
By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other.
A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field.
Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye.
You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you.
The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes.
You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders.
No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd.
Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone.
But more importantly, mentioning it to you.
Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire.
A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him.
“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?”
The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach.
“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.”
By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still.
That should have been your first warning.
But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—”
Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.
Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot.
In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance.
But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist.
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?”
Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.”
Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle.
You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.”
“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said.
Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.”
“I’m starting to gather that.”
“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.”
He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.”
You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.”
The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?”
“Only when he does something stupid.”
“I’m starting to think I should meet him.”
You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.”
He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.
Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body.
You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.”
Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.”
You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again.
Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.”
Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?”
“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.”
“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.”
“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.”
“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.”
“Seemed important to you.”
“I’ve been publicly humiliated!”
“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.”
“What?”
“The tone you’re doing right now.”
Brett blinked. “What tone?”
“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sound exactly like him too.”
Now he looked offended. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.”
The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.”
Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?”
“Definitely not yours.”
You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message.
Jack:
Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid.
“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him.
He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.”
You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.”
“Feels like your problem already.”
“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.”
Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!”
You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.”
Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.”
_______________________
The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled.
Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights.
You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly.
Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately.
Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too?
Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights.
You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway.
“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.”
Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face.
“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.”
A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?”
“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly.
You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them.
Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb.
And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired.
You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.”
He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?”
“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself.
“Again?”
You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.”
“Well, that sound concerning.”
“I’m very concerned for my mental status.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it.
You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.”
“Nope.”
“Perfect.”
“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him.
You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.”
“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?”
“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.”
That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.”
You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.”
Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Late shift?”
You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.”
His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?”
“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.”
A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable.
You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night.
Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?”
A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.”
“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.”
He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.”
You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them.
“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed.
“Twelve years.”
“Explains your expression.”
At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?”
“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.”
He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.”
A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.”
Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?”
“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.”
“What does Jack do?”
“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”
Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.”
“You say that like you know him.”
“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.”
For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got.
Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?”
His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago.
Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.”
It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.”
“You’re tired,” he said simply.
“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.”
“You’re human.”
You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.”
“Me and Jack?”
“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.”
Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.”
“Maybe I need therapy.”
“That too.”
You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal.
As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs.
Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.”
“That’s still up for debate.”
“But you still like him.”
You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further.
You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.”
“Dangerous trait to have.”
And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.”
“Real terrible guy.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.”
Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser.
“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.”
His eyebrows rose. “Probably.”
“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.”
“Likewise.”
As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell.
“And hey,” he called out after a few steps.
You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow.
“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!”
Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot.
_______________________
By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real.
Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in.
You’d be done in four hours.
That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult.
The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare.
You drank it down anyway.
Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently.
That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows.
Your steps slowed automatically.
Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.
Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack.
But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him.
“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?”
Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again.
Three and oh.
You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet.
In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad.
Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether.
You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.”
The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.”
Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you.
You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.”
He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?”
His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth.
A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.”
Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself).
You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”
He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?”
“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?”
Another pause.
“You can sit.”
You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt.
Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you.
“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently.
His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure.
“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.”
Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?”
He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.”
His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway.
You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”
A small almost-smile curled his lip.
You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.”
His eyes looked down at the cup.
“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him.
He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?”
You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I feel the same way.”
A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings.
Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read.
Lonely, your brain supplied.
You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?”
He pursed his lips. “Andrew.”
No nickname.
Not even a last name.
Just Andrew.
You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.”
“The last two?”
“Long story.”
He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully.
“Do you need to go help people?”
“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.”
“You’re tired.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.”
He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.”
“You sound like Jack.”
Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?”
“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband.
“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically.
Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.”
You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have.
You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.”
His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt.
_______________________
By now, you should have known better.
Key words: should have.
Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning.
Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment.
Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in.
All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise.
Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes.
The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car.
You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door.
At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket.
The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore.
Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first.
Et tu, Brute?
“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased.
“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.”
You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes.
The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine).
However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.”
A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.”
You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Finding men who all have the same face.”
“That so?”
“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.”
The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.”
“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.”
You paused. “That was before you spoke.”
His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?”
“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.”
He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”
The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion.
Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.”
He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke.
Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all.
This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?”
You sneered. “That’s none of your business.”
“Mhm.”
“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”
“Only the pretty little ones.”
You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.”
Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?”
“You’re definitely something.”
Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest.
“You got a name?” he asked.
Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest.
“Smart girl,” he murmured.
Your spine stiffened.
The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.”
You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.”
“Before tellin’ me yours?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.”
You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest.
“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.”
You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.”
“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person.
You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.”
He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.”
You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.
_______________________
You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events.
The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities.
The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking.
Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served.
“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief.
Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”
“Well now I’m interested.”
Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly.
At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role.
The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane.
Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice.
But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint.
He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?”
You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”
“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.”
“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.”
Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him.
“Oh, I already like you,” he announced.
You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.”
“I get that a lot.”
You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”
He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?”
“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.”
“Do you seek his face out often?”
“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.”
“Ah. One of those situations.”
Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.”
“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.”
Oh.
Oh no.
For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally.
You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.”
His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.”
“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.”
“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
“It mostly entertains me.”
You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that.
“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.”
A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?”
He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.”
You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”
Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.”
A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh.
“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh.
“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.”
Oh, absolutely not.
Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best.
“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.”
“How will you ever recover?”
“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.”
Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?”
“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.”
“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous.
“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.”
The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will.
You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.”
His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?”
“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.”
“Is it a sin to be attentive?”
“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.”
Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.”
Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you.
“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side.
You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight.
Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.”
His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket.
Double oh no.
He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.”
You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot.
“Titus—”
“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.”
“That is way too much money.”
“Probably.”
“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.”
“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.”
You hesitated before slowly taking in.
Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.”
Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.”
You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”
“How did you know that was next on my list?”
“It seemed very on brand.”
Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other.
Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.”
You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.”
_______________________
At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks.
One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well).
You were simply done.
Officially. Completely. Done.
Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance.
The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes.
And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes.
Unbelievable.
You didn’t even break stride this time.
“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.”
The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice.
You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.”
A long silence followed before he said one word.
“What?”
You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.
Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot.
Your Jack.
For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious.
You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?”
Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?”
“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.”
Jack stared at you in complete silence.
“. . . You met a rich version of me?”
“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.”
“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?”
The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that.
Brett had looked entertained.
Sammy had looked understanding.
Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely.
Terry had looked scheming.
Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing.
But Jack?
Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once.
“Oh.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?”
“You’re actually him.”
“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?”
A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting.
Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?”
His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?”
“You happened,” you informed him weakly.
“That really didn’t explain anything.”
“It does in my head.”
“Which is terrifying.”
You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art.
But above all, Jack felt safe.
Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment.
You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty.
“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly.
Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.”
“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.”
He stayed quiet.
“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.”
Jack looked caught off guard.
“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.”
He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.
Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.”
A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.”
Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.”
The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days.
That was another difference too.
None of the others had ever felt like home.
You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.”
Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?”
“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.”
A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.”
You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”
Jack stared down at you for one long second.
“Did any of them kiss you?”
A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?”
“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?”
“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.”
His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady.
When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly.
“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.”
Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?”
You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.”
He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss.
Sammy Bryant x Reader: Sammy is always one bite away from a meal before his radio or partner yanks him away. So, the reader recommends him a good spot to get food after work….it just so happens to be their apartment complex…
(I just want him to be well fed, I adore soft/young Hatosy so much and Sammy just makes my heart ache)
Lots of food talk, light mentions of missed meals, overworked Sammy, mutual pining/flirting/yearning. Reader is slightly shy, especially with relationships (despite flirting with Sammy), Sammy has a fat crush on the reader and vice versa. Just shameless fluff n flirtin.
(Let me know if you lot want a part two for this!)
9am, Sammy had started his shift a few hours ago, and thankfully it had been relatively quiet on the streets. Taking the advantage of the quietness, he and his partner pulled in to their usual haunt for food.
For Sammy, this was great as it meant two things; one, a hearty breakfast, and two, getting to visit you.
-------
You poured some more coffee for the regulars, turning when you hear the chime to the doors of the diner opening up, Sammy walking in with his partner.
“Morning” You smiled at the pair, lingering a little on Sammy. It was no secret that you had a little thing for him, your co-workers certainly ribbed you for it.
Is it the uniform that does it for you?
Maybe the handcuffs?
He does come here a lot, think he might have a little crush on you.
Lately, it had been noted that minutes after ordering or even receiving a plate of food, Sammy would be hauled off on duty, the sound of his radio going off with a fresh job or his partner grabbing him to hurry up, leaving a sizeable portion of food behind. This had been happening so much recently that you had begun to worry that Sammy wasn’t getting anything proper to eat, save for snacks and candy from the vending machines at the station.
“You actually gonna finish something this time?” You said over your shoulder as you went behind the counter.
“Believe me I would eat ten plates if I could.” Sammy sighed as he sat on his stool and patted his stomach.
“Not my fault its been crazy out there lately” His partner shrugged.
“Well, make the most of the quiet spell. What you havin?” You asked as you took out your notepad.
You looked up from your notebook at Sammy and his partner, then at his radio as it crackled with an incoming message. As he exchanged glances with his partner, you turned around to pour two coffees out in to the to-go cups.
“Jesus fucken-“ Sammy sighed and shook his head, pressing the receiver on his radio “This is South, what you got?”
"We got a break in five minutes North of your position, unarmed but it’s heating up. Can you get down there and check it out? "
You watched Sammy visibly slump over his robbed breakfast. He looked at you with a forlorn expression etched into his features, but he smiled fondly as you held out coffee for him, then his partner.
“C’mon, we’ll pick up something after” His partner said, clapping a hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee honey” he added with a wink at you as he got up and left to head back out to the car.
Sammy stood up and adjusted his uniform before taking the coffee.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll at least get to look at the food” He chuckled pitifully, anticipating his delicious, hot breakfast now to be replaced with a pitiful bag of Reece’s pieces or doritos from an overpriced vending machine.
“Hey, wait a sec!” You called over as Sammy began walking.
He halted and watched you trot out from behind the counter whilst writing something down on your note pad.
“After your shift, you should try this place. Tonight. Open 24-7, they do great food.” You said, tearing out the paper and handing it to Sammy.
“What’s it called?” He frowned as he looked over the address, unfamiliar with the area.
“It’s just a little hole in the wall kinda place, I know the owner, if you get lost my number is there, I’ll give you directions if you get stuck.”
Sammy tilted his head a little as he scrutinized the paper before looking at you with half a smirk. It seemed like an elaborate effort just to get in and have a meal, but if you recommended it, then Sammy had no reason to doubt it was solid.
“M’kay…thanks” He nodded, his eyes roaming over you before he jolted as his partner pressed on the squad car horn.
“Promise you’ll check the place out tonight. The good stuff gets served at eight.” You nodded as you tapped the tip of the note between Sammy’s fingers.
“I will, I will” he nodded “Eight, got it. Thanks, and thanks for this” he said gesturing to the coffee.
“Any time” you smiled and watched as Sammy headed out to the squad car, where his partner shook his head and grinned between you and Sammy, who swatted his partner’s arm and gestured for him to ‘just drive’.
You smiled at the interaction, and whilst you returned to behind the counter, you began to plot your plan even further.
——-
It was eight fifteen.
Sammy squinted at the address you had written as the taxi pulled up to the side of what appeared to be an apartment complex. There was no visible sign of a restaurant, hole in the wall or otherwise.
Just….apartments.
He got out of the car, paid the driver, and looked over the building before fishing his cell phone to dial your number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, s’me, Sammy-“ he cringed as he awkwardly introduced himself. Of course it was him. You knew his voice.
“Hey, you find that place okay?”
“Well…m’not sure” he said, looking around at the neighborhood. “I…Im at an apartment block…you sure you gave me the right spot?”
“Yeah, that’s right, you gotta go into the building, then buzz for apartment 20.”
“Its an apartment?” Sammy questioned, looking up at the building again, counting up the windows to number twenty where a light was on inside.
“Just do it if you want to eat” You chuckled on the end of the line before hanging up on him.
Sammy looked at his phone in confusion, but regardless he approached the front door. He pressed for apartment 20 and was instantly let inside. It was a nice building, clean and quiet, a stark difference to the usual complexes Sammy visited during duty.
He gradually got up the stairs to apartment 20, where he gently wrapped his knuckles on the door.
What sort of restaurant is in an apartment complex?
How the hell did you even know about it? There’s no signs, no directions to even hint that-
The door opened, and there you stood, in sweats, a vest, flannel, hair tied up and away from your face. Sammy stood dumbfounded as you smiled at his bewildered image. His senses were immediately flooded with a delicious aroma; herbs, garlic, butter, all wafting in from the heart of your apartment.
“Hey” he breathed eventually.
“Hi” you replied “You hungry?” You asked.
“Starving” he simply responded, and it made you grin a little at how sweet he looked.
“C’mon in then”
Sammy walked into your apartment, and it immediately felt warm, cozy, you. You took his jacket and hung it up before leading him in through the living room and towards your kitchen. Sammy’s mouth watered as the inviting aroma invaded his nose; three large steaks sat hissing in the frying pan, cloaked in butter, garlic and herbs, nestled between them were spears of asparagus, and to the side a pot of mashed potatoes.
“This…this is for me?” Sammy asked, still bewildered and not entirely sure that what was happening was indeed happening.
Did I hit my head at work and Im passed out right now?
Maybe I caught a bullet and this is heaven
“Technically yes, but selfishly also for me.” You shrugged as you pointed to a chair at the kitchen island for Sammy to use.
“How’d you mean?” Sammy curiously asked as he sat and watched you move around your kitchen flawlessly.
“For one, I had some garlic that needed used up -hate food waste-“ You said over your shoulder. “Secondly, you have barely had a chance to eat when you come in to the diner the last week or so, and by my reckoning, vending machine candy aint cutting it on the twelve hour shifts.” You smirked over your shoulder at Sammy.
“So the whole restaurant thing, ‘I know the owner’ was a ploy?” Sammy huffed in amusement at you.
“No…I do know the owner, in a manner of speaking” You impishly replied and gestured to Sammy’s left. “Toss me that pepper shaker” you said.
Sammy grabbed it and leaned over to hand you the pepper, observing as you sprinkled some into the potatoes before grabbing a little pot of mustard to spoon into the fluffy mix. His mind briefly dipped into dangerous territory when you pressed the pad of your middle finger into your mouth to sample the sauce you were now putting together.
“You want something to drink?” You asked, unaware of Sammy drooling a little internally at the combination of you sucking your finger and the prospect of getting a damn good meal.
“Uh y-yeah, yeah. What you got?” Sammy responded clumsily.
You quirked a brow at him and nodded to the fridge.
“There’s beer, wine, soda, whatever you can find you can have. Though I doubt protein shakes or redbull would work well with this on the palette.” You mused.
Sammy got up and opened the fridge. It was tidy, and well stocked, containers and tubs of what appeared to be ingredients all sharpied with names and dates on the lids.
“You really do have a little restaurant thing going on don’t you.” Sammy joked as he carefully plucked a bud from the six pack and leaned back.
“The kitchen staff at work keep extra ingredients for me if they have it going spare. Like I say, I hate waste, and they know I’ll use it for something. There’s rarely enough to use for customers, usually just enough for one meal, so giving it to a singleton works in their favour.”
“Mmhmm” Sammy hummed in acknowledgement, part of him latching on to the bit about you being a 'singleton'. “You want something?” He casually asked, gesturing to the fridge.
“Bring out that open bottle of white and a handful of the parsley.”
When Sammy didn’t respond, you looked at him and softly clicked your tongue with an amused smirk.
“The green stuff next to the carton of orange juice idiot” You playfully mocked him.
Sammy flushed a little but grinned as you felt comfortable enough to softly chide him. He grabbed the wine and what he now knew was parsley. He handed it to you, where you took it and began to skillfully chop some of it up before sprinkling it over the food.
Sammy couldn't help but feel drawn to you, casual and comfortable, in your own home and around him, as if he belonged there and had been in your home thousands of times before. He liked that you weren't exactly dressed up, you were just...you. It felt easy for Sammy to be around you. It certainly fueled his imagination of the two of your co-existing.
Sammy made himself useful by opening the screw cap to the wine and plucked an empty glass from the shelf above the countertop. He filled it up for you, and set it down on the island before sitting back in his own stool.
“You didn’t have to do all this” Sammy finally said, his fingernail picking a little at the label to his beer.
“Can’t have you starving” You shrugged as you leaned over to hand him a bottle cap opener for hid beer. “Besides, s’nice to have someone to cook for.”
This hit Sammy in the solar plexus. His mind immediately running away with the thought of coming home to you, sitting in the kitchen whilst you told him about your day, and you learned about his. Then tucking into a home made meal. It practically squished his heart with yearning for such a life.
“How do you like it?” You suddenly broke Sammy’s absent minded staring, and you smiled at him when he let out an innocent ‘huh?’ over sipping his beer.
“Your steak, how do you like it?” You clarified as you tapped a knife on the edge of the pan.
“Medium rare, please” he requested politely.
He felt a surge of pride as you nodded approvingly, and turned your attention to the pan. Sammy was going to offer to help plate up, but you were in the groove, in your happy place it seemed. Sammy never knew you cooked or even enjoyed it, he only knew that you served food.
“Here you go” You said and set down Sammy’s plate.
His eyes bulged out of his head near enough as he fawned over the meal before him. The steak was cooked and seared to perfection, the soft and fluffy mashed potatoes pressed up against the steak, decorated with lush sprinkles of parsley, all of which joined by the glistening, buttery asparagus spears alongside it.
“Here, I made us some red wine sauce to go with it.” You said as you sat down opposite Sammy at the island, placing down a little ceramic pourer with the deep, rich sauce within.
Sammy just stared at you, absolutely floored.
“What?” You asked nervously, breathy and amused at his comically shocked face.
“You can cook” he said simply.
“I guess I can” you sarcastically agreed with a grin.
“No like…you can really cook.” He repeated, and you couldn’t help but laugh at him. "Can you trick me into coming over for dinner more often?"
“Shut up and eat it.” You said, trying to brush off the attention from Sammy.
“Thank you. For this. I…I dunno how to repay you” He shrugged as he continued to look over his steaming, inviting plate of food. The last thing he ate was a stale bag of funyuns from his locker - how long it had existed in there he didn't know, he daren't think.
“Eat. Enjoy” you offered as you took your glass of wine and held it up.
Sammy tipped his bottle of beer, and carefully tapped it against your glass.
The pair of you ate, partially in silence. Sammy continuously praised your cooking, as if he had never eaten a meal in his life. You couldn’t help but feel proud and full of yourself as you watched him eagerly tuck in. You liked that Sammy ate, that he was filling his body back up and not living on candy and chips whilst trying to do the type of job he did. It was partly why him missing breakfast and lunch at the diner worried you. Why you organized this night for him. Despite your feelings for Sammy making you incredibly nervous, you felt the overpowering need to look after him take over the nerves.
“How are you not married?” Sammy abruptly said over his final forkful.
"Shut up." You shook your head and laughed him off.
“Seriously, just with cooking skills like this alone, by all reasoning you should be wifed up.”
“Guess Im a little more picky when it comes to men than food” you shrugged nonchalantly, despite feeling your cheeks practically glow at Sammy’s comment, and attempted to hide it as you ate.
“Jesus, if I married you, I’d be the size of a fucken house” Sammy said, and it made you both giggle.
“S’fine by me, I like a guy with an appetite.” Your comment left you before you could even think.
Sammy paused his fork midway between scooping up the remains of mash, savouring the way the meat melted on his tongue as his eyes looked you over.
“Save some room, I got us desert.” You quickly pivoted, breaking the brief silence between you both to get up from the island and move towards two plates covered in tinfoil, though it was mostly to hide your red cheeks from Sammy.
“Where the hell did you find time to make this, and desert?” Sammy said, leaning back to stretch.
“I didn’t really make the desert” You confessed as you turned to Sammy, brandishing the uncovered plates. “I got to take them home after work.”
Upon the plates were various leftover slices of pie and cheesecake.
Let me marry her. Please. Just let me marry her. I'll die fat and happy. Just let me marry this woman. Sammy thought to himself.
"You got room in there?" You jokingly nodded as Sammy patted his stomach a little whilst looking at the sweet deserts.
"You greatly underestimate how much I can eat woman." Sammy chuckled proudly as he packed away with ease the last of his food before placing his knife and fork atop of his plate.
"Gimme your plate and take these into the living room."
"No, no no." Sammy protested as he gently pushed your incoming hand away from his plate, taking it for himself as he got up. "I'll do dishes." He said.
"Sammy, I can't invite you up here and expect you to do dishes." You argued as you took your own plate and put it into the sink as it filled with hot, soapy water.
"Technically you didn't invite me, you tricked me. Also you can't get me up here, cook a delicious dinner and offer me a desert platter that would rot the fucken easter bunny's teeth, and not expect me to do the dishes." Sammy said as he stood beside you at the sink.
As a compromise, Sammy washed the dishes whilst you dried and tidied them away into the cabinets and drawers. Once finished up, you each took a plate of leftover sweets from the diner, and went into the living room where you parked on the sofa.
You couldn't deny how nice it felt, sitting with Sammy, in the comfort of your home. A mixture of satisfaction in knowing that he was fed and nourished, and that he was comfortable enough to stay, it made your heart sing. Still, you could feel your nerves bubbling away in the background, being so close to Sammy, finally, and alone in your apartment with him, away from prying eyes.
"I gotta say...this has been nice." Sammy said as he took a fork full of strawberry cheesecake. "Despite the elaborate scheme."
"You wouldn't have come otherwise." You smirked as you ate into a piece of apple pie.
Sammy frowned at you and shook his head.
"'Makes you think that?" He asked curiously, a slight edge in his tone as if being accused of something.
You looked up at him, on the spot, and a little panicked as he stared right at you.
"I...I don't really invite people around...for dinner." You shrugged. "It's also been a while since...I've had people...here...for dinner."
"People?"
"Guys." You clarified.
"So this is a date?" Sammy tilted his head as he teased you.
"No...I...I dunno." You said, feeling yourself grow a little self conscious, all your previous confidence and bravado seemingly melting away, leaving you vulnerable.
Sammy softened a little as he saw you awash with nerves suddenly.
"Y'know...I would have said yes to dinner if you flat out asked me." He said, taking a forkful of cheesecake.
"No you wouldn't." You shook your head whilst you ate.
"Oh no?" Sammy challenged. "Try me."
"What?"
"Ask me to dinner, show me what would you say." Sammy said, nodding to you with his fork.
You swallowed thickly and worried your fork between your fingers.
"Sammy."
"Yes."
"Would you like to have dinner with me."
"Yes." he said, "See, wasn't so hard."
You shook your head and smirked bashfully downward as you pushed some of the apple pie around your plate.
"When?"
"What?"
"When do you wanna have dinner together?" Sammy asked, when you looked up at him, he was still looking at you, though he had a soft and amused expression spread out across his face.
"I..no that...that was just us pretending." You frowned and gestured between the two of you.
"I wasn't pretending." Sammy playfully argued with a shrug.
"I didn't know that." You blanched. "I-I thought we were just talking about if I were to invite you. Not like...not like tonight like...like an actual date or something!"
You hadn't truthfully intended for this to turn into a date, it was just a gesture to show you cared about Sammy, that you wanted to look out for him. But...it made sense to be considered a date by all reasoning.
"Well hand write me an invite, send up smoke signals, train a carrier pigeon, a fucken barber-shop-quartet. Whatever you want...just tell me when you're free for dinner with me." Sammy urged.
You just looked at him. Completely dumbfounded. It amused Sammy to see you this way, tongue tied and at a complete loss for words. Normally when he was in the diner, you were able to back and forth with almost anyone, him especially. It was partly why both your colleagues teased you for having a not so subtle flirting thing going on.
"Next Thursday." You suddenly answered.
"I can do next Thursday." Sammy nodded in agreeance, grinning at you, as if he had just won the lottery. "See, you can invite 'people' round."
"D'you still want a hand written invite?" You sarcastically replied, licking your proverbial wounds of embarassment.
"Hey, don't act so butt hurt. I just played you at your own game is all." Sammy said, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now shut up, open your mouth and eat this." He said, taking the last piece of strawberry cheesecake and holding it out for you to take.
You looked it over, and took the final piece of your apple pie and offered it out to Sammy.
----
As the night wound up, you watched Sammy out the corner of your eye as he put on his jacket, meanwhile you put away the now empty plates after both of you demolished every sweet and sugary item on it.
"taxi is gonna be here in roughly five minutes." Sammy called through from the living room.
"Wait a sec, wait a sec." You said as you trotted through with a plastic container in your hands, offering it to Sammy.
"What's this?" He asked curiously.
"Lunch. Your lunch, for tomorrow." You said flatly. "Figured if you can't get breakfast in there, might as well have a decent lunch."
"Was that why you were cooking an extra steak?" Sammy asked incredulously as he opened up the warm container, instantly inhaling the familiar scent.
"Cant have you starving." You replied, repeating your earlier statement. "And...you're sure you still wanna...next Thursday."
"Look at you, Miss Confidence backing out already." Sammy smirked triumphantly as he closed the lid to his food back down and looked you over.
"I'm not backing out, just asking if you're serious. I don't want you to turn out like...like other guys." You said, slightly pathetic as you folded your arms self consciously.
"Hey, look at me." Sammy said, the sudden softness and low change in his tone made your heart flutter as you looked at him.
Sammy reached out to gently tip your chin up with his finger. The gesture was so slight and small, and yet it sent your nervous system crazy, like every nerve ending inside of you screamed out for more.
"Joking aside...I wanna have dinner with you...I wanna see you...more of you..." He said. "Cause...this was nice."
"It was." You agreed, your eyes briefly looking from Sammy's to his mouth.
"You look like you wanna kiss me." He joked flirtatiously, trying to lighten the mood a little.
"And you look like you've still got cheesecake in the corner of your mouth dumbass." You laughed breathily and turned away a little.
Sammy wiped his mouth whilst muttering a little 'shut up' at you. The sudden muffled sound of a car horn broke both of your laughing, the taxi was here.
"Well...see you tomorrow for breakfast." Sammy said as you opened the front door for him.
"If not, then Thursday." You said.
"Which reminds me; where do you wanna go eat on Thursday?" He said, his voice echoing through the stair well.
"I think I know a good local spot." You smirked as you knocked your knuckles on the doorframe to your apartment.
tags: sammy bryant x detective!reader, jake peralta/amy santiango relationship vibes, reader color-coordinates everything, loosely based on "the bet" from brooklyn 99, fluff, workplace teasing, they both want each other, non-linear southland timeline, also loosely based on this post (but I don't do infidelity sorry), there is use of y/n and l/n, 18+ MDNI
notes: I had so much fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy! I'm also cooking up some requests and possibly another doppleganger post! like aways, if you want to be added to my permanent taglist, please comment here!
note pt.2: my requests are still open!
word count: 3.7k
“Suck on this, Bryant.”
Sammy barely had time to react before a pile of paperwork was thrown on his desk with the elegance of a herd of cows. The implication of the pile plus your voice meant that the stupid bet he had going on was going south and not in his favor at all. His hazel eyes traced up past the pile, up your dark purple blouse, and settled on the smug grin you decided to bless him with. He reached out and quickly thumbed through the stack.
“What the hell is this, L/n?” he spat, even if he knew exactly what it was.
Your hands glued themselves to your sides. “You know exactly what it is.” You leaned down a bit closer to meet his eyes. “But because you have seemed to forgotten, I’ll so graciously remind you.”
With a saunter of your hips, you walked over to the bullpen’s whiteboard. The black Expo marker made a satisfying squeak and pop and squeal as you added another tally mark to your side of the board, giving you a head lead by two. You capped the marker before turning around with another grin.
“Like I said: Suck on this, Bryant.”
Sammy gave a disbelieving chuckle, head shaking behind his hand as something stirred in his gut. The bet between you and him had been going for a month, and it was eating him alive to the point he just wanted it all to be over. However, the winnings were too good to pass up. He’d been wanting to knock you down a couple of pegs, so, if he somehow had more arrests than you by tomorrow, you’d have to do the one thing that seemed to grate your nerves more than your notes getting out of their color-coded perfection: go on a date with him.
Opposite of that, you had chosen your prize: his ex-wife’s 1967 Chevrolet Camero. Weird request to him, but the vintage car was one thing he’d won in the divorce that he actually wanted to keep since he was the one to put the downpayment on it. If you won that, he could kiss his sunset beach drives goodbye.
Sammy’s fist curled around his pen while Nate laughed quietly into his hand in the desk. You were good—probably one of the best detectives the LAPD had, but Sammy would rather die than tell that to your face. Ever since you’d joined last year, the two of you had been at each other’s throats in a “friendly” competitive way. In the first few months, Sammy pretty much hated the way you sucked up to the captain with a sweet smile and extensively written paperwork that had everyone cooing and thanking you for making their lives easier all while you’d turn and send him a devilish smile his way when no one else was looking.
It made him hot and bothered in a way that bothered him immensely.
You, the newbie, the overachiever, had made him feel things that no other woman—not even his wife—had felt before. Your ways made him want to be a better detective. So, he just had to get up to your level.
If you brought in a street gang, he needed to bring in two. If your paperwork was pristine, his had to be the neatest most organized paperwork the LAPD had ever seen. If you kissed ass to get your way, you best know that Sammy Bryant was about to kiss ass like no one had ever seen.
Hence, the bet that he was about to lose.
“You’re insufferable, you know that?” he muttered before leaning back into his seat, the leather creaking under his weight.
Your smirk only widened, and for once, Sammy wished he could kiss it right off your face.
“Oh,” you pouted at him, tone laced with a tease. “Don’t be like that, Bryant. Losing actually builds more character than winning!”
His face pinched. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“It a hundred percent does.” You crossed your arms, and Sammy had to rip his eyes away from the neckline of your blouse. “I’d just hand over the keys right now, ‘cause it looks like I’ve got this in the bag.”
Sammy eyed the whiteboard with faux wonder. “How many am I down by?”
“A measly two. Honestly, you insult me, Bryant. You’re this close with less than two hours left in the shift, and you’re just sitting here on your ass.” You glanced toward the clock mounted above the pen, letting your gaze linger there for a second to make sure he followed to see how long he had left.
Sammy let out a long, suffering sigh. “You counting chickens in that thick skull?”
You tisked at him. “Bryant, sweetheart, my chickens are already hatched and on their way to college by now. They, like me, are positively thriving.”
“Fuck, I hate when you get like this,” he groaned.
“Like what? When I’m right, and you aren’t? Pretty much every day of your life, right?”
That earned you a few giggled from the detectives that seemed more into this bet than either you or Sammy were. All of the female detectives had already asked to take a ride in the car when you won, because in their mind, there really was no competition.
“No,” Sammy almost whined. “I mean when you’re smug. It’s not a very becoming look on you, detective.”
“Well, detective,” you sent back his way, “I happen to look my best when I’m winning. And if that means smugness comes with it, then I’m fucking hot right now.”
The look he sent you should have burned a hole straight through your forehead, but all it did was make your heart flutter. Because in just the same way you didn’t know you made Sammy feel things, Sammy Bryant had your heart from the moment you stepped foot into the precinct. Back then, he’d been married, and all your hopes and dreams had been crushed. However, the day he walked through without that metal band around his ring finger, you swear the sky had literally opened up with angels singing.
Unfortunately, you’d been too deep in the back and forth that at this point, you believed he hated you, that him asking you out on a date would be the most humiliating thing on the planet simply because Sammy Bryant could never be interested in you.
You tapped the marker thoughtfully against your chin. “You know, I’ve actually been looking at custom license plates.”
Sammy’s head snapped up so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t pull a muscle. “No.”
Your tongue ran across your bottom lip. “Oh, yes.”
“No.”
Your head tilted. “I was thinking something that screams that I’m the best detective this side of California.”
“You don’t even own the damn car yet,” he sneered, though there really wasn’t any heat behind it.
“Yet, Bryant. But in exactly—” You pushed out your hand, so that your watch flashed brilliantly in the lighting. “One hour and forty-five minutes, I will be the new owner of your car. How does BY3 SAM sound? I think I’m digging that one.”
This time, Nate actually snorted. Sammy turned to his partner with a glare that could send the man six feet under if he could. There was absolutely no way he was going to let you drive off in that car if he had anything to do with it. He sat in his chair, eyes never wavering from your figure as you stalked back toward your desk.
“You think you’re funny,” he muttered loud enough for you to hear.
You looked up with a smile. “I think I’m actually fucking hilarious.”
When you turned toward Lydia, Sammy took a moment to look back up at the clock. Six-thirty; the time had the corner of his mouth tugging up instead of down. Remember, no matter how high you stepped or how low you stooped, he was always doing the same. The moment you turned back to face him, your stomach dropped at the sight of his small minuscule smirk. If there was anything you knew for certain about Sammy, it was that he didn’t smile when he was losing.
Sammy didn’t smile when going through his divorce.
Sammy didn’t smile after arresting the kid he was trying to help.
Sammy didn’t smile when you took the moment to make sure that he knew you were better.
But now, with almost an hour left of the bet, he was smirking like he knew how this would end. You hated seeing it and the feeling had you curling in on yourself. Your chair squeaked when you turned his way.
“What?”
Sammy hummed before shaking his head. “Nothing.”
“No; not nothing,” you imitated his deeper voice. “Bryant, what the hell is that look on your face?”
He shrugged and leaned back into his chair, now looking far too relaxed for a man who should have been preparing his five-paper long farewell speech to a beloved vintage car. It had been a cheap shot when you’d first asked for it, and you didn’t even think he would agree at first before he begrudgingly shook your hand. When he agreed, you thought you had this in the bag. Now you weren’t so sure as you were almost an hour ago.
Suddenly, his smirk grew almost ten times larger. “L/n, do you ever get a feeling like something good’s about to happen?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What the hell are you going on about? You’re acting weird.”
He looked up at the clock and held up a wide-spread hand before tucking in his thumb. A strange tension settled over you to the point it became too impossible to ignore. For a second, your confidence wavered, and it was enough to make you glance toward the entrance. Sammy tucked his pinky under his thumb, and your brows furrowed at the movement.
“Bryant? What are you doing?”
His ring finger joined his pinky, and his grin widened. Somewhere in the depth of your mind, a warning bell began to ring loudly.
“Bryant?”
His middle went down, leaving only his pointer raised toward the sky. It was only when that one went down too that the bullpen doors burst open so hard they slammed against the wall. You turned so hard your hand whipped your cheeks after you settled. Your eyes widened as a flood of uniforms poured inside at once, escorting suspects in handcuffs, carrying filled-to-the-brim duffels, and shouting over one another as they navigated past your desk like some kind of horrific conga line right out of your worst nightmare.
“Twenty-three arrests from a gang task force operation. All of them had multiple felony warrants and so happened to have lots of evidence,” one of them announced.
Your smile was wiped off the planet.
And standing in the middle of the surging bullpen motion, was Sammy Bryant, smirking like a man who had just personally witnessed divine intervention. You knew it was over. The division that these gang members had come from were under Sammy’s belt and not yours. Each one was an added tally to his side, which he seemed to know since he was now stalking toward you, eyes lidded like he’d just bitten into the most decedent cake he’d ever tasted. He only stopped a breath away from you, smirk so sultry that it could make the strongest woman swoon (you included). Not breaking eye contact, he took the marker from your grip and drew twenty-three shaky lines on his side of the betting board.
He leaned in close and whispered, “I think I just won.”
You were now full-on glaring. “This is cheating,” you hissed.
“You made the rules, sweetheart.”
“Fuck the rules.”
“Awwwww, but you loved the rules thirty minutes ago.”
Somehow, your glare deepened. “They weren’t actively ruining my life thirty minutes ago now, were they?”
For one moment, time stopped between the two of you. The next, the department also seemed to stop as the bet finally ended the clock hit 7 pm. Then, to your absolute horror (or right out of your favorite dreams), Sammy threw an arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his side.
“Attention, everyone!” he called out while you buried your face in your hands. “As you all know, mine and Detective L/n’s bet is officially over, which means that yours truly will be taking this one out on the date of her life!”
Your ears burned at the hoots and hollers that sounded out and echoed through the room.
“You didn’t even ask me out correctly,” you grumbled.
Sammy gasped loudly and placed his unoccupied hand over his chest. “The horror. How could I?”
To even further your embarrassment, Sammy rounded to your front and took both your hands. This time, you actually had to look him in the eyes while he spoke.
“Would you do me the honors of going out with me on a date this Friday, detective?”
You pursed your lips before nodding slightly. “Fine, Bryant.” You all but ripped your hands out of his and walked away. “But you better be on time!” you shouted over your shoulder. “And in the Camero!”
_______________________
Sammy had expected you to act like you hated every moment of the time spent with him on Friday evening. He expected you to stay in your work clothes, give him snippy conversation, and threaten him to never speak of the whole ordeal ever again after he dropped you off.
However, to his surprise, you walked out of your house in a dress that hugged your figure so well that Sammy had to shift his pants just a bit as you got closer. He was now thankful he’d chosen to change out of his work suit and throw on something that hadn’t been worn around a dead body or sweated in while chasing a suspect. Your makeup had even been done different; the eyeshadow was darker, your eyeliner pointier. During the job, he noticed you kept things on the more subtle side, but if this is how you showed up for a date that shouldn’t matter, he honestly never wanted you to go out with any guy other than him ever again.
He at least headed your warning and opened the passenger door for the Camero. Sammy tried to swallow his smirk when you grumbled a small thank you before slipping into the seat. The second the door shut, however, you tried your hardest not to sneer at him.
“Don’t get used to that, Bryant. I’m still pissed at you.”
“Used to what, sweetheart?”
“My endless gratitude, sweetheart.”
Sammy chuckled as he started the engine before pulling out onto your street road. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You let the purr of the car fill the silence that settled after he turned onto the main street. For the first time since the start of the bet, this was the first time the two of you had been alone without your coworkers to act as a buffer. It was just you and the man you’d been silently pining after while actively covering any whiff of emotion toward him with careless teasing and sharp biting. Somehow it was more nerve-wracking than chasing armed suspects.
To fill the quiet, you reached for the radio, only to have Sammy lightly smack the top of your hand. You pulled your hand back to your chest with a dropped jaw.
“Um, ow? What the fuck, Bryant?”
He didn’t even take his eyes off the road when he answered. “I know exactly what kind of music you like, and I cannot be hearing that shit right now.”
You crossed your arms, strategically pushing your chest together in attempts to distract him. “Oh, yeah? What kind of music do I listen to, asshole?”
“That sad-girl pop music that teen girls listen to whenever they’re going through their third breakup of the month.”
You scoffed loudly. “Be aware that you just insulted me and my entire future lineage.”
Sammy laughed loudly, the sound hitting you square in the chest. Because underneath it all, you were wishing that this could have been under normal circumstances, that he had asked you out without having to make a whole bet about it. Not wanting to let him in with a softness of your features, you turned toward the window and gazed at the passing blurred city lights.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” Sammy said after a moment.
Your eyes widened, but you didn’t make a motion to look back at him. “Careful, Bryant. I might start thinking that you actually mean what you say.”
Sammy huffed. “Would that be so bad?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
Your head lolled along the headrest so that you could face him. “You just said that I look nice. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on the way here?”
“I’m sure. Just thought you’d like the compliment, jeez.”
Without thinking, you let your eyes linger on his side profile and trail his sharpened jawline. Everyone noticed that he had dropped weight soon after the divorce. Whether it had been not enough time to actually cook meals after getting home or type of self-improvement one wants after a big chance, Sammy slimmed down to the point he didn’t look like an I’ll-make-sure-your-daughter-get-home-safely-sir man anymore and more of a your-daughter-calls-me-daddy-too stud. Where married Sammy was handsome and puffy, single Sammy was about to be eaten by badge bunnies.
You made yourself believe that was no room for you anywhere.
The car dived back into silence for a moment before both yours and Sammy’s phones rang loudly. You rolled your eyes as you answered.
“This is L/n.” You listened carefully before cursing loudly. “Shit. Fine. Fucking whatever.” You hung up and sighed. “Change of plans. Sal wants us on that Ramirez stakeout tonight.”
Sammy slammed a palm on the wheel before yanking it in the opposite direction of the restaurant. “Guess this just means you still owe me a date, L/n.”
“In your dreams, Bryant.”
Twenty minutes later, the two of you were parked half a block away from a run-down apartment building watching a suspected drug runner’s front entrance. The glamor of the evening had long been evaporated back into the atmosphere. Your pointer finger picked at one of the sequins on your hemline as you kept your eyes on the door. Thankfully, your heels had been kicked off the moment Sammy parked. Likewise, his jacket was now draped across the backseat.
When nothing happened for the next handful of minutes, you leaned back into the seat. “You know, as far as first dates have gone, this somehow isn’t the worst one I’ve been on.”
Sammy lowered his pair of binoculars to glance over at you. “Somehow I highly doubt that.”
“Believe me. Boys are stupid,” you muttered. “One time, one of them thought I was lying about being a detective, so I called in his name and apparently, he had a warrant out. I arrested him in the middle of dinner.”
“Seriously?” Sammy chuckled.
“Seriously,” you echoed warmly. “I don’t have the best luck with dates. I think this—on technicality—is my first date in almost a year.”
“Again, I highly doubt that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He took another glance at you before bringing the binoculars back up. “I mean, with the way you look, there must be a gaggle of guys trying to take you out.”
The sequin caught in your nail. “The way I look?”
You were totally egging him on, but for once since meeting Sammy, you wanted to press, wanted to get him to actually look at you without a look of distain on his face.
“I was being honest when I said you looked beautiful.”
Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “You’re not supposed to hand out compliments to people you hate, Bryant. It gets oddly confusing.”
Sammy froze for a moment before fully turning toward you. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoffed. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“No?” Sammy’s confusion was clear as day on his face. “I don’t. If anything, I respect the hell out of you. Do you irritate me sometimes? Yes. But I have never once hated you, Y/n.”
It was your turn to freeze as you stared into his hazel eyes. “But—but every time I bring in a suspect or—or turn in paperwork, you look at me like I pissed in your cheerios!”
“That’s because it’s easier for me to pretend sometimes because the truth I want could never come true.”
You shook your head. “No, Bryant, you don’t get to spout off this proverb bullshit at me because—what?—you can’t just tell me the truth.”
He looked back toward the house. “I am not doing this here.”
A groan of frustration pulled from your chest. “Yes, you are doing this here. Don’t test me, Bryant, I will literally get out of this car and walk home because you can’t man up and—”
The sentence died instantly when Sammy’s lips pressed against yours. He dropped the binoculars in his lap to allow his big hands to carefully cup your cheeks and hold you steady. With nowhere else to go, you melted against him, lips finally moving against his in reciprocation. Your hands grasped at his sides, and if it wasn’t for the center consol, you would have swung a leg over his lap. When oxygen became too much, you pulled away from his lips, chest heaving in heavy pants to the point he could feel your hot air against his lips. The feeling made him want to pull you right back in.
Months of bickering, competing, teasing, and pretending to loathe each other more than Elphaba and Galinda in the first act of Wicked all melted away into something desperate, something that made your fingers itch to pull him against you.
Sammy pressed his forehead against yours. “Does that make you believe me now?”
You hummed in response. “This doesn’t mean that you’re on my good side, Sammy.”
He smirked once before leaning back in for a small peck. “I’ll get on your good side soon enough, sweetheart. Might even one day get my own color-coded section in your folder all to myself.”
Summary: The only time you get to enjoy your dinner at PTMC is when you head to the roof, only for a certain night shift attending to start joining you.
A/N: Cheesy af and probably done before. Jack is old, yada yada yada. Just over 1k words. Had to get this out of the drafts because idk what else to do with it.
Through His Stomach
The cafeteria food sucks. Everyone knew this.
Except you.
On your first day, you had brought your own lunch to work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, but hadn’t had a chance to even look at it never mind eat it.
On your second day, you found an opportunity to slip down to the cafeteria for a bite and resolved never to do so again.
On your third day, and every day after that, you brought food from home, sneaking nibbles here and there before getting dragged back into the whirlwind that was PTMC.
But a few months into your time as the hospital’s newest psychologist, you discovered the best place to eat more than two mouthfuls at a time was the roof.
And a few months after that, you discovered that eating on the roof meant you’d have company.
Dr. Jack Abbot. Night shift attending in the ED. He had interrupted one of your evening meals, and seemed put out when he found his spot already taken. His annoyance seemed to fade when you offered him a home made cookie. After that, you found yourself cooking for two.
***
“You know, you can just tell me what you want to eat and I’ll make it” you said, handing him the Tupperware container full of pasta salad.
“You’re not my personal chef, green beans. Besides, I like the surprise” Jack said, taking the plastic tub, his fingers brushing yours.
“Suit yourself” you murmured, but couldn’t help the tiny smile that bloomed when you heard your newest nickname. Every night you saw him, you got a new one to add to your list.
“Thanks, peanut”
“What you got tonight, tiramisu?”
“Not bad, apple pie”
You munched on your food quietly, looking out at the darkening Pittsburgh skyline. You and Jack worked different shifts; you were ending your day while he was starting his, but you never minded staying an extra hour or two if it meant you got to watch the sunset with him.
“You never thought of culinary school?” Jack asked after a moment.
“At one point, I guess. But it’s so stressful. Like, ‘The Bear’ or something” you said, shrugging slightly.
Jack looked over at you, the red glow of the evening dusting his salt and pepper hair with copper. His silence told you everything; he had no clue what you were talking about.
“The Bear. You’ve never seen it? It’s a show about a restaurant and the main guy is like- super stressed and… just watch it, Jack. First season is good” you said, trying to keep your amusement off your face.
“You say it like this isn’t super stressful” Jack said, motioning down to the hospital below them.
“Well, I mean… it is. But, I know what I’m doing” you said, shrugging again.
“You’re one confident doctor” he smirked, enjoying your nonchalance.
“Oh, like you’re not? I know what they call you down there, cowboy” you laughed quietly.
“So you’d be a confident chef too” he said, nodding quickly.
“The second someone sent back a plate, I’d lock myself in the freezer. At least if you don’t like something, you’ve never said it” you snorted, glancing down at his mostly finished container.
“You’ve never made anything I don’t like. Your cooking is the best” Jack said quietly, his voice low and gruff as usual.
“You’re sweet” you murmured, and looked back at the skyline, hoping that the slowly growing orange dusk disguised the flush rising to your face..
A silence fell over you both as you both finished up your meals. Jack always tucked everything back into your little reusable grocery bag neatly, and that night was no exception. Again, your fingers brushed as he took your container from you.
“You gonna watch that with me then?” Jack asked after a long moment.
You look over, a bit surprised. But he’s looking right back at you, his gaze steady.
“You want to watch The Bear with me?” You asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, green beans. And then we can go out for a dinner you don’t have to cook” he continued, still looking at you seriously.
You paused, blinking quickly. Was Jack asking you out? For real?
“Now, don’t think I’m being a creepy old man-” he began, huffing quietly, his eyebrows quirking up.
“No, no I don’t think that at all- that sounds good. Sorry, I was just surprised-” you said quickly, feeling your heart rate spiking in your chest.
Jack scoffed quietly and looked back at the skyline for a moment before looking back at you.
“I’m not that old, I know what a Netflix and chill is, and this isn’t it-”
“What?” You laughed suddenly, taken aback.
“Yeah, I know. You put on a show and invite a girl over- but I’m a grown man, we can go out for dinner because I like you, green beans, and I’d like to do this properly-” he said.
You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a buoyancy fill you as you took in his words.
“I like you, green beans”
Jack frowned at you, as if offended by your laughter.
“I’d love to watch The Bear and go to dinner with you” you said, unable to keep the smile from your face. You turned back to the view, still feeling the warmth of your blush on your face.
“Alright then, we’ll go. Figure out our schedules” Jack said, looking out at the view as well.
“God, lookin’ at me like I spit out your food” he mumbles after a moment, shrugging slightly.
“I was just surprised, I told you” you said, a quiet chuckle leaving you.
“I don’t know how. I wasn’t climbing these stairs every night just for dinner, I like hanging out with you too, you know-” Jack continued, his eyebrows raising again.
“I know, I know, I like hanging out with you too” you said reassuringly.
A brief silence fell over you again. Comfortable, like usual between the two of you.
“You know, it’s not even on Netflix. It’s on Disney” you quipped.
jack "i'll pay for it" abbot (a.k.a. the sugar daddy-verse)
jack abbot x f!reader
series warnings: afab!reader, sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader's exact age is not specified), power dynamic (in relationship and at work), reader is described to wear makeup and dresses, and other stuff that i will add here as i write more!
*****
the drugstore
two things
confessions and confections
*****
*this series doesn’t really have an endpoint. it might eventually come to a conclusion (if i feel like i’m just reheating the nachos), but until then it’s just going to be snapshots of their developing relationship :)
I've never requested anything before, I hope I'm doing it right! Could I ask for a moodboard for Titus- arranged marriage with the reader in a wheelchair, maybe reader is a sunshine-y, artsy type of person?
You hadn't expected Titus to be impressed with the chair.
But never in a million years did you expect him to be pushing you round galas and balls, shooting daggers at anyone who doesn't move out of your way fast enough.
None of the staff are allowed to touch you. Titus Danforth will do everything for his wife, and that's the way it is.
Even in the early days, before you really grew to like one another, he was still a far better husband than most of the men your friends chose to marry.
"Titus?" You hum, reaching for his wrist while you wait for dinner to be served.
"Yes, my love?"
"How long do we have to stay tonight?"
"We can leave whenever you want - just say the word, and we're gone."
You roll your eyes, but you know he's telling the truth - no matter how improper it seems, Titus would do it if it makes you happy.
Summary: Six years after losing your daughter, a patient reminds you and Jack that grief doesn't disappear. Sometimes it just waits for you to stop running.
Word count: 11k+
Warnings: grief/mourning, child loss, angst with comfort, suicidal thoughts
A/N:
Please mind the warnings. This fic deals with infant loss, grief, depression, and past suicidal thoughts.
Take care of yourselves.♥️
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The shift had been busy from the moment you walked through the ambulance bay doors that morning, which wasn't unusual for the PTMC.
By seven-thirty the waiting room was already overflowing. By eight there were stretchers parked in sections of the hallway that weren't technically supposed to hold stretchers, nurses negotiating impossible patient assignments, and enough monitor alarms going off at once to create their own kind of soundtrack. Someone was calling for respiratory over the intercom. A paramedic crew rolled through the department with a chest pain. A patient in triage was loudly insisting that his sprained ankle constituted a medical emergency while another complained about the wait time despite having arrived less than fifteen minutes ago.
In other words, it was a normal day.
The department ran on organized chaos, and after enough years working in emergency medicine, you'd stopped noticing most of it. The noise became background. The constant movement became routine. Even the stress settled into something familiar.
You preferred it that way.
Busy meant there wasn't time to think.
It wasn't something you admitted out loud, not even to Jack, but somewhere along the way you'd realized that exhaustion was easier to manage than silence. Silence left room for thoughts. Silence left room for memories. There were parts of your life you had spent years carefully learning how to carry, grief you had folded into neat little boxes and stacked somewhere deep inside yourself where it couldn't interfere with your ability to function. Most days you were successful. Most days you could go entire shifts without thinking about any of it.
The trick was to keep moving.
As long as there was another chart waiting to be reviewed, another patient asking for help, another crisis demanding your attention, your mind stayed where it needed to be. Focus became its own form of self-preservation.
"God, if I have to take care of one more frat boy today, I'm quitting."
Santos practically dropped into one of the empty chairs near the nurses' station, dragging a hand down her face like she'd aged ten years in the last hour.
You didn't bother looking up from your charting.
"I thought you liked that demographic."
"I like making fun of them. That's different."
You could hear the offense in her voice.
"There is nothing I like about boys. Trust me."
A laugh escaped through your nose as you continued scrolling through lab results.
"That's a strong statement."
"It's an informed statement."
Now you looked up.
"Oh?"
Santos pointed dramatically toward the waiting room.
"One more twenty-year-old with alcohol poisoning tells me he's 'built different' and I'm personally escorting him back onto the sidewalk."
"You can't do that."
"A girl can dream."
The conversation settled around you as comfortably as an old habit. One of the things nobody told you when you started working in emergency medicine was how attached you became to the people beside you. You saw each other at your worst. At three in the morning. During trauma activations. During mass casualty incidents. During the moments that broke people and the moments that saved them. Eventually your coworkers stopped feeling like coworkers and started feeling like family.
A deeply dysfunctional family, but family nonetheless.
Santos suddenly straightened in her chair.
"Oh, hey, Huckleberry."
You glanced up just in time to see Whitaker speed-walking through the department, clutching a tablet against his chest. He looked exactly like someone who knew he was already behind schedule and was desperately trying to convince everyone else otherwise.
Santos immediately lifted a chart.
"Could you take this case off me? I'd owe you a big one."
Whitaker stopped so abruptly it was almost impressive. His eyes moved from Santos to the chart and back again, his expression shifting into the same look most people reserved for unexploded explosives.
"Uh..."
"I'm hearing hesitation."
"You should be."
Santos held the chart out farther.
Whitaker actually took a step backward.
"I'm sorry, I can't. Robby's waiting for me in Trauma One."
Santos groaned.
A loud, suffering sort of groan.
"And besides," Whitaker added, already retreating down the hallway, "you already owe me. A lot."
"I'm a generous debtor."
"You're a terrible debtor."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Whitaker disappeared around the corner before she could trap him in another conversation.
You turned back to your workstation and worked your way through a handful of charts, signed off on imaging results, answered a question from a nurse about discharge instructions, and approved a medication order without really needing to think about it. The rhythm was familiar enough that your hands often seemed to move ahead of your brain. Years in emergency medicine had a way of doing that. Eventually, after enough shifts, the workflow became muscle memory.
You were halfway through finishing a note when Dana appeared beside your workstation.
You noticed her immediately, not because she said anything, but because Dana had a way of making people notice her. Unlike most of the department, she never seemed rushed. The ER could be falling apart around her, stretchers lining the hallways, nurses getting pulled in six directions at once, residents asking questions over each other, and somehow she'd still move with the same steady confidence. You weren't entirely sure how she did it. Maybe nobody was. But there was a reason everyone looked for Dana when things got bad.
"Need you in Central Fourteen, hun."
You finished typing the sentence you'd been working on before glancing up.
"Sure. What've we got? Anything exciting?"
Dana checked the chart in her hand and snorted.
"Not unless you're excited by paperwork."
"Then definitely not."
"That's what I thought." She glanced back at the chart. "Six-year-old female. Poor thing took a tumble off the monkey bars. Forehead laceration."
You nodded automatically.
"Sounds good."
You pushed back from the workstation and stood, grabbing a pair of gloves from the dispenser mounted on the wall before heading toward Central Fourteen. Cases like this were usually straightforward. A worried parent. A frightened child trying very hard not to look frightened. Maybe a few stitches. Maybe some glue if you got lucky. A quick neurological assessment, discharge instructions, and home before dinner. The kind of patient you saw every day and rarely thought about again once the shift was over. As you made your way down the hallway toward the room, you didn't give the chart another thought. It sounded routine. Ordinary. The sort of case that blended into all the others by the end of the day.
At least, that's what you thought as you pushed open the door to Central Fourteen.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, alcohol wipes, and the unmistakable sweetness of grape popsicles.
The little girl sitting on the exam bed looked entirely unimpressed by her circumstances. Dried blood streaked down the side of her forehead, disappearing into blonde hair where a jagged laceration hid just beyond her hairline. Judging by the amount of blood staining her shirt and cheeks, the injury had probably looked much worse when it happened. Head wounds usually did. They bled dramatically, terrified parents, and then ended up requiring little more than a few stitches and a cartoon bandage.
Her mother, however, clearly hadn't gotten that memo.
She sat rigidly beside her daughter, one hand wrapped around the girl's ankle as if letting go might somehow make things worse. Her eyes kept darting to the cut, then to the monitor, then back to the cut again. Every few seconds she opened her mouth as though she wanted to ask another question before deciding against it. The little girl seemed significantly less concerned. If anything, she looked bored, which was usually how these visits went. Parents came into the emergency department imagining worst-case scenarios. Kids came in wondering how quickly they could leave.
You stepped into the room and offered a smile.
"Hi there."
Both of them looked up.
The mother immediately straightened.
The little girl barely moved.
"I'm Dr. Abbot, one of the attendings here. Mind if I take a look?"
The girl's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Am I getting stitches?"
The question came so quickly that you almost laughed.
Straight to business.
You crouched slightly so you were more at her eye level before answering.
"I'm afraid so, sweetie." You gave her an apologetic look.
She groaned dramatically and let her head fall back against the bed.
"Oh, come on."
Her mother sighed. "Honey."
"What?" the girl complained. "Nobody likes stitches."
"That's true."
She immediately pointed at you.
"See? She gets it."
You bit back a smile while her mother shook her head.
"I'm sorry. She's been talking nonstop since we got here."
"I'm not talking right now."
The look her mother gave her was enough to make the girl grin, and that finally earned a genuine laugh from you. The tension that had been hanging over the room since you walked in eased almost immediately. The mother's shoulders relaxed a little, and the little girl looked entirely too pleased with herself for successfully making a doctor laugh. Kids had a way of doing that. No matter how frightened the adults around them were, they somehow found a way to make things lighter.
You stepped closer to the bed and gently parted her hair, getting a better look at the laceration. It was a decent cut and definitely deep enough to need sutures, but otherwise she looked good. No active bleeding. No obvious skull deformity. She was alert, interactive, answering questions appropriately, and arguing with her mother, which was usually one of the most reassuring neurological signs you could ask for in a six-year-old.
"Okay," you said as you examined the wound. "Tell me what happened."
"I fell."
You nodded seriously.
"Excellent explanation."
The little girl beamed.
"I fell off the monkey bars."
"That makes a little more sense."
"I told her not to climb up the outside," her mother added.
"I didn't climb."
"You absolutely climbed."
The girl considered this carefully.
"Okay. Technically I climbed."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself as you continued the exam.
"Were you knocked out at all?"
The girl's eyes widened.
"No."
"Any vomiting?"
"Ew. No."
"Headache?"
"A little."
Her mother immediately leaned forward.
"She said it was worse in the waiting room."
The little girl rolled her eyes so dramatically it was almost impressive.
"Moooom."
"What?"
"It's because I hit my head."
"I know, sweetheart."
You couldn't help noticing the way her mother's hand automatically moved to smooth her hair back from her face. The gesture was completely instinctive, the sort of thing parents did without thinking about it. Protective. Familiar. A physical expression of love so ingrained it barely required thought.
"Everything you're telling me sounds reassuring," you said gently. "I don't see any signs that make me worried about a serious head injury. We'll clean the wound, numb the area, put in a few stitches, and make sure you're feeling okay before you head home."
The relief on her mother's face was immediate.
"Oh, thank God."
"Told you," the little girl said proudly.
Her mother laughed weakly and shook her head.
For a moment, the room felt warm. Normal. Familiar. Just another worried parent and another child who was far more concerned about missing recess than getting stitches. It was the sort of interaction you saw every day in emergency medicine, and standing there beside the bed, listening to the little girl chatter while her mother worried enough for both of them, everything felt reassuringly ordinary.
Satisfied, you stepped over to the computer to update the chart. Your fingers moved automatically across the keyboard while your mind stayed focused on the next steps. The wound would need irrigation, local anesthetic, a handful of simple interrupted sutures, and discharge instructions. Routine. The sort of case you saw several times a week and usually forgot before your shift was over.
Then your eyes landed on the demographic information.
Lily Allison.
Age: 6 years.
You stared at the screen.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
As if the words might rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.
Your throat tightened.
The cursor blinked patiently in the corner of the chart while the rest of the emergency department moved around you, utterly unaware that the ground had just shifted beneath your feet.
Lily.
Six years old.
You hadn't heard that name spoken outside your own head in years. Not really. Not beyond the quiet conversations you and Jack occasionally had in the dark when neither of you could sleep. Not beyond birthdays that nobody else remembered and anniversaries that existed only for the two of you. The grief had become private over the years. Carefully folded. Carefully contained. Most people probably assumed it was gone.
Most people were wrong.
The daughter you never brought home still existed in every corner of your life.
She existed in the way you automatically calculated her age every year without meaning to. She existed in the nursery that had sat untouched for months because neither of you could bear to dismantle it. She existed in the tiny hospital bracelet tucked inside a drawer that you had never once considered throwing away. She existed in the silence that settled between you and Jack every year on her birthday. She existed in every version of the future you had imagined and every version that never happened.
And now her name was staring back at you from a patient chart.
Lily.
Six years old.
For a moment, all you could do was stare at the screen. The realization didn't hit like a sudden blow. It settled into you slowly, heavily, the way a storm settles over a landscape, until suddenly there was no part of the sky untouched by it. You'd wondered what she might have looked like at six. Wondered what kind of laugh she would've had. Whether she would've inherited Jack's eyes or your smile. Whether she would've liked soccer or dance lessons or dinosaurs or books.
But six had never felt real before.
Now it did.
Because six wasn't an idea anymore. Six was sitting ten feet away from you on an exam bed with dried blood in her hair and grass stains on her sneakers. Six was arguing with her mother about monkey bars and insisting she didn't need stitches. Six had a teacher she apparently disagreed with on a daily basis. Six had favorite games and best friends and stories about recess.
Six had become a person.
And all at once, the future you and Jack had lost stopped feeling abstract too.
Your daughter should have been six years old.
The thought came quietly, but it cut deeper than anything else.
She should have been talking too much. She should have been asking impossible questions from the back seat of the car and leaving crayons in places crayons had no business being. She should have been bringing home drawings that looked nothing like what they were supposed to be and insisting they belonged on the refrigerator. She should have been losing teeth and scraping knees and complaining about homework. She should have been doing all the ordinary things that parents spent years taking for granted.
Instead, all you had were guesses.
You would never know what her laugh sounded like.
You would never know if she was shy or stubborn or fearless.
You would never know whether she would've loved animals or hated vegetables or driven both you and Jack absolutely insane.
That was the part grief never warned you about.
People talked about losing birthdays and holidays and milestones. They talked about anniversaries and empty nurseries and all the obvious things. Nobody talked about the smaller losses. The ordinary Tuesdays. The school pickup lines. The forgotten lunchboxes. The soccer games you complained about attending while secretly loving every second of them.
Nobody talked about how grief stole an entire lifetime of tiny moments.
And somehow those were the things that hurt the most.
Without realizing it, your gaze drifted back toward the bed. Lily was still talking, still smiling, completely unaware that she'd just cracked open a part of you that had spent years trying to heal. Her mother reached over and smoothed her hair back again, that same unconscious gesture you'd noticed earlier, and the sight nearly undid you.
Because suddenly you weren't jealous of the milestones.
You were jealous of that.
Of the hand automatically reaching out.
Of knowing how your child liked her sandwiches cut.
Of helping with homework.
Of arguing about bedtime.
Of all the thousands of small moments that added up to a life together.
Lily was in the middle of explaining some elaborate disagreement she'd had with a teacher over whether "speed walking aggressively" counted as running. Her mother looked exhausted. You almost smiled.
Almost.
Then reality reasserted itself.
You weren't standing in a nursery six years ago. You weren't sitting at home imagining what might have been. You were standing in an emergency department with a patient who needed you. There was a frightened mother depending on your reassurance and a little girl waiting for her doctor to stop staring at a computer screen.
So you inhaled slowly, forced the grief back behind the walls you'd spent years building, and reminded yourself of the role you had to play.
A patient didn't need a grieving mother.
She needed a doctor.
You returned to the bedside and slipped back into the familiar rhythm of medicine. Lily launched immediately into another story, this one involving recess, and soccer. You nodded at the appropriate moments while reassessing her neurological status, checking her pupils once more and asking follow-up questions. From the outside, nothing had changed. You were still the same attending physician you'd been fifteen minutes ago. Calm. Attentive. Focused.
Inside, it felt as though you were trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands.
Every word out of Lily's mouth seemed to catch on something raw. Not because she was doing anything wrong, but because she was doing everything right. She was exactly what six years old was supposed to look like. Curious. Talkative. Dramatic. Entirely convinced that whatever happened at recess constituted breaking news. She had stories and opinions and little frustrations that would be forgotten by next week but felt enormous today.
She had a life.
You focused on the medicine because medicine made sense. Medicine had steps. Logic. Structure. The laceration was straightforward. No loss of consciousness. No vomiting. No concerning neurological findings. A simple forehead wound that would need irrigation and a few sutures before she went home. You explained the procedure to her mother, reviewed the risks, answered questions, and prepared the supplies while Lily watched with the suspicious concentration of a child trying very hard to pretend she wasn't nervous.
"Will I have a scar?"
You glanced up from the suture tray.
"Maybe a small one."
Instead of looking upset, she seemed delighted.
"My friend Tyler has one."
"Oh yeah?"
"He says it makes him look dangerous."
Despite everything, a smile tugged at your mouth.
The girl grinned back.
For one terrible moment, your mind filled in the blanks it had spent six years trying not to imagine. A little girl with Jack's eyes. Dark curls that refused to behave. A gap-toothed grin. Tiny sneakers kicked off in the hallway. Construction-paper artwork hanging crookedly on the refrigerator because neither of you could bear to throw it away.
The image felt so real it hurt.
Your hand faltered slightly while positioning the needle driver.
Only a fraction of a second.
Years of practice corrected the movement immediately, and nobody noticed. Lily certainly didn't. She was too busy informing her mother about her friend Sally.
But your chest ached.
With every stitch you placed, the grief seemed to sink a little deeper. Not because it was growing, but because it was being disturbed. Like sediment at the bottom of a river, untouched for years until something came along and stirred it up again, clouding everything around it.
By the time you tied the final knot and applied the dressing, you felt hollowed out.
"All done."
Lily blinked. "That's it?"
You smiled despite yourself. "That's it."
Her eyes widened. "I didn't even cry."
"No sweetie," you said softly. "You didn't."
You removed your gloves and turned toward Lily's mother. The rest came automatically. Wound care instructions. Concussion precautions. Watch for worsening headaches, vomiting, confusion, unusual sleepiness, or anything that seemed different from her normal behavior. Her mother listened carefully, nodding along as relief slowly replaced the fear she'd walked into the department carrying.
"So she should be okay?"
You glanced toward Lily, who was already proudly inspecting her bandage. "She should be just fine."
The woman let out a breath that sounded like she'd been holding it for hours. "Oh, thank God."
"Told you," Lily said immediately.
A small laugh escaped her mother before she shook her head and gathered their things. When she looked back at you, her eyes were shining with gratitude.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Really."
"Of course."
The woman thanked you once more before guiding Lily toward the door. Just before leaving, the little girl turned around and waved enthusiastically.
"Bye, Dr. Abbot."
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You forced yourself to smile.
"Bye, Lily."
The door clicked shut behind them.
For a long moment, you simply stood there staring at it.
The room wasn't silent. Hospitals were never silent.
Life continued exactly as it always did. And yet, the absence left behind by one little girl felt deafening.
You weren't sure how long you stood there staring at the closed door before Dana appeared in the room.
"Hey, hun."
The sound of her voice startled you enough that you turned too quickly. It felt almost guilty, as though she'd caught you doing something you weren't supposed to be doing, even though all you'd done was stand there long after your patient had left. Dana's eyes immediately moved over your face. Not in an obvious way. Not the way most people looked when they were trying to figure out what was wrong. It was quicker than that. More practiced. Years of running an emergency department had taught her how to assess people almost as efficiently as she assessed patients.
She held up the chart in her hand.
"Need you in Trauma Two."
The words were completely ordinary. A normal request on a normal shift. You'd heard her say it dozens of times a day. You nodded immediately, grateful for the excuse to move.
"Okay. Sure. Yeah."
You stepped toward the door and reached for the chart.
Dana didn't hand it over.
That was what made you stop.
When you finally looked up, she was still watching you.
Dana had worked beside you for years. Long enough to know the difference between tired and exhausted, between stressed and overwhelmed. She knew what you looked like after a bad trauma, after a difficult death notification, after one of those shifts that seemed determined to break everyone involved. Whatever she was seeing now clearly didn't fit into any of those categories.
"Everything okay, hun?"
The answer arrived automatically.
"Fine."
You barely thought about it. The word had become instinctive over the years. Fine was easier than explaining. Easier than trying to describe how a six-year-old girl with a playground injury had somehow managed to drag you backward through six years of grief. Easier than admitting that for the last hour it had felt like somebody had reached into your chest and reopened a wound you'd spent years learning how to live around.
Dana didn't look convinced.
Her gaze drifted past you toward the computer still glowing beside the bed. You watched her eyes move across the chart, toward the patient's information at the top of the screen, and saw the exact moment understanding settled over her face.
"Oh."
The single syllable landed harder than it should have.
You hated that word because it meant she understood. It meant someone else could see the connection. It meant this wasn't something you could dismiss as a bad moment or an overreaction. It was real.
For a few seconds neither of you spoke. When Dana looked back at you, there was so much sympathy in her expression that you immediately had to look away. "I didn't even notice that, sweetie," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."
And somehow that was worse than seeing Lily's name on the chart.
It wasn't the memories that threatened to undo you.
It was the kindness.
The quiet understanding in Dana's voice. The fact that she wasn't asking questions or demanding explanations. She simply knew. And kindness had always been dangerous when you were barely holding yourself together, because it made it harder to hide. Harder to keep all the broken pieces contained behind professionalism and routine.
"You need five minutes?"
You shook your head before she even finished speaking.
"No."
The answer came too quickly, too sharp.
Because five minutes meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking. It meant sitting still long enough for everything you'd been holding back all afternoon to finally catch up with you. You knew exactly what would happen if you gave yourself permission to breathe. The carefully constructed walls you'd spent years building would crack, and there were still patients waiting to be seen.
Dana studied you for another moment. You could practically see the argument forming behind her eyes, the concern, the temptation to push a little harder. But Dana understood emergency medicine. She understood the stubbornness of people who spent their lives taking care of everyone except themselves.
Eventually she nodded.
"Okay. Whatever you want."
The words weren't dismissive. They were an offer. A reminder that if you changed your mind, she'd still be there.
Then she handed you the chart and let you go.
So you went to Trauma Two.
And then another room.
And then another.
For the next three hours, you became exactly what the job required you to be. You reviewed labs, returned pages, started IVs, called consultants, explained treatment plans, and helped Robby intubate a patient. You taught a medical student how to work through a differential diagnosis. You reassured nervous family members. You cracked the occasional joke when someone looked frightened enough to need one.
Twice your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You already knew who it was before checking.
Jack.
Both times you silenced it without opening the messages.
Not because you didn't want to talk to him. The truth was exactly the opposite. You wanted to hear his voice so badly it hurt. You wanted him to tell you it was okay. Wanted him to wrap his arms around you and somehow make sense of a day that refused to make sense.
But you knew yourself too well.
The second you heard his voice, everything you were holding together would finally fall apart.
From the outside, you were functioning perfectly.
Inside, every spare second was spent fighting against memories that kept trying to surface. The delivery room. The silence afterward. The impossibly small blanket. Jack's hand wrapped around yours so tightly it hurt. The unbearable weight of walking out of a hospital carrying flowers and paperwork instead of your daughter.
Nobody would have guessed that every quiet moment felt dangerous. Santos certainly wouldn't have spent the afternoon making inappropriate jokes if she'd known what was happening inside your head, and Javadi probably would've stopped peppering you with questions every time she spotted you in the hallway. To everyone else, you looked exactly the same. Competent. Calm. Busy. Just another attending making it through another shift.
The problem was that every time the department gave you even a second to breathe, your mind drifted right back to Central Fourteen.
Back to Lily.
Back to the missing front tooth and the dried blood in her hair. Back to the way she'd smiled after the stitches were done, proud of herself for not crying. Back to her mother's hand automatically reaching out to smooth her hair away from her face.
And beneath those memories waited older ones.
Every time one of those memories surfaced, you shoved it away and focused on the next task in front of you. Review the labs. Call the consultant. Reassess the patient in South Seven. Answer the page. Sign the orders. Do something. Anything. As long as you kept moving, you could stay ahead of it.
For a while, the strategy worked.
Emergency medicine had always rewarded motion. There was always another patient waiting, another problem demanding your attention. Grief struggled to compete with a department that never stopped moving.
But eventually the shift slowed. The waiting room was still full. Patients were still arriving. Nurses were still moving through the hallways with armfuls of supplies and half-finished conversations. The emergency department was still alive.
There was just a little more space between crises.
A little more room to think.
And that was the problem.
Because the moment there was space to think, there was space to feel.
You found yourself walking before you consciously decided where you were going. One minute you were standing at a workstation reviewing a chart, and the next you were moving through the department on instinct. Past the nurses' station.
You didn't stop to question it.
Some part of you had already made the decision.
By the time you pushed open the rooftop door, your chest physically ached from holding everything in. The cool evening air hit your face immediately, carrying the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below.
Normally the roof helped.
Normally it gave you enough distance from the chaos downstairs to breathe again. A few minutes alone, a little fresh air, and then you could go back down and finish the shift.
Not tonight.
Tonight there was nothing left to distract you.
No patients waiting for answers.
No charts demanding signatures.
No monitors alarming.
No pages interrupting your thoughts.
Just silence.
And grief.
For six years, you'd learned how to live around it. You'd learned how to carry it to work, how to laugh despite it, how to build an entire life around an absence that never really left. Most days you were successful. Most days the grief stayed where you'd put it.
But grief was patient.
It didn't disappear just because you got better at avoiding it.
It waited.
And the moment you finally stopped running, it caught up.
By the time Jack walked through the ambulance bay entrance for his night shift, he already felt exhausted.
Not the kind of exhaustion that came from long hours or too many patients. He could handle that. This was older than that. Deeper. Sleep had been a problem for years now, long before the Pitt.
Afghanistan had taken care of whatever normal relationship he might have had with sleep.
The nightmares had changed over the years, but they had never disappeared completely. Some nights, he woke up convinced he could still hear explosions. Other nights, he reached for a leg that wasn't there anymore. Therapy had helped. Time had helped. Experience had helped. But some things never fully leave you.
Losing Lily had added an entirely different category of nightmare.
For a long time, he thought he'd experienced every kind of pain a man could endure. He'd survived a war. Lost friends. Lost his wife. Lost part of himself. Watched relationships fall apart. Spent months rebuilding a life he hadn't been sure he wanted anymore.
None of it came close.
There was something uniquely cruel about losing a child because there was nowhere for the grief to go. It settled inside you and stayed there. It changed the shape of everything around it.
The hardest part hadn't even been his own grief.
It had been watching yours.
Jack still remembered those first months with painful clarity. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night to find your side of the bed empty. Sometimes he'd discover you standing in the nursery doorway, staring into the darkness. Sometimes you were sitting on the floor beside the crib, crying so quietly he almost couldn't hear it.
Other nights were worse.
There were nights when you'd wake up screaming. Nights when he had to shake you awake because you were trapped somewhere inside a dream. Nights when you'd cling to him afterward so tightly it felt like you were afraid he'd disappear too.
Even now, years later, those memories stayed with him.
In fact, they had become their own kind of nightmare.
Because every time he thought about Lily, he thought about you.
About the way your smile had disappeared for months.
About how laughter had become something you had to relearn.
About how every pregnancy announcement from a friend became a battle neither of you discussed afterward.
Therapy had helped eventually. More than either of you wanted to admit at the time.
When your therapist first suggested switching to day shifts so the two of you weren't constantly orbiting the same grief twenty-four hours a day, Jack had thought it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.
"You want us to spend less time together?" he'd asked.
"No," she'd replied patiently. "I want you to learn how to exist outside of this loss."
At the time, he'd hated her for saying it.
Looking back, she had probably saved both of you.
The automatic doors slid shut behind him as he entered the department. The familiar sounds of the ER immediately surrounded him.
"Hey."
Dana looked up from the nurses' station.
"Hey."
Jack dropped his bag beside a workstation and glanced around.
"Is Robby gone already?"
"No. He's talking with a patient's family."
Jack nodded absently, but his eyes kept moving through the department.
It wasn't even conscious anymore. After all these years, one of the first things he always did when he came in was look for you. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of you halfway down a hallway. Sometimes you'd already be buried in a patient room. Occasionally, you'd be sitting at a computer pretending to chart while actually scrolling through your phone.
Tonight, though, you weren't anywhere.
Dana noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
"Your wife's upstairs."
Jack's gaze snapped back to her.
Something in her voice made his stomach tighten.
It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it. But he'd worked with Dana for too long. He knew her rhythms. Knew the difference between casual information and information she was carefully choosing how to deliver.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Jack had worked with Dana long enough to know when she was choosing her words carefully, and the hesitation alone was enough to make something tighten in his chest. Dana wasn't someone who danced around bad news. She didn't soften things unless she thought the person standing in front of her genuinely needed it.
"Everything okay?" he asked quietly.
Dana looked down at the chart in her hands before answering. "There was a kid today. Playground fall. Nothing serious."
Jack waited.
Something in her expression told him that wasn't the important part.
"The kid's name was Lily."
The air seemed to leave his lungs.
Dana didn't need to explain why that mattered. She didn't need to remind him of a little girl neither of them had ever gotten to watch grow up. She didn't need to explain why his wife had disappeared to the roof instead of heading home after her shift. Still, after a moment, she added softly, "She was six, Jack."
His jaw tightened immediately.
Six.
His daughter would have been six years old.
The thought arrived with the same brutal certainty it always did, the same way it showed up every birthday, every Christmas, every first day of school season when parents filled social media with photographs of backpacks and oversized smiles. Six years old. Old enough to lose baby teeth. Old enough to read simple books. Old enough to come home from school excited about friends and teachers and playground drama. Old enough to be a person. Not just a memory. Not just a name. A child. A little girl who should have existed.
Jack looked away and rubbed a hand across his jaw, trying to push down the familiar ache rising in his chest. He wasn't thinking about the patient. He wasn't picturing some random six-year-old who had fallen off playground equipment. He was picturing you standing in that room, looking down at that chart, seeing the name, seeing the age, and feeling six years of carefully buried grief suddenly crack open beneath your feet. Because he knew exactly how your mind worked. He knew you would've smiled at the patient, reassured the mother, repaired the laceration, and done everything right. You would've been calm and professional because that's what you always were. And all the while, you would've been imagining the life your daughter never got to have.
"How bad?" he finally asked.
Dana's expression softened immediately. Not because of the patient. Because she knew exactly who he was asking about.
"She made it through the shift, which is honestly a miracle. Poor thing was like a walking ghost."
The answer hurt more than Jack expected because he understood exactly what it meant. It meant you'd spent hours pretending to be okay. You'd smiled at patients, answered pages, reviewed charts, taught students, and handled emergencies while carrying around a grief that had probably been tearing you apart from the inside. You'd done what doctors always did. You'd put everyone else first. You'd survived the shift.
But surviving and being okay had never been the same thing.
Without another word, he turned and headed straight upstairs.
The rooftop door creaked shut behind him.
Jack didn't move immediately. He stood near the entrance for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the fading evening light as he searched the rooftop. It didn't take long to find you.
You were standing at the far end, facing the city.
The skyline stretched endlessly before you, washed in gold and blue from the setting sun. Traffic crawled through the streets below, headlights beginning to flicker on as evening settled over Pittsburgh. The city was alive, moving forward the way it always did.
You weren't.
Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, shoulders hunched slightly against the wind. From where he stood, you looked small. Not physically. There was just something about grief that shrank people, made them curl inward around pain that nobody else could see. Jack felt his chest tighten because he knew that posture. He'd seen it before.
For a second, he wasn't standing on a hospital roof. He was standing in the doorway of the nursery six years ago, watching you stare into a crib neither of you could bear to dismantle. You hadn't been crying then either. That was the thing most people never understood. The moments that scared him most weren't the ones when you cried. They were the quiet ones. The moments when you became so still, it was like all the life had drained out of you.
Before Lily, you'd never been quiet.
You'd been loud laughter in grocery store aisles. Terrible singing in the car. Endless conversations that jumped from one subject to another so quickly he could barely keep up. You'd always been moving, always talking, always filling every room you entered with energy. Then one day, that woman disappeared, and Jack spent months wondering if she'd ever come back.
She had, eventually.
Mostly.
But there were still days like this.
You must have heard the rooftop door because your head tilted slightly, acknowledging his presence without actually turning around. You already knew it was him.
Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his scrub pants and started walking toward you. He didn't rush. After everything you'd survived together, he'd learned that grief couldn't be rushed. Sometimes the best thing he could do was simply show up and wait for you to let him in.
When he was close enough, he looked out at the city beside you and said, "You know, there are easier ways to avoid answering my texts."
The joke was weak, but intentional.
For a few seconds, you didn't respond. Then he heard you let out a small breath.
"I wasn't answering anyone's texts."
The roughness in your voice immediately told him what he needed to know. You'd been crying for a while.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Dana filled me in."
That was all he said. That was all he needed to say.
Jack stopped beside the railing, leaving just enough space between you that it didn't feel suffocating. One of the things grief had taught both of you was that comfort wasn't always touch. Sometimes comfort was simply presence. Knowing somebody was willing to stand beside you in the dark without demanding you come out of it immediately.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn't awkward. It had never been between the two of you. Jack had always loved that about your relationship. He never needed to perform around you. Never needed to fill every quiet moment with conversation. The two of you could stand together without speaking and still understand exactly what the other was feeling.
Eventually, he glanced sideways.
Your eyes were fixed on the horizon, red and swollen from crying. It wasn't the tears that hurt to see. He'd seen you cry before. What hurt was the exhaustion. The defeated look on your face. The expression of someone who had spent hours fighting a battle they couldn't win.
"You should've called me."
The words came out before he could stop them.
You laughed softly, but there wasn't any humor in it.
"Why?"
Jack frowned.
"Because."
You looked at him for the first time.
"Because what?"
"Because I would've come."
The answer was immediate. No hesitation. No uncertainty. As if there had never been any other possible outcome.
Something in your expression cracked at that.
When you finally broke the silence, your voice was so quiet he almost missed it.
"She smiled."
Jack looked over at you.
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
"That's the stupid part. The name hurt. Seeing her age hurt. But I could handle that. I thought I could handle that." Your fingers tightened around your arms. "Then she smiled and I just kept thinking..." You stopped, swallowing hard. "God, our daughter could've smiled like that."
Jack looked away toward the city.
The pain in your voice was familiar. Not because he'd heard those exact words before, but because he'd lived with that same thought for years. There were moments when the grief was manageable, when it sat quietly in the background and let you both function. Then there were moments when something completely ordinary would rip it open again.
A little girl in a grocery store.
A first day of school picture.
A family at a restaurant.
You wiped at your face, frustrated by the tears that refused to stop.
"I just kept looking at her. Every time she talked, every time she rolled her eyes at her mom, every time she laughed, I kept wondering what Lily would've been like."
Your voice cracked around your daughter's name.
"I know she wasn't our daughter. I know that. But I couldn't stop comparing them."
"You don't have to explain that to me."
The answer came immediately.
You looked over at him.
Jack was still staring out at the city, jaw tight, hands shoved into his pockets.
"I've done the same thing."
You blinked.
"What?"
He let out a humorless laugh.
"You think you're the only one?"
For a moment he shook his head, almost embarrassed by the admission.
"There are times I'll see a kid somewhere and immediately start doing the math. Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every school year." He rubbed a hand across his face. "Hell, sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it."
You stared at him.
Because Jack didn't talk about this.
Not often.
Not unless you dragged it out of him.
The silence stretched between you before he continued.
"I still wonder what she'd look like."
The confession sounded strange coming from him. Vulnerable in a way that felt almost rare.
"I still wonder if she'd have your smile." A small smile appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth. "Or your attitude."
You snorted despite yourself.
"My attitude?"
"Absolutely your attitude."
The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.
"I wonder if she'd like soccer. Or music. Or if she'd hate school." His eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "I wonder if she'd be smart enough to get into trouble and talk her way out of it."
A lump formed in your throat.
Because those weren't hypothetical thoughts.
They were thoughts he'd clearly had before.
Many times.
Thoughts he'd carried by himself.
"I thought I was doing better," you admitted quietly.
Jack finally turned toward you.
"You are."
"It doesn't feel like it."
"No." His voice softened. "It feels like today hurt."
You looked down.
"I spent six years trying not to think about what we missed."
Jack nodded slowly.
"I know."
"And then she walked into that room and suddenly all I could think about was everything our daughter never got."
The words spilled out before you could stop them.
"First grade. Birthday parties. Soccer games. School pictures. Stupid arguments about bedtime. All those little things everyone complains about." Your voice trembled. "We would've loved those things."
Jack's eyes burned.
Because you were right.
You would've.
You would've complained and laughed and argued over homework and worried about report cards. You would've picked her up from school, taken hundreds of pictures, and embarrassed her in front of her friends.
You would've had a daughter.
Instead, all either of you had were imagined versions of a little girl who never got the chance to grow up.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
The wind tugged gently at your hair as you stared out at the city below. You closed your eyes for a moment and let the cool air wash over your face. Your chest still hurt. It felt like it had been hurting all day. Maybe longer than that.
Eventually, Jack stepped closer.
Not because he thought he could fix any of it. The two of you had learned that lesson years ago. There were some wounds love couldn't heal and some losses that never became smaller no matter how much time passed. After everything you'd survived together, Jack understood that sometimes the only thing you could offer another person was your presence. A reminder that they weren't carrying the weight alone.
His hand found yours automatically.
The gesture was so familiar neither of you seemed to think about it anymore. Your fingers slipped between his without hesitation, settling into a place they'd been finding for years. There was something painfully comforting about it. Six years later and your body still reached for him whenever things got bad. Six years later and his hand still closed around yours as though it belonged there.
"I miss her too," he said quietly.
The words nearly undid you.
Not because they were profound. They weren't.
There was no attempt to make things better. No reassurance. No careful speech about healing or moving forward. Just the truth. Simple and devastating in a way only truth could be.
I miss her too.
For a moment, neither of you looked at each other. You simply stood there holding hands while tears burned behind your eyes. Jack squeezed your fingers once, and somehow that hurt almost as much as the words.
You stared out at the city for so long that he was beginning to think the conversation was over when a quiet laugh escaped you.
It wasn't really a laugh.
More like a breath that got lost on its way out.
Jack immediately glanced over.
"What?"
You shook your head.
"Nothing."
His eyebrow lifted.
"That's never reassuring."
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched.
"Why?"
"Because every time somebody says 'nothing,' it's followed by something that's definitely not nothing."
For a second, you almost smiled.
Then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
Your gaze dropped to your joined hands. Jack's thumb was moving absentmindedly across your knuckles, tracing the same small pattern he'd been tracing for years without ever seeming to realize it. The familiarity of it made your chest ache.
Because this was the part nobody saw.
The years afterward.
The thousands of tiny ways the two of you had kept each other alive.
You swallowed hard.
"I never told you something."
The change in your voice was immediate.
Jack straightened slightly.
"What is it?"
The question was gentle, but you could already see concern settling into his expression.
You looked away.
Suddenly the words felt impossible.
They had lived inside you for six years. Six years of therapy, sleepless nights, anniversaries, birthdays, and somehow you'd never said them out loud. Maybe because saying them would make them real. Maybe because part of you still felt ashamed of them.
But after today, after Lily and the missing front tooth and the smile you couldn't stop thinking about, you weren't sure you could keep carrying it by yourself anymore.
"After we lost Lily..." Your voice caught. "Those first few months were bad."
The moment the words left your mouth, Jack's expression changed.
Not because he disagreed.
Because he remembered.
God, he remembered.
There were entire stretches of those months that had blurred together over time, but some memories never faded. The nursery. The sleepless nights. The endless silence that seemed to fill every room of the apartment. The way both of you kept pretending you were okay because the other person looked worse. The way grief had transformed your home into a place neither of you wanted to be but couldn't bear to leave.
You laughed weakly and wiped at your eyes.
"I was sitting in her room one night."
The memory felt painfully clear.
You could still see the moonlight coming through the window. Still remember sitting in the rocking chair staring at a crib that would never be used.
"And I remember thinking..." Your throat tightened. "God, I remember thinking it wasn't fair that she was gone and I was still here."
A tear slipped down your cheek.
You didn't wipe it away.
For a second neither of you moved.
Jack was looking at you now.
Really looking at you.
The way he did when he knew something important was coming and was almost afraid to hear it.
Your voice dropped to a whisper.
"I thought about joining her."
For a moment, Jack didn't react at all.
The silence stretched between you.
You could actually see the impact of the confession settling over him, could see the exact second it landed. It was like watching the air leave his lungs. His face didn't change immediately. He didn't interrupt. Didn't argue. Didn't rush to reassure you.
He just looked at you.
Heartbroken.
As though six years later he'd discovered there was still a piece of your pain he'd never known existed.
"I never had a plan," you said quickly. "I wasn't going to do anything. It wasn't like that. Or maybe it was, I don't know."
Your voice cracked and you looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
"I was just so tired, Jack."
The words felt inadequate. Ridiculous, even. How were you supposed to explain that kind of exhaustion to someone who had lived through it beside you? Every morning began the same way. For a few brief seconds after waking up, there would be peace. Then reality would return. Lily was gone. She was still gone. She was going to stay gone. And you would have to survive another day knowing it.
"I'd wake up and have to remember all over again," you said quietly. "Every single day. There were mornings when I genuinely didn't know how to keep doing it."
Jack didn't respond. He closed his eyes instead, and you knew exactly where he'd gone. Back to that apartment. Back to those months neither of you ever talked about anymore. Months that felt blurred together now except for the parts that didn't. The nursery. The sleepless nights. The sound of the shower running because it was the only place you could cry without feeling watched. The way grief settled over everything until even breathing felt like work.
Neither of you had survived those months gracefully. There was nothing noble about it. The two of you had stumbled through them half-broken, taking turns falling apart and pretending you weren't. Looking back, it felt less like surviving and more like refusing to die.
When Jack finally opened his eyes again, there was so much pain in them that it made your throat tighten.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
The question wasn't angry. If he'd been angry, you would've known what to do with it. Anger could be defended against. Anger had somewhere to go. This sounded heartbroken, and somehow that hurt more.
A shaky laugh escaped you.
"Look at you."
Jack frowned immediately.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you were barely holding yourself together too."
Your eyes dropped to your joined hands.
"I remember those months, Jack. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and checking if you'd slept at all. I remember finding you sitting in the garage for hours because you thought I didn't notice."
His mouth twitched.
"I was being subtle."
"You were absolutely not being subtle."
For a second, something almost resembling a smile passed between you before disappearing again. The memories were already there, crowding the space. The apartment that had become too quiet. The nursery neither of you could bear to touch. The endless cycle of pretending you were okay because the other person looked worse. You trying to protect him from your grief while he tried to protect you from his. Both of you failing. Both of you loving each other enough to keep trying anyway.
"You stopped eating," you continued softly. "You'd sit at the table and push food around your plate for twenty minutes and call it dinner. I'd wake up at three in the morning and find you staring at the ceiling or sitting on the couch in the dark."
Jack looked away.
"You looked at me like I was going to disappear."
The confession slipped out before you could stop it.
His jaw tightened immediately because he knew it was true. There had been mornings when he'd wake up and panic before he even opened his eyes. Mornings when he'd reach across the bed just to make sure you were still there. Times when he'd come home and find you sitting in the nursery and feel overwhelming relief that you were still breathing.
"You were all I had left."
His voice was so quiet it almost disappeared into the wind.
The words stole the air from your lungs.
Jack kept his gaze fixed on the city.
"I lost Lily," he said, his voice cracking around her name. He swallowed hard before continuing. "I lost Lily, and then I watched you disappear too."
The tears came back immediately.
"There were days I didn't recognize you," he admitted. "And I hated myself for thinking that."
You closed your eyes.
Because you remembered her too. The woman who couldn't walk through the baby aisle without crying. The woman who heard a newborn crying in public and immediately had to leave. Sometimes that version of yourself still scared you.
"I didn't know how to help you," Jack said quietly. "Which was a problem, because helping people is kind of the only thing I know how to do."
That finally pulled the smallest smile from you.
"That's your whole personality?"
"Pretty much."
"You couldn't even fix Robby’s dishwasher."
A faint laugh escaped him.
"I still maintain that wasn't my fault."
For a second the heaviness eased, just enough to breathe.
Then Jack looked back at you, and the humor disappeared.
"If you had told me..."
His voice softened.
"If you had told me you were thinking about something like that, I would've stayed."
The tears slipped down your cheeks.
"I know."
"No."
He shook his head immediately.
"I don't think you do."
There was no anger in his voice. Only grief. Regret. Love. The kind of love that had spent six years carrying the same loss and still hadn't learned how to put it down.
"I would've sat on that nursery floor with you every night if I had to. I would've stayed awake. I would've listened. I would've done anything."
And that was what hurt.
Because you believed him.
You always had.
The problem wasn't that you didn't trust him.
It had never been about trust. If anything, that was the problem. You trusted him completely. You trusted him enough to know exactly what losing Lily had done to him, even when he tried to hide it. You remembered the weight he lost, the sleepless nights, the way he stopped laughing for a while. You remembered the way he looked at you during those first months, as though he was constantly checking to make sure you were still there.
"I couldn't do that to you."
Jack frowned.
"What?"
"I couldn't give you one more thing to carry." Your voice broke. "You were already drowning."
The words seemed to surprise him. For a moment he just stared at you, and then a quiet laugh escaped him. There wasn't any humor in it. If anything, it sounded exhausted. Like the truth hurt too much to do anything else.
"That's exactly what I thought about you."
The words settled heavily between you.
For a second neither of you spoke, because suddenly so many memories looked different. All those nights spent lying awake beside each other pretending to be asleep. All the conversations that stopped just short of what you were really feeling. All the moments one of you had walked into a room and found the other crying, only for both of you to immediately insist you were fine. You had spent years believing you were protecting him. He had spent years believing he was protecting you. Somehow, despite loving each other more than anyone else in the world, you'd both ended up carrying parts of your grief alone.
Jack looked away first, out toward the city lights glittering beneath the darkening sky. His jaw tightened and for a moment you thought he wasn't going to say anything else.
Instead he swallowed hard and asked quietly, "You know what kept me here?"
You blinked.
"What?"
A humorless laugh escaped him as he rubbed a hand across his jaw.
"You."
The answer hit so hard you almost thought you'd misheard him.
Jack kept staring at the city.
"I wasn't staying alive for me back then."
His voice sounded different now. Raw. Stripped of all the things he usually hid behind. You had known Jack through some of the worst moments of his life. You had seen him after Afghanistan. Seen him after surgeries and physical therapy and nightmares that woke him in the middle of the night. You had watched him survive things that would've broken most people.
You couldn't remember the last time he sounded this vulnerable.
"There were days I didn't want to get out of bed," he admitted quietly. "Days when I couldn't think past the next hour. I wasn't doing any of it because I wanted to. I wasn't doing it because I thought things would get better."
He paused, staring out at the skyline.
"I was doing it because of you."
Your throat tightened painfully.
Jack shook his head, almost like he was embarrassed by the admission.
"I knew what losing her was doing to you. I saw it every day. I saw you stop sleeping. I saw you walk around our apartment looking like a ghost." His voice cracked. "And every time I thought about giving up, every time things got bad enough that I just wanted everything to stop, all I could think was that if I left too..."
He stopped.
For a second he couldn't finish.
"...you'd be alone."
The words nearly shattered you.
Jack looked down, blinking hard.
"And that scared me more than anything."
The confession settled between you with a weight that seemed to press against your chest. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't some grand declaration. If anything, it was devastating because of how simple it was. After everything that had happened, after all the pain and anger and grief, the thing that had kept him here was the same thing that had kept you here.
Each other.
You stared at him as memories rearranged themselves inside your head. Every meal he'd forced himself to eat. Every morning he'd gotten out of bed when neither of you wanted to. Every phone call. Every silent drive. Every night he'd sat beside you without saying a word because there weren't any words that could make it better. You had always thought he was being strong for you. It had never occurred to you that he was hanging on just as desperately.
Jack finally turned toward you.
His eyes were red.
There were tears sitting there now, and for once he wasn't trying to hide them.
"Lily is gone."
The words hurt.
They would always hurt.
Nothing was ever going to change that. Not time. Not therapy. Not surviving. There would always be a part of both of you that ached when her name came up. There would always be birthdays and anniversaries and random moments in grocery stores that knocked the air out of your lungs.
But Jack looked at you anyway.
"But you aren't."
A tear slid down his cheek.
He didn't wipe it away.
"And I'm really damn grateful for that."
That was what finally broke you.
Not because you suddenly missed Lily more than you had five minutes ago. Not because the grief was any worse. But because after six years, you finally understood something neither of you had ever said out loud. You had spent all this time believing you survived for him. Believing every impossible day had been endured because you couldn't leave him behind.
And all along, he'd been doing exactly the same thing.
The sob escaped before you could stop it.
Jack didn't try to say anything else. There wasn't anything left to say. Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, and you went immediately. His arms tightened around you the second you buried your face against his shoulder, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. For a long time neither of you moved.
Up here on the roof, there was only the two of you.
Two people who had spent six years carrying the same loss.
Two people who had spent six years keeping each other alive.
And the daughter you would spend the rest of your lives missing.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x female!reader
Warnings: domestic established relationship, breast massage for pain relief, comfort.
Summary: After a double shift, Jack helps soothe the ache of a long day.
Jack is about to say something about ordering takeout, but the words catch in his throat when he looks inside the bedroom.
You’ve already kicked off your sneakers and shed your jeans. Standing at the foot of the bed in just your sweatpants, you grab the hem of your t-shirt, and pull it over your head, letting it drop to the bed.
Next comes the real relief.
You reach back, unhooking your bra that’s been digging into your ribs for the last hours. With a groan of comfort, you toss it onto the nightstand. You cup your breasts, using your hands to gently massage the aching skin where the wires had been pressing and trapping heat all day, trying to get the blood flowing again.
Jack stands there for a moment, his gaze softening. The sheer domesticity of the scene makes something melt in him.
He steps fully into the room. "Everything okay, doll?" he asks.
You look up, letting out a smile. "Yeah. Just... bras are brutal after a double shift. It feels like they're trying to bruised my ribs by the end of the day."
Jack closes the distance between you.
"Bra problems require expert care," he teases softly, his hands coming to rest gently on your hips. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Let me take over? My hands are warm, and I happen to have an excellent bedside manner."
You smile, tilting your head. "Is that an official medical recommendation, Dr. Abbot?"
"Strictly therapeutic," he murmurs.
Jack turns you, his chest brushing against your bare back as he closes the distance. You instinctively lean into him, letting out a soft sigh as he supports you.
He wraps his arms around your waist for a brief second, pressing a warm kiss to the crook of your neck.
"Relax, doll," he whispers warmly against your skin.
He slides his hands upward, his palms completely warm against your skin as they replace your own. His hands cup you gently, immediately bringing a sense of relief to the ache.
Jack knows exactly how much pressure to apply, using his thumbs to trace the red indentations left behind by the underwire, smoothing over the irritated skin in slow circles.
You let your eyes close, completely melting against him. Your back is pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady, calming thud of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.
"Better?" Jack asks softly, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as his hands continue their soothing, rhythmic motion.
"So much better," you murmur, closing your eyes and letting your head rest back against his shoulder. "You're hired permanently."
"Good, because I don't plan on quitting my job," Jack chuckles. He presses a tender kiss to the side of your neck, his thumbs smoothing over your skin, content to just hold you and soothe away the stress of the day for as long as you need.
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: You lie awake - and the shadows of the past finally catch up with you.
Content warning: Mention of domestic abuse (not described in detail, but referenced).
A/N: I actually hadn't planned to include this part of her backstory because I thought it might distract too much from the main plot.
But honestly? When I got to this point it just felt right to bring it up. So this chapter ended up becoming a completely unplanned bonus chapter for all of you.
I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)
Previous chapter: I'm just saying you don't have to panic
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Jack slept on his side, one arm draped loosely around your waist. The steady rise and fall of his breathing warmed the back of your neck. Every now and then he shifted slightly in his sleep, his hand tightening instinctively before relaxing again.
Beside the bed Lizzie slept in her travel crib.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. The house was quiet.
Peaceful.
Safe.
You should have been asleep hours ago - instead you stared at the ceiling.
Your eyes burned. Your body ached with exhaustion. The family reunion had wrung every last bit of energy out of you. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many emotions packed into too few hours. And Peter.
God.
Peter.
You shifted carefully onto your back, trying not to wake Jack. His arm slid across your stomach but stayed where it was, heavy and familiar.
You swallowed hard.
Sleep wasn’t coming. Every time you closed your eyes the conversation in the kitchen replayed itself.
I bet Hunter didn’t introduce himself as an abusive asshole.
The sentence had followed you upstairs. Into your bed. Into the dark.
You squeezed your eyes shut - and immediately regretted it. Because the memory came anyway.
You hadn’t thought about it in years. Well - at least not really. Not properly.
“Fuck you stupid bitch, look what you made me do.”
You remembered standing in the bathroom afterward, staring at your reflection. The red mark on your cheek. The tears you refused to cry. The way your hands had shaken when you touched your face.
You remembered looking at yourself and thinking that if you didn’t tell anyone, maybe it wouldn’t become real. Maybe it could become one of those things people pretended never happened. Maybe it could simply… disappear.
So you never told your mom. Or Adam. Or Peter. Never told anyone.
Not because you were protecting Hunter - god knows he deserved none of that - but you were protecting yourself. Because the second you said the words out loud, everything would change. And that felt unbearable. Humiliating.
You had spent years convincing yourself you were smart, independent, capable. Women like you weren’t supposed to end up in situations like that. At least that’s what you’d told yourself back then.
So you buried it. Buried it deep enough that eventually you stopped looking at it. Stopped thinking about it.
And somehow Peter walked back into your life after all these fucking years and it felt like no time had passed at all.
You turned your head slightly. Jack was still asleep beside you. His glasses were folded on the nightstand. The prosthetic leaned against the bed. A half-empty milk bottle on the dresser.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
A sleepy sound escaped Jack when he smacked his lips. That almost made you laugh - because he had no clue what battle you were fighting inside your own head. And he shouldn’t know about it. He knew enough about your ex boyfriend as it was - and you wanted to keep it that way.
You turned on your side again, pushing back a little until you could feel Jacks warm body against your back. You took his hand and squeezed it gently, before guiding it to your lips and kissing his knuckles.
“Go to sleep” you could hear his rough sleepy voice behind you. Then he pulled you even closer, his strong arms holding you. Then he pressed a gentle kiss to your neck. “Stop making me horny in the middle of the night when your mom is asleep next door.”
You laughed, despite yourself. “Sorry” you whispered back, snuggling against him, closing your eyes again. “You’re just too handsome.”
“Behave yourself” he said with a yawn. “I know enough about this family by now that I know your mom would watch us, holding up scoring cards.”
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)
dr. robby x f!attending!reader
masterlist
sacraments masterlist
content: 18+ mdni, ANGST, swearing, no real medical stuff in this one besides a single cut and some sutures, family trauma, complicated mother/daughter dynamic, sibling death, grief, childhood trauma, mentions of physical/emotional childhood abuse, age gap (reader is about 34 i had to do the math to get the timeline right as you'll see, robby is probably like 53-54 here)
words: 8.7K
synopsis: loosely inspired by episode 2x06 of the bear (fishes) so if we have any bear stans here hi how are ya! reader is an attending at the pitt, did her residency under adamson, a fellowship in boston, and now has been back at the pitt for roughly two years. her and robby have been dating for the entirety of those two years, but have been working together since she was a resident (with the exception of her fellowship). robby insists on meeting her family when her mother reaches out to him via facebook and a nightmare ensues!!
a/n: hi! thank you for all the love you've given but i stayed anyway, truly means the world to me. i hope you enjoy this one, tho i feel it is a bit niche so no worries if not!! please please note the content warnings and don't read if you think it'll bother you. ok talk soon.
“So,” Robby parked himself next to you at the hub while you looked up at the board, “Christmas Eve, are you picking me up or should I come get you?”
You frowned and turned to him, “What are you talking about?”
“The Feast of the Seven Fishes. At your parents’ place.”
You choked out a laugh and started walking towards a patient room, iPad in hand, “Right. You will not be attending that.”
“Ah, but I will. I already told your mother I’d be there.”
You stopped cold, forcing Robby to walk into you, and then turned to face him, “Since when are you in contact with my mother?”
He shrugged, that mischievous grin on his face, “She friended me on Facebook a few weeks ago.”
Oh, this could not be happening. This was your worst nightmare come to life. “Okay, well. Please block her and I will inform her that you won’t be coming.”
He gently reached out to grab your arm and pulled you to the side before you could walk away again, “Not happening. I want to meet your family. I will be coming. It’s not up for discussion.”
You could feel the panic rising in your chest, “Robby—“
“Baby, we’ve been dating for two years. You’ve met my family, dozens of times now.”
“Yes, well, your family is lovely. And normal.”
He smiled down at you, “And your family raised you. So they can’t be that bad.”
You closed your eyes and shook your head, “You have no idea what you’ve agreed to.”
“I’ve agreed to meet the people who made the woman I’m in love with,” He said tenderly. You were angry and scared out of your mind, but when he said that, you found yourself wanting to give in.
But you knew what would happen the second he met your family. You’d been through it before. Many times. Steeling your face, you walked around him.
“Look,” He said, walking in front of you again, “If you really don’t want me to come, I won’t, but then consider us done.”
Your eyes locked on his. There was no smile, no flush to indicate he was lying or teasing.
“You don’t mean that.”
He nodded, “I do.” He sighed, “I’m sorry, I can’t keep watching you build these walls up around yourself to keep me out and then pretend like everything’s fine.”
You laughed flatly, “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”
“I did the work,” He said quietly, “For you. It’s your turn now.”
And then he left you like that, alone in the middle of the ER.
***
It was about a year ago when you had gone to Robby to request a day off from work. It was late February, still in the dead of winter. The city couldn’t quite shake off the snow.
“Hey, I wanted to see if I could take next Thursday off?” You asked as casually as you could manage, “I can find another attending to cover if you need—“
“No, it’s fine. I can manage by myself,” Robby looked up from his workstation, perching his glasses on his head, “What’s going on next Thursday?”
You opened and closed your mouth a few times, and then sighed, looking down at your hands, “It’s just, it’s the anniversary of my brother’s death so I just have a hard time being in the ER that day.”
“Oh,” Robby said, clearly caught off guard, “Sweetheart, I’m… so sorry I had no idea.”
“It’s fine,” You said quickly, uncomfortable with the attention and the sympathy, as you always were, “It was a long time ago.” You cleared your throat, “I have to go check on a patient.” You said and were gone before he could follow.
But you had felt his eyes on you for the rest of the shift. Sure enough, as soon as the two of you were out in the cold winter air, he brought it up.
“You never mentioned your brother died.”
You slowly inhale through your nose, “I don’t like to talk about it. It was over a decade ago.” You shrugged, as if the time had made it hurt less. It hadn’t, not exactly. The hurt was just different now. You had learned to live with it, bargain with it, figure out ways to work around it. But it was always there.
He nodded slowly, “And he died in an ER?”
You weren’t sure how much longer you could indulge this line of questioning before you were likely to snap at him. It was absolutely fair of him to be asking, you had talked him through Adamson and Jake’s girlfriend, Leah, more times than you could count.
But it was true what they said about doctors being terrible patients.
“Congenital heart failure, undiagnosed. He went into cardiac arrest during a half marathon. They got him back for a little bit in the ambulance, but he had been down a while, so.” You shrugged, concentrating on your foot prints through the snow so you wouldn’t see the way he collapsed, still a half mile away from you. You wouldn’t remember the way you had hopped the fence and sprinted to him, knees buckling when you got there. “We were nineteen.”
“Your twin?” He asked, voice soft.
You only nodded, “And before you ask, I’ve been tested. I don’t have it.”
“I bet that felt very unfair.”
No one had ever said that to you before and it nearly stopped you in your tracks. But it was true. You had spent many years, not being sad that your brother had died, but being absolutely furious with him for leaving you here, perfectly healthy, to carry on.
And when every test came back proving that you were healthy, everyone told you how lucky you were. Only it didn’t feel that way. It felt as though he had abandoned you.
The tears burned the back of your eyes, but you had grown very adept at keeping them at bay. You breathed through it until you thought it safe to speak again.
“He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere I couldn’t follow.” Despite your best efforts, your voice wavered and Robby heard it.
He reached for you, you felt his hand on your arm. It was likely he was pulling you in for a hug, but you shrugged him off.
You didn’t look at him, so you weren’t positive, but you could guess he had looked hurt by your dismissal. You kept walking, listening to his boots crunch in the snow next to yours. Reassurance that no matter how you pushed him away, he’d still be there.
After a few minutes of walking in silence, you cleared your throat, “There’s this ramen place a few blocks from your house I’ve been meaning to try. Do you want to order for dinner?”
“Sure.” He said after a few moments of silence.
It was a ceasefire agreement, disguised in take out ramen and letting you pick the movie to watch on his couch that night. He wouldn’t ask again about your brother. Not for a while. But it was only a temporary and tenuous peace, never meant to last.
And the clock was ticking.
***
“I suggest we Uber to my parents’ place.” You said the next day as you looked over a chart, “You’ll want to be drinking, I assure you. And I certainly will not be designated driver as I need to be absolutely smashed to get through the Feast.”
Robby bumped his shoulder into yours, “Ah, so we’re going then?”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
He slipped a finger beneath your chin and tilted gently upwards until you were looking at him, “You always have a choice.”
You forced a smile and looked away. He didn’t understand that it was a false choice. No matter what you chose, you would lose him. You would lose him if you didn’t let him come, you would still lose him if he came.
Robby was smart. Every fault, every break in you, you had carefully glued together, disguised as something else so that he could love you. But there would be no hiding all the ways you were jagged and damaged once he saw your family. Once he understood.
You had seen it so many times before. Partners insisting they wanted to meet your family, despite your warnings. And you would watch as the night went on. They’d get quieter. Their fake laughter less convincing. The way their eyes deadened by the end of the night. They’d kiss you goodnight and roughly a week later, you’d get some bullshit excuse about why it wasn’t working. None of them ever admitted it was because of your family, about the future they saw for you written on the walls, but they didn’t have to.
And now, despite all the careful planning you had done, Robby would follow in their footsteps.
***
You looked up at your childhood home with Robby by your side just as the Uber dropped you off.
“Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette before we go in?” You asked.
Robby looked at you, eyebrows raised, “You don’t smoke.”
“I do when I’m here.” You took out a fresh pack and a lighter and started opening them, “Do you want one?”
He scratched his head, “No. I don’t think you should, either.”
You lit up the cigarette between your lips and took a drag, “Look, you wanted to come here. This is who I am when I’m here.”
“There she is! Our big shot emergency doctor!” Your older brother, Luka, threw his arms around your shoulders from behind, “Hey, what the fuck?” He took the cigarette out of your hands and threw it on the ground, “I thought you quit?”
“Jesus, Luka,” You pulled out another cigarette, “Can’t you mind your own fucking business for once?”
He smirked, “It’s good to see you too, Ace.” He kissed your hair and then looked at Robby, “Oh, and this must be the boyfriend, Robby, is it?” He reached a hand out to Robby, which Robby took, “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”
“Same here,” Robby smiled.
“What’s Robby short for, Robert?”
“Uh, no, my last name is Robinavitch. I go by Dr. Robby or Robby in the ER. My first name is Michael.”
Luka nodded and then turned his attention back to you, “Just so you know, she’s in rare form today. She’s been drinking wine since noon.”
You bit your lip and nodded, “Oh, you mean like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that—“
“Come on, don’t be a brat about it, okay? Tommy’s got it under control, he’s handling it.”
This time you really did laugh, “Oh, Tommy’s handling it, is he? You mean he’s enabling her?”
“Look, Tommy’s had a tough year with the… broken engagement as you know. Just go easy on him, okay?”
You stared at your second cigarette as if it would transport you to another dimension if you thought hard enough, “Yo, Ace, did you hear me?”
“Yes, I will be super fucking kind to Tommy.” You said, annoyed at the use of your childhood nickname, “Where’s your wife, by the way?”
“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well, she’s at home with the kids.”
You laughed and shook your head at Luka, “Good for her.”
“What? She really is sick.”
“Mhm,” You put out your cigarette, “I bet she is. No, really, I’m happy for her Luka. From the bottom of my heart.”
Luka looked up at the house, “You coming in or what?”
“Yeah,” You sighed, “In a minute.”
Luka walked off toward the house and you sighed heavily before looking at Robby, “Last chance to turn back.”
He smiled at you, “I’m not afraid of your family, baby.”
You cracked your neck to one side and then the other, “Well, that makes one of us.”
And then you led him inside.
***
Immediately, as you enter the house, everyone is shouting rather than talking at normal volume. You can hear the range hood going in the kitchen and your mother shouting over it. The unmistakable sound of the men in the living room, yelling about sports.
You were already regretting not preemptively taking ibuprofen before coming here.
“Look who has decided to grace us with her presence. It’s nice of you to come home and visit us humble folk, huh Ace?” Your mother shouts as soon as you walk through the entryway and you sigh heavily.
“Ma, this is Michael, Michael, this is my mother.”
“Call me Deb, sweetheart it’s so good to meet you.” She engulfed him in her arms, kissing his cheeks, “Oh, you’re so handsome, too.”
Robby reddened under the attention of your mother, “Please, it’s my pleasure. Your daughter is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You felt the flush in your cheeks at Robby’s words and looked around the room with feigned interest, avoiding eye contact with either of them.
Your mother dramatically put her hands to her heart and looked at you, “Did you hear that, Ace? He thinks we did a good job with you.”
You frowned, “Interesting. That’s not what I heard.”
Robby put his hand on your waist and squeezed lightly in warning. You badly wanted to push his hand off you, but held back, knowing it would upset him. And though you thought it a lost cause, you were still going to try to keep him tonight.
Your mother ignores your comment, “How old are you, Michael?”
“Mom.” You admonished immediately.
“What?” She asked, feigning casual, “I think it’s a natural question it’s is no secret he’s older than you.”
Robby smiled and laughed, hanging his head self deprecatingly, “Yes, I am… much older than Y/N.”
You looked at him, apology in your eyes, but he only shook his head slightly.
“Well how much older?” Her smile was strained.
“Ma, please.” You hissed, but she ignored you, continuing to stare at Michael.
“Uh,” Robby also gave a tight smile, clearly uncomfortable, “About twenty years.”
Your mother’s eyebrows flew up, “Well,” She looked back to you, “I guess that’s a no on having kids, then.”
“Oh my God,” You sighed and squeezed your eyes shut.
“What? It’s true, I mean he probably already has kids, right?”
Robby shook his head, “No. I have someone I consider to be like a step son, but no children of my own.”
Your mother stared at him silently for a few moments and then shifted her attention back to you, “Well your father loves you very much, so I’m not sure where this choice came from.”
This couldn’t be happening. They had been in the house all of five minutes and already, you were sure Michael was going to break up with you as soon as you left. Maybe sooner, if it kept going like this.
“Did you just invite him here to insult him?” You asked, voice raising.
“Baby, it’s okay.” Robby whispered in your ear.
“No, it’s not okay.” You said, “If you can’t be nice for one night, then we’ll leave.”
Your mother laughed airily, “Oh relax, Ace, you’re so sensitive! I’m only teasing!” She looked to Michael, “I’m only teasing, sweetheart, you gotta have thick skin if you want to be in this family.”
Robby managed a smile and put a hand over his heart, “No offense taken.”
God, he was so kind and perfect. They were going to fucking ruin him. “I really think we should go,” You whispered so only he could hear.
“Oh, come on. You think I wasn’t prepared for your family to take a jab at my age?” He lowered his head slightly so he could look in your eyes, “I want to be here. With you.”
Your mother turned back to Michael, beckoning you both to the kitchen, “What do you drink, honey, help yourself, there’s beer in the fridge, wine— HEY, WHO TURNED THE HEAT UP ON THE GRAVY? Oh for CHRIST’S SAKE it’s bubbling over everywhere— ACE WOULD YOU GET OVER HERE AND HELP YOUR MOTHER?”
You sighed heavily, “Jesus Christ,” You mumbled and then headed for the fridge, taking out two beers, you used the fridge magnet that doubled as a bottle opener to open them both, letting the caps clatter to the floor and leaving them there. You handed one to Robby, “You should stay away from the kitchen, it’s a war zone in there.”
“And what’ll you do?”
“What I always do,” You took a long swig from the beer, “Fix everyone else’s mess.”
“ACE DID YOU HEAR ME?”
“I’m coming Ma, one sec!”
“What’s with the ‘Ace’ thing?”
You sighed, “It’s a stupid nickname. Our family plays a lot of cards, they’re really superstitious. My grandma once got a full hand of aces while I was helping her play when I was, like, five. So they started calling me Ace. It got so out of hand, they wouldn’t let me sit at the table anymore. Claimed it was cheating to have me within a five foot radius of a game”
He laughed, “That’s cute.”
Just then, the sound of shattering glass came from the kitchen along with the hysterical shrieks of your mother. “Okay,” You said slowly, “I’m gonna go handle that. You’ll be okay out here?”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about me, go.” He kissed you then, and even in your hopelessness you felt loved and safe, for just a second, “I love you.” He said, and you nodded, looking down at your beer bottle, “Hey,” He said and you looked up to meet his eyes, “I love you.” He said again slowly.
“Yeah,” You nodded, his words bringing you back down, “Yeah, I love you.”
“ACE, COULD YOU GET YOUR ASS IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN, PLEASE? CHRIST!” That was Tommy’s voice now and you sighed heavily.
“You’re sure you’re not regretting this yet?” You asked softly.
“Not even a little.” Robby said.
You nodded and stepped away from him. The night was still young.
***
Robby made his way to the living room, beer in hand, and was inundated with people he didn’t know and who barely spared him a glance as he entered the room. Not much in the mood yet to begin introducing himself to everyone, he found himself drawn to the mantel and the pictures perched above it.
He smiled a bit to himself as he noted pictures of little you with whom he assumed was Benji. He could tell, even from the pictures, just how close the two of you were. And his heart broke all over again imagining you having to watch him die.
“Are you Ace’s doctor boyfriend?” An older man came to his side, admiring the pictures as well.
Robby smiled, “What gave me away?”
The man shrugged, “You have the same nervous energy as she does. Always looking for a problem to solve. I’m Frank, her father.”
Robby shook the man’s hand, “Michael. It’s great to meet you, sir.”
“So how is she?”
Robby frowned, “She’s just in the kitchen, you could ask her yourself.”
He shook his head, “No, no, she won’t want to talk to me.”
Robby looked back at the photos, “She’s good,” He said, “She’s a fantastic doctor. We’re lucky to have her.”
“I already knew that part,” He smirked, “But outside her work?”
Robby inhaled deeply, “To be honest with you, sir, I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”
Her father nodded, “Yeah, me too. I’ve been trying to figure her out ever since Benji died. Just to know if she’s okay. I’m pretty shit at it, though.” He laughed.
Robby looked back at the photos, “I am very sorry for your loss.” He paused, “Could you… tell me more about Benji? She doesn’t talk about him much, but I can tell it still weighs on her.”
The man, Frank, was silent for a moment as he looked at the photos. “Her and Benji were inseparable. They did everything together. They had the same friends, everything. Applied to all the same schools and went to the same one. You never had to worry about them because even if they never came to us, they always had each other.
We were always very busy with four kids. Never a break. And there’s this home video I think about a lot, even now. It’s Christmas morning, they’re about five or six, opening their presents. Their mother and I are helping one or both of the other boys with something. And there’s a good thirty seconds or so where she's holding a gift that she needs help opening, a doll or something, and she repeatedly calls for her mom. Over and over. She never gets upset, she’s very calm, no crying. And nobody turns. I watch it now and I can’t understand how neither of us heard her. But of course, Benji hears her, and he goes over and grabs a pair of scissors and helps her open the package. That’s how it always was with them. They didn’t need us.”
He sighed, “And then when Benji died it was… Well, it was like she went adrift and we had no idea how to even begin to try to anchor her. Benji would have. I remember her crying that day in the hospital, hysterically sobbing by the time we got there. And then never again. I never saw her cry after that. She was the one who made all the funeral arrangements, picked out his casket, picked out a plot at the cemetery. She fundraised so we didn’t have to worry about the medical bills or funeral costs. She put together slide shows and picked out music. She picked the restaurant we went to after the burial. And I don’t think any of it was because she wanted to do that. We didn’t give her much choice. Her mom and I fell apart. Neither of us could get out of bed. And I think she heard Benji calling for us, like he heard her that Christmas morning.”
He shook his head and sniffled, “Her mother doesn’t like to see it that way, but I think out of all our kids, I think we failed her. And I don’t blame her for not coming home.”
Finally, he looks at Robby, “I’m not sure why I told you all that. I guess maybe I’m hoping that you’ll figure out how to anchor her. That she won’t be lost at sea the rest of her life.”
Robby looks down at his beer bottle and sighs before looking back up at the man, “I’m sure as hell trying.”
***
“So, the new boyfriend is also a doctor?” Tommy was perched on the counter, sipping a beer. Their mother was stirring various things on the stove and shoving things in and out of the oven while shouting at people to get out of the kitchen. You were mopping up some sort of sauce from the floor and throwing out shattered pieces of glass.
“Yes.” You said, “He’s not new though, we’ve been dating for two years now.”
“Well he’s new to us because you never come home.” Your mother interjected.
You looked back down at the floor, “God, grant me the serenity,” You murmured as you threw larger pieces of glass into the trash.
“Mom’s right, you know,” Tommy said, “Ever since Benji died you basically abandoned us.”
Your hands stilled for only a moment and then you were moving again, “I was in college, and then medical school, and then residency, Tommy. What the fuck did you want me to do, drop out and wallow in my misery like the rest of you did? Let it fucking eat me alive?”
There was sweet, blissful silence, for just a moment and then— “Maybe you should have instead of acting like a goddamn robot after he died. Might’ve done you some good. Might have bonded you with the rest of your family.” Your mother said.
Oh, you were so tired of all of this. Of the criticism of every little thing you had done since Benji died, down to the way you had grieved. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I had been competing in the grief olympics.”
“Come on, Ace, she didn’t mean it like that—“ Tommy started.
“Yes she did.” You said, “Didn’t you, mom? You don’t think I grieved correctly, isn’t that right? What was it you said to me just fucking weeks after he died? ‘Do you even miss him?’”
She continued stirring, “I don’t remember it that way.”
You scoffed and returned to picked up glass, “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Ace…” Tommy said in warning.
“It’s fine, Tommy. I’m fine.” You said.
“Yes, your sister is always fine.” Your mother said, “The picture of composure, unlike her nuthouse of a family that she can’t stand to be around.”
You threw the last piece of glass into the trash harder than was necessary, “I need some air.” You murmured and then left before anyone else could say anything.
You ran into aunts and uncles and cousins on your way outside, forcing smiles and quick hugs until you hit the cold December air. You breathed in shakily as you pulled out your pack of cigarettes, lighting another.
As if he had been summoned, Robby appeared next to you, “You doing okay, Ace?”
You made a face at him, “Please don’t call me that.”
He smiled and put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to him, “I saw some pictures of you and Benji when you were little. You were adorable, as expected.”
You hummed, cracking a small smile, “The only reason those are still up are because Benji’s in them. You’ll notice there’s no pictures up of me by myself. There’s barely any of Tommy or Luka either. It’s hard to compete for the favorite child when one of them is dead.”
Robby was quiet for a few moments and you thought you could actually hear the gears in his head turning. He took the cigarette from your hand and took a drag before handing it back to you, “I was talking to your dad, he’s very proud of you.”
“He said that?”
Robby nodded, "More or less."
You scoffed, “Well, nice of him to say it to you.”
“He’s never told you?”
You shook your head, “We’ve barely spoken since Benji. He looks at me and all he sees is the son he lost.”
“I’m sorry.” He said quietly.
You took a step away from him, “Why are you sorry? This is what you wanted, right? Why you wanted to come? So you could see up close and personal why I’m so fucked up?”
He shook his head, “Come on, don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Lash out at me after you were just vulnerable. You do this all the time. It’s fucking exhausting.”
You scoffed, “What’s exhausting is you bringing us here when I fucking told you it would be a disaster. And now, on top of everything else,” You gestured wildly to the house, “I have to walk on glass around you too in a surely doomed attempt at making you want to stay.”
He shook his head sadly, “Baby, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You want to argue, but you feel the burning in your eyes and you can’t cry right now. So you turn away from him, breathing slowly, and finish your cigarette.
The front door opens, and with it, the sound of the stereo playing Christmas music and the competing of a dozen voices to be heard over it. The sound quickly vanishes when the door closes.
“Hey, Ace, mom’s looking for you, said she needs your help with the lasagna.” It’s Luka’s voice.
You sigh, “Why the fuck is she making lasagna for a feast of fishes?”
“You know no one eats the other shit,” He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, “You okay?”
You sigh heavily, frustrated that this check in from your older brother had increased the wetness in your eyes that you were actively fighting. You shrugged off his hand, “I’m fine.”
He nodded, but you knew he wasn’t convinced, “It is really good to have you home, Ace.”
You barked a laugh that sounded almost like a sob, “Don’t know why, all I do is piss off mom more than she already is.”
“She loves you,” He said quietly, “You know that.”
“Oh, fuck off, Luka.”
“What? I love you. We all love you. Hey, fuckin’ look at me, would you?” He grabbed you by the shoulders forcefully turned you, but his eyes darted to your hand and he frowned, “Are you bleeding?”
You looked at your hand that was holding the cigarette and found that you were, in fact, bleeding from a cut in your palm. You must have cut it on the glass in the kitchen when you were cleaning up.
“Ah, shit.” You sighed and put out your cigarette.
“Let me see?” Robby said instantly and reached for your hand.
You allowed it, him taking care of you even though you were capable of evaluating the wound yourself. It calmed you almost immediately, his touch as he focused on your injury.
“Do you guys have a first aid kit inside?” He asked.
Luka sighed, “Probably some bandages and rubbing alcohol, but I don’t know that you’ll find much else.”
“Robby, it’s fine, it can’t be that deep I didn’t even feel it.”
“I can’t tell with all the blood and it’s too dark out here,” He started leading you back to the house, “Come on, we’ll rinse it off and take a look.”
You rolled your eyes in Luka’s direction, who smirked and followed you both back inside.
With all the cooking going on, reentering the house felt akin to walking into a sauna. Combined with the noise level from all the shouting and music, you were instantly overwhelmed again. You allowed yourself to be led, Robby’s hand gently tugging on the wrist of your injured hand.
“I’ll go find those bandages,” Luka called out before disappearing upstairs.
Robby tugged you into the kitchen, which was the last place you wanted to be.
“Oh, finally, we’ve been looking for you—“ Your mother stopped when she saw your hand, “Well how the hell did you manage that?”
“Excuse me, Deb,” Robby said politely, “Could we use your sink?”
“Oh, of course,” She stepped out of the way and let Robby by. He turned the water on and started temperature checking it with his free hand, waiting for it to warm, “Must be nice having an emergency doctor as a boyfriend, especially for Ace, she’s such a clutz.”
You closed your eyes, “I’m an emergency medicine doctor, too, Ma.”
“Oh, but you’re just a student! You’re in your, what do they call that, when you’re practicing after med school, but not really—“
“A resident?” Robby offered.
“Yes!” Your mother snapped her fingers, “That’s it, you’re in your residency, dear.”
It was taking everything you had not to sigh. Robby pulled your hand under the water and you winced at the sting to your cut, “I finished my residency four years ago. I’m an attending now. Just like Robby.”
She was quiet for a moment, “No, that… That can’t be right. You were doing your residency at PTMC—“
“Yes, and then I did a fellowship in Boston and then I came back to PTMC. As an attending.”
She frowned, “You were in Boston? You never told me that.”
Robby pulled your hand out of the water and you felt his fingers near the wound again.
“Yes, I did. You just don’t listen to me unless it’s something that pertains to you.”
The room got quiet. Robby turned off the water.
Your mother laughed, breaking the silence, and poured herself another glass of wine, “Well, anywho, it must be nice to have someone to look after you. You were so clumsy as a kid!”
“Was she?” Robby asked, still laser focused on your wound, he was applying pressure with some paper towels. Luka had returned with supplies.
“Oh, yes! One time, I remember, she was helping set the table. She picked up this beautiful eggplant parmesan I had made, fresh out of the oven with her bare hands! And immediately dropped it, of course. Burned her hands. Whole dish shattered and cut her up. She has the cutest little scar on her leg.”
You almost laughed and you found the silence of your brothers very telling. Robby was wrapping gauze around your palm now, having cleaned out the wound, “You’ll need stitches, but I can do them later tonight. I have a suture kit at home.” He said quietly.
But you barely heard him over the roaring in your ears.
“That’s not how I remember it.” You said, deathly quiet and calm.
“What?” Your mother said, smile still on her face.
“The cut on my leg, that’s not how it happened.”
“Ace…” You heard Luka behind you, the warning clear in his voice.
“Oh, fuck you, Luka. I know you know it too you were there.”
Your mother laughed, “Well, what happened then, hm? Enlighten us.”
Tommy was shaking his head at you from behind your mother. Please, don’t. It said.
But you were so fucking tired of it all. The disappointment, the subtle jabs disguised as teasing, the rewriting of history.
You picked up Robby’s beer from the counter behind him and took a long drink, “What I remember is that you and dad were fighting and I said something that pissed you off, similar to most things I’ve said tonight, and as I was walking away, you flung the eggplant parmesan in my direction. When it shattered, the glass ricocheted off the floor and cut me, which is why the scar is on the back of my leg. Not the front.”
Tommy hung his head behind your mom. Nobody else moved, but you thought you could feel the tension radiating off Luka just behind you.
But after a few moments, your mother laughed, loudly. The sound was grating and you nearly winced. “You always did have such a wild imagination, you and Benji both.”
“I didn’t imagine it, that’s how it happened.”
“What was it that Benji used to say? Oh, that kid was so clever. He used to joke that if you weren’t so good at science you’d be a New York Times Bestseller with all the crazy stories you came up with!”
Your mother laughed more loudly this time, but everyone else in the room was quiet.
“Well, it’s too bad Benji’s not here.” You said coolly.
Your mother’s laugh died out. The only sound was of the range hood and the Christmas carols that were still blasting from the living room.
“And whose fault is that?” She said viciously.
In a way, it felt like a relief to hear her say it. All these years, you knew she blamed you. Probably resented that it was you who was with him when he went. She almost definitely wished it was you who was dead and not him. Well, she could get in line.
But mostly, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. Your brothers were yelling around you, but you had no idea what they were saying. Robby had carefully placed himself in front of you. You thought maybe he was trying to break up the yelling. In another lifetime, perhaps, you would have found it funny that he was trying to break up a fight in your childhood home the same way he would break one up in the ER.
Quietly, you slipped away, passing your father in the hallway who called after you. Likely to ask you what the fuck was going on in the kitchen.
But you passed without a word and headed up the stairs.
Second door on the left, you could have found it with your eyes closed. The door creaked when you opened it, as it always had.
Closing it behind you, you reveled in the quiet first. The rest of the house was muffled from up here.
You trailed your fingers over the dusty sports trophies on their shelves, the CDs in a pile by the stereo.
You laid down on the navy blue bed that still, impossibly, smelt like him and stared at the popcorn ceiling. Glow in the dark stars stuck there. He had tried to pry many of them off when they became teenagers, but he could never get them all. Remnants of glue still stuck to the ceiling.
“I don’t understand why you have to fight with her so much.” Benji’s voice echoed in your head, “It’s easier to just placate her. We’ll be out of here soon anyway.”
“You don’t understand,” You had said through tears, “I’m the only girl. She has astronomically higher standards for me than she does for you. Or Luka or Tommy.”
“What does it matter?” He said, “Look, you’re way smarter than any of the rest of us. You’re going to get everything you’ve ever wanted, not because of her, but despite her.”
You shook your head, “And what if all I’ve ever wanted is for her to be proud of me? To be enough, just once?”
Benji had sighed and rested his head on yours, “Then I’ll be so stupid proud of you that you won’t even notice she’s not.”
Silent tears rolled down your face into your ears as you recalled the memory. You took his pillow and pressed it over your face.
***
Robby was beginning to understand it, now. Why you had been so afraid of bringing him here, of letting him in. He had thought all of it had been wrapped up in the grief of losing your brother, your twin, but this was clearly heaps and bounds more complicated than that.
He had expected maybe some tension and small tiffs, he had not expected learning that you were likely emotionally neglected as a child at best and physically abused at worst. He hadn’t expected to hear your mother outright blame you for your brother’s death. And he hadn’t expected to have to physically insert himself between you and your family for fear of a fight breaking out.
“Hey, that’s enough!” Robby shouted over the yelling, and they all turned to look at him in shock. But they were quiet, “What the fuck?” He said breathlessly, and looked straight at your mother.
“She’s fucking impossible, sometimes.” Your mother said bitterly, “I’m sure you know.”
He looked behind him and noticed that you were gone. Likely you had slipped outside for some air. He turned back to your mother, “Your son had congenital heart disease, as I understand it. There was nothing anyone could have done to save him. Especially not a nineteen year old girl.”
Deb was shaking her head, “She didn’t call us until he was already gone. We didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to him because of her.”
Robby sighed and shook his head. This was a resentment that was more than a decade old. There was nothing he could say to make this better or make her see that you weren’t culpable for what happened to Benji. And it broke his heart that you had carried this for years, silently and alone. Never talking about Benji, likely because you didn’t feel you deserved to. If your own mother blamed you for the death of your twin, it was unlikely you didn’t blame yourself too.
While he was talking to your mother, Luka had swiftly left the room. He heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and then Luka was back.
“She’s not outside.” Luka said to Robby.
“Where else would she go?”
Tommy and Luka shared a look, Robby looked to and from both of them, “What?” He asked, impatiently.
“Benji’s room.” Luka said, quietly, “She’s probably with Benji. Upstairs, second door on the left.”
Robby nodded, “Thank you.” And headed up the stairs.
***
There was a knock at the door and you removed the pillow from your face. You weren’t sure you wanted anyone else to know you were in here, but judging by the quiet knock and the absence of someone yelling at you, you suspected it was Robby. Still, you hesitated.
“It’s me,” He said finally, “Can I come in, please?”
You sat up and put Benji’s pillow in your lap, “It’s open.”
You watched Robby enter the room, looking around first, before looking to you. You looked a bit like a vulnerable child in here, sitting on the tiny twin bed and legs crossed in front of you. Your eyes were bloodshot and your cheeks glistened wet with tears.
And when your eyes locked onto his, your face crumpled.
He pulled you into his arms immediately and was shocked when you didn’t push him away, but pulled him closer. He didn’t say anything, but rocked you gently and kissed your hair until you quieted.
“I would hope this would go without saying, but your mother was way fucking out of line.” He tightened his arms around you slightly, “But I know you and your tendency to blame yourself. I’ve watched you do it since you were just an intern. And so I wonder if all these years you had thought it was your fault and your mother repeating it back to you almost felt affirming.”
You didn’t say anything for a few moments, focusing on getting your breathing under control. You knew you had to have this conversation with Robby, there was no way to get out of it without losing him. He had seen everything you were so afraid of him seeing, and still he had come up here and held you. He hadn’t shied away from any of it.
“I know that rationally, there was nothing I could have done. But it doesn’t really make a difference. What if I had run a little faster? What if I had been CPR certified when he collapsed? What if—?”
“You’ll kill yourself thinking like that. You were nineteen. You were just a kid.”
“So was he. And every fucking birthday I’m reminded of how much he was shorted.”
Robby’s quiet for a moment, running a hand through your hair and gently wiping the tears from your cheeks, “How do you think Benji would feel if he knew you’d been carrying this around for fifteen years? That you never celebrate your shared birthday because you’re too busy playing the what if game?”
You looked around his room and sniffled, “He’d probably tell me I sound like our mom making everything about me and to get a fucking grip.”
Robby chuckled, “I think I would’ve liked your brother.”
You hiccuped and looked up at Robby, a sad smile on your face, “He would’ve liked you, too.”
He cupped your face in his hands and gently kissed you. The taste and smell of him was so familiar and comforting to you, you were sure your heart rate must have slowed back to normal rhythm while he kissed you.
When he pulled away, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I think we can get out of here now, what do you say?”
You balked, “Seriously?”
He nodded, “Yeah, is Chili’s open on Christmas Eve? I think you’ve earned a five dollar margarita.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s Happy Hour anymore, but it’s the thought that counts.” You laughed, “You’re sure? You were really adamant about coming here.”
“Yes,” He nodded, “and it resulted in you smoking, slicing your hand open, shotgunning at least four beers, and hysterically crying all in under two hours. Not to mention, I’m not going to force you to be polite to your mother after she blamed you for Benji in front of everyone.” He sighed, “I wanted you to let me in and you have. I’m sorry that I pushed so hard, I didn’t think—“
“No, it’s okay. You were right. I would’ve just kept pushing you away and then I would’ve lost you. So thank you, for pushing.” You took a deep shaky breath, “I’ve never spoken to anyone about Benji dying, what it felt like. Not even my brothers. I was always afraid it would be… too much.”
Robby shook his head and pressed more kisses to the side of your face, “Not too much. Never too much. I’m honored to know you, every piece.”
You inhaled shakily, “Well, you ready to go tell them we’re leaving?”
He allowed you to climb out of his arms and rise to standing, “I have no issue telling them exactly why we’re leaving. I don’t think it’ll come as much of a surprise.”
You huffed a laugh, “Yeah, well, you underestimate my mother’s ability to gaslight and manipulate, then.”
Sure enough, as they went downstairs to gather their coats and things, your mother waxed poetic about all the food she had made that would go to waste and how she never got to see you and how could you leave so early?
You had warned him, but Robby was still shocked at the way your mother pretended to have no idea why you could be leaving. To position herself as the victim in this scenario. She hadn’t even tried to apologize since you had padded back down the stairs.
“Thank you for inviting us, Deb, but it’s pretty clear that there’s a lot of open hostility between the two of you that is not conducive to the holiday spirit.” He grabbed your coat and helped you into it, rubbing down your arms soothingly once it was on, “I’d rather not see a physical fight break out between my girlfriend and her mother on Christmas Eve.”
Your mother looked at him incredulously, “Are you talking about earlier?” She laughed and playfully patted your arm, “Oh, that was nothing. We have little tiffs like that all the time. Or we used to, when she made time for us. Isn’t that right, Ace?”
You were staring silently at a spot on the wall and Robby noted that it seemed like you were dissociating. The more minutes that passed, the worse he felt for forcing you to come here, “If that was ‘nothing’ to you, then that just affirms my decision to remove us from the circus,” Robby said, forcing a smile and reaching behind the two of you to open the front door, “I would say it was lovely meeting you, but I’m not a very good liar.”
Once outside in the frigid night air, you immediately fished out your pack of cigarettes. Robby decided once you were home, he would toss them in the trash. Maybe buy the both of you a pack of nicotine gum for the foreseeable future. Just that one drag earlier coupled with the hectic nature of your childhood home had him craving a smoke.
“Hey, Robby!” It was one of your brothers who ran out of the house after the two of you. The older one, Luka, if his memory served him correctly.
He looked over Robby’s shoulder at you, lighting a cigarette, before focusing his attention back on Robby, “I just, um, wanted to say thank you for having Ace’s back in there.” He said softly, “I wish it was me who had the backbone to stand up for her.” Luka’s eyes shone with unshed tears in the moonlight, “Benji always took care of her and I think all the time how disappointed he would be that I don’t. It’s hard, with how our mother is to… to stand up to her sometimes. It’s stupid, I’m an adult now, but. She’s still my mom.”
He sighed heavily, “Anyway, sorry, I’m rambling, I just… Ace has brought a lot of men home over the years. Never more than once. They tend to disappear after seeing what a mess we all are. None of them ever had her back like that so I hope you stick around.” Luka smiled then and clapped Robby on the back, “Take care of my baby sister, please?”
Robby nodded and gave Luka a small smile, “Of course.”
Luka nodded back and then walked towards you, still smoking a cigarette a healthy distance away, “Hey.” He said softly.
“Hi,” You said as you exhaled cloud of smoke.
“I’m sorry about what mom said. She didn’t mean it, she’s drunk—“
“Don’t defend her.”
“I’m not.” Luka sighed and scratched his head, “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe I am. Whatever. The point is, it’s not fuckin’ true. Any of it. You did your best when Benji died, we all did. You were just a fuckin’ kid who took on way more than you should have. And I’m sorry that I never helped lessen the burden. I should have. As your older brother, I should have protected you.”
At this, you looked up at him and gave him a watery smile, “Thanks, Luka. But just so you know, I never blamed you or Tommy. For any of it.”
“I know.” He said, and pulled you into a one armed hug, kissing the top of your head, “Let him take care of you. Robby. You deserve to be taken care of for once.”
A tear slid onto your cheek, “Okay.”
He released you and started backing away from both you and Robby, “See you next year?”
At that, you laughed, “Only if you’re paying for my therapy bills.”
He laughed and then waved before turning back towards the house, hands in his pockets.
***
Back at Robby’s house, full of too many Southwestern Eggrolls and margaritas, you sat at his kitchen counter with your wounded hand unwrapped and cradled in both of Robby’s hands. You watched as he carefully sutured you, filled with so much tenderness for him after the night you’d had, you thought you might burst with it.
“Luka mentioned that the boyfriends you've brought home tended to leave after meeting your family.” Robby said as he worked, “Was that why you were so afraid to bring me?”
“Yeah, that was a big part of it. I also just didn’t think I was ready for you to see all of me, like that.”
He finished up the last suture and cut the excess. Then began wrapping your hand again. “You know, when you first started your residency, I used to talk with Adamson about how you were the only resident I ever met who never, ever seemed phased by anything that happened in the ER. You never had that adjustment period everyone else has, of figuring out how to adapt to the chaos. You operated like the chaos was all you’d ever known. I wish I could tell him that I finally figured out why.”
You chuckled at that, “I think he knew, actually.”
Robby looked up at you, “Really?”
You nodded slowly, “Well, I had to tell him about Benji when the anniversary came up so that I wouldn’t be scheduled that day. But, early in my residency, there was one day I kept getting repeated calls from my mother. He overheard when I picked it up. I don’t even remember what she was upset about, just that I had to spend a few minutes talking her down from the ledge. The way a parent would to a child. And when I hung up, he said he didn’t know I had kids.” You laughed now, recalling the memory, “Anyway, when I explained, humiliated, that it was actually my mom calling, he didn’t really say anything. But he had that look on his face, you know the one, when he’s finally solved a puzzle he’s been working on for weeks.”
Robby smiled fondly. It was lovely to see him reminisce about Adamson in a joyful way. He had had to work really hard for that, you knew. You hoped you’d get there one day yourself.
He gently patted your hand after a moment, “Well, wound is taken care of. You ready for bed?”
You yawned, “Yes, please.”
You crawled into sheets that smelt like Robby and curled up into his side. You felt a bit silly now that you had ever been afraid of him meeting your family. You had watched him manage an emergency room for years, near flawlessly. To him, your mother was just another irritable patient. And he was really, really good at managing irritable patients.
“Thank you,” You said softly into the dark, “For taking care of me.”
He hummed and lightly scratched at your scalp, “Of course. I’ve got you,” He murmured, “Always.”
