(⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

23/ They/Them loser obsessed with pop culture

[wabbadoo]

Dr.Abbot is rubbing off on Dr.Robby 🤭

[wabbadoo]

Does anyone have the photo of Dr.Robby and Whitaker in the Y/N / Boss art style?

[wesandresons]

SHAWN HATOSY as JACK ABBOT THE PITT 2.07 “1:00 PM”

[evelina-maar]

I feel like seeing a picture of Robby in his 20's would change the trajectory of Whitaker’s life

[pencil-n-pen]

—you’ve ruined my life

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jack abbot x overachiever! intern! reader

summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.

wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)

tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)

a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]

NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!

ao3

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۫ ꣑ৎ

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

۫ ꣑ৎ

[wabbadoo]

Credit to the person who posted this on Twitter (yes I will continue to call it Twitter).

This is honestly the WORST ship to come out of the Pitt, and you can fight me on that.

[tiptapismellbullcrap]

Need more fics of Robby being the main yearner. Dennis is just. My boss is so cool and nice! Work is great! And Robby’s just watching him with so much desire in his eyes hr senses it.

He’s massively embarrassed by it bc he’s in his 50s, why’s he crushing like a school girl on this kid??? But he cannot stop.

[wabbadoo]

Oh this is going to fuel soooo many fanfics...and I'm ready for it

[fromsil]

ᝰ. FROM THE START

✎𓂃 EX JACK ABBOT

✦ ⋆ ࣪. about : ending up at the pittsburgh trauma medical center should have been a delight—so many familiar faces and some of the best doctors you knew. but it was also the very hospital where your ex-husband worked. as you waited for results, time passed getting you closer to the night shift. the dread of seeing him pulled you down memory lane, and every step felt heavier than the last.

✦ ⋆ ࣪. warnings : angst. smut. age gap (twelve years difference). undertones of daddy issues. heavy on praises. soft dom jack. unprotected sex. undertones of eating disorders. unexperienced reader at first. chubby reader.

✦ ⋆ ࣪. words : 16.1k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ𓂃 main masterlist

ⓘ ao3

"Hello, I'm Dr. Santos. I heard you took a fall," said the doctor as she stepped into the cubicle, parting the curtain gently. She was alone, which surprised you—this was a teaching hospital, and doctors were rarely alone for long.

You knew you weren’t a major case, but you’d still hoped someone else might come along. Someone more familiar.

Dr. Santos was pleasant enough. She checked your vitals, your reflexes, and ran through the usual assessments. When everything came back normal, she explained that she was waiting on your lab results before deciding whether you could go home or if more tests were needed. She offered a gentle smile before slipping back through the curtain.

You sighed heavily. You knew exactly what was wrong : a mountain of deficiencies, severe sleep deprivation, and the fact that you hadn’t eaten all day—maybe not even the day before. You had told all that to the paramedics but they had refused to let you go.

“Um, sorry,” Dr. Santos said, pausing before she left completely. She turned back with a curious look. At this look, you raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help but notice your name, Miss Abbot. Are you related to Dr. Abbot? Are you his daughter?”

You rolled your eyes. You couldn’t really blame her, she must have been new. You hadn’t seen her before. Still, it felt a little unprofessional, though you decided not to comment.

“I’m his ex-wife. Don’t call me Abbot,” you replied—a bit too sharply, but you couldn’t help it. The day had already been bad enough.

“Oh, okay,” she murmured, she’d made things awkward.

“Listen,” you called after her before she was out of earshot. “It’s nothing personal, but is Michael , uh, Dr. Robby, on shift?”

When she nodded quickly, you let out a relieved sigh. “Could you call him here for me? Or Dana?”

“Sure, of course,” she said softly, and disappeared through the curtain once more.

Further down the hall, Dr. Santos reached the nurses’ station, scanning the area for Dana or Robby. Finding neither, she winced, replaying the conversation in her head. She hadn’t worked with Dr. Abbot for long, and yes, she’d noticed the ring—but the woman she’d just seen seemed far too young to have been married to a man his age.

Checking your file again, she saw you were into your early thirties and cringed even harder. The information had been right there. She’d just missed the perfect chance to keep her mouth shut. In her defence, she thought you were not even over 30 yet.

“You need something?” Perlah asked from behind the counter, sitting next to Princess. Both nurses watched as Santos visibly spiralled into an internal breakdown.

Glancing around, Santos switched to Tagalog so the others wouldn’t understand.

“I fucked up,” she muttered. “I called Abbot’s wife his daughter.” She looked genuinely pained just admitting it out loud.

When Princess said your name as a question, she frowned in worry. Santos nodded miserably.

Princess immediately stood up, scanning the room. “She’s here?”

Santos handed over your chart, and the nurses quickly looked through it. Nothing unusual—just another fainting spell. You’d been having them for years, never really taking care of yourself, even though your husband was a doctor.

Still speaking in Tagalog, Perlah smirked. “You didn’t actually call her Abbot, did you?”

“She asked if she was his daughter, you didn't hear?” Princess said, laughing loudly at Santos’s despair.

“What’s going on?” a man’s voice said from behind Santos.

“Dr. Robby!” she exclaimed, jumping at the sudden sound. Quickly, she snatched the tablet out of the nurse’s hands. “I—uh, I have a patient who asked for you by name. Could you take a look at her?”

Frowning, Robby pulled his glasses from the pocket of his scrubs and gently took the tablet from his student’s grasp. Normally, he didn’t do favours—he didn’t examine patients just because they remembered him or he had been recommended. But when his eyes landed on the name at the top of the file, followed by a last name he knew all too well, his frown deepened.

It eased slightly when he saw the reason for your visit, the usual mess.

“Thank you, Santos. I’ll handle this one,” he said quietly, turning and heading toward your cubicle : South 12.

One second, you were walking down the street, rushing to catch the last bus of the night. It was late, and your shift at the restaurant had just ended. You were cold, exhausted, and craving the comfort of your own bed on that bitter winter night.

But God had other plans.

The next thing you registered was the ground beneath you—cold, hard—and a man’s voice cutting through the fog in your head. A bright light flickered across your eyes, then vanished, then returned again.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” the man asked from above you.

Your head was resting on something that wasn’t soft but wasn’t uncomfortable either. The right side of your skull throbbed—a deep, rhythmic pain, as if your heartbeat had migrated behind your eye. Your vision was blurred, the world hazy and spinning. You could feel nausea rising like a wave.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated, more urgently this time.

All you managed was a faint hum. Speaking felt dangerous—like opening your mouth might unleash the sickness clawing at your throat.

“I’m Doctor Jack Abbot,” he said, his voice calm but alert. “Can you tell me your name?”

You whispered it, barely audible, before gagging again. “Gonna throw up,” you croaked—and then you did.

The doctor reacted instantly, rolling you onto your side and supporting your shoulders so you wouldn’t choke. The vomit splattered across his shoes and one strap of his backpack—the same one he’d been using as a makeshift pillow for your head.

When you finally looked up at him, your vision cleared just enough to see the mess, and tears of embarrassment burned your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered between shallow, trembling breaths. You felt faint, hollow, desperate to just close your eyes and let it all fade.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said softly, his tone steady and kind. “I’ve seen worse, I promise.”

He sat you up gently, guiding you upright so you wouldn’t accidentally rest your hand in your own vomit. Squatting in front of you, he pressed two fingers against your wrist—index and middle—checking your pulse, frowning a little.

He was handsome, in a quiet, rugged sort of way—older than you by at least a decade, if not a bit more. There was something about him that spoke of experience, of someone who had taken a beating from life and somehow come out the other side still standing. Though he couldn’t have been much over thirty-five, streaks of grey threaded through his hair that was still mostly brown, and faint crow’s feet deepened at the corners of his eyes. Freckles dusted his skin, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw.

“You hit your head pretty hard when you fell, ma'am,” he said gently, releasing your wrist and setting it softly on your thigh. “With the nausea, you’ll need a CT scan and some blood work, just to make sure we understand what’s going on.”

And just like that, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the green dial button.

You stopped him before he could press it. You didn’t need a doctor—you’d seen plenty already. You already knew why this was happening.

“It’s anemia,” you whispered, voice thin and shaky. “And a fucking bunch of other deficiencies. Don’t need the ER.”

You pushed yourself up, first to your knees, then to your feet—unsteady, swaying like a newborn deer. The world tilted for a moment, and before you could fall, Jack was there, silent and steady, his hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright.

He had risen with you without a sound, as if he’d been expecting it.

“Anemia or not, you still hit your head hard enough to cause blurry vision, disorientation and nausea,” he said flatly, not giving you room to argue. “You could have a concussion and if that’s left untreated, it can do some real damage.”

You sighed, watching as he pulled a random towel from his bag to wipe off his shoe and the strap of his backpack. The gesture made you cringe with guilt. Anyone else on this street would’ve taken advantage of you fainting—grabbed your bag, your wallet, maybe even your phone—but he hadn’t.

He didn’t know you. He could’ve just checked that you were breathing and left you there. But you guessed that kind of indifference went against whatever oath he’d taken when he became a doctor. It felt strange, almost disarming, to have this random—and admittedly very handsome—man caring about your health.

Most doctors you’d seen barely looked at you, dismissing your symptoms with a wave and a just eat more iron. They weren’t great, but they were the only ones you could afford.

Now he was picking up his phone again, thumb hovering over the dreaded green button, and panic clawed at your throat.

“I can’t afford the hospital,” you blurted, wincing at how pathetic you sounded. “It’ll ruin me.”

But really, what did he expect? You were a twenty-year-old almost-dropout, working late shifts at a crappy restaurant just to keep a roof over your head. Shitty clothes, shitty apartment, shitty food habits, shittier family—the whole package. You couldn’t just walk into the ER and walk out with a $10,000 debt. Your credit score could barely handle a phone plan.

He hesitated, thumb still suspended above the screen.

Exhaustion was washing over you now—heavy, sinking. You’d already fainted once, and all you wanted was your bed. Just to lie down for a few hours and forget the world existed until you'd have to go to school tomorrow.

No, fuck that. You weren’t going to class tomorrow either. Skipping another lecture meant inching closer to losing your scholarship, but right now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

He sighed and locked his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. His eyes stayed on you, watchful, conflicted. You could practically see the battle playing out behind them. The doctor in him wanted to act, no matter what you’d just said.

“No, fuck!” you blurted suddenly, your gaze snapping away from him.

Your stomach dropped as you watched, helpless, the last bus of the night drove past the two of you.

Tears stung your eyes, your throat tightening with frustration. This was your fault. You shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have wasted time arguing with him. The moment you’d opened your eyes, you should’ve just run—disoriented or not—straight to that damn bus stop.

Missing that bus meant a forty–minute walk back to your flat. After the day you’d just had, you weren’t even sure you could manage that. In defeat, you opened the Uber app on your phone. A twelve–minute drive for twenty bucks—fucking expensive.

“I’ll drive you home,” the doctor said, grabbing his bag by the handle, not the strap. “If you don’t want to go to the ER, at least let me drive you home.”

And you did.

Even though every rational part of your brain screamed it was a terrible idea—dangerous, even—despair had a way of dulling your instincts. You let him. You let him drive you home. You let him give you his number in case you developed symptoms overnight. You let him hand you a small bottle of pills from his bag.

You let him take care of you.

Now, you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car, fidgeting with the pill bottle while he listed off all the possible concussion symptoms and there were a lot, and you listen carefully. When he finally finished, you glanced up at him, exhaustion heavy in your voice.

“Where’s your practice?” you asked, still studying the label on the bottle. You were trying to decide if you’d just stumbled into finding a decent doctor—or if he was one of those who worked on the fancy side of town, near the hospital.

He scoffed softly, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Don’t have one, sweetheart.”

What?

Your head snapped toward him so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Panic shot through your chest, your heart skipping a few beats. He wasn’t a doctor? He’d said he was a doctor. You looked down at the pills again—there was no way you were taking anything from that bottle. You’d throw them out the second you got inside.

Before you could come up with a polite excuse to thank him and bolt, you heard him laugh quietly from behind the wheel.

“I’m a medic,” he said, glancing at you with that same infuriating smirk. “In the army.”

As if to reassure you further, he reached into the back seat, rummaged for a moment, then dropped a military ID into your lap. There it was. Jack Abbot, his photo a few years younger but still undeniably him. All his information was printed neatly on the plastic card.

Oh. Yeah. He really was twelve years older than you.

Weirdly, that realization made you squeeze your thighs together just a little. Unconsciously.

At the top of the card, his rank was listed—or rather, it wasn’t. Just five bold, capital letters : MEDIC.

“Oh,” you breathed out, relieved. He could’ve mentioned that earlier, would’ve saved you the brief heart attack.

That realization hit you like a delayed punch : you’d just gotten into a stranger’s car and given him your real address. He didn’t seem like the type to show up unannounced, but still—he was a man, a soldier, the kind that get protected by the system. The thought sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Go home and sleep, kid,” he said when you stayed quiet. “And call me if anything feels off. I’m in town for another month before I’m off again.”

You nodded meekly, gathering your bag and placing his ID carefully on the dash. Looking back at him, you managed a small smile — a quiet thank you — before reaching for the door handle.

Before you could step out, a warm, steady hand closed gently around your wrist.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, the tone leaving no room for doubt. “Anything. It’s already killing me to let you go without a CT scan, so… don’t die on me, okay?”

“Promise,” you said softly, meaning it. For once, you were genuinely grateful—grateful he hadn’t forced you into a hospital, and even more grateful that, just for a moment, someone had treated you like you mattered.

That night, you went to sleep convinced you’d never see him again—just another fleeting moment with a stranger who’d been kind. You didn’t know you’d end up calling him the very next day, after an hour spent throwing up.

You didn’t know that call would be the start of a thirteen–year relationship.

The curtain was yanked open, startling you as you sat on the bed, half-distracted by a game on your phone. Waiting,for what, exactly? You weren’t even sure anymore.

“Not gonna lie and say it’s a pleasure to see you,” Robby said as he stepped inside, giving you a quick once-over, his eyes scanning for any symptoms Dr. Santos might have missed. When he found none, his expression softened. He stepped closer and pulled you into a brief hug. “Never under these circumstances, but… it’s still good to see you.”

You sighed into his shoulder and hugged him back, just as quickly. It really was nice to see a familiar face.

“I told them to take me to West Penn,” you started, naming the other town hospital, “but the paramedics refused. Said it was your zone.”

The look he gave you was pure disbelief—unimpressed, knowing you were full of it.

“Okay,” you admitted with a small eye-roll. “I told them not to take me to a hospital, and after they said no, I asked for West Penn. I was married to a doctor for twelve years, Mike. I know what’s wrong with me.”

He didn’t look convinced, not that you expected him to. Doctors never liked that line. Neither did nurses.

“Clearly not, if you ended up here,” he said, sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose before glancing at your chart on the tablet. He sighed, no lab results yet. It was a busy day.

“How long has it been since you last passed out?” he asked, turning away to grab the blood pressure monitor.

“I don’t know… over a year, I think.” His back was still to you when you hesitated, debating whether to add the next part. “I didn’t eat today. That’s why I fainted,” you mumbled, already regretting it the second the words left your mouth.

Robby’s reaction was instant. He froze mid-step, then spun around to face you, eyes wide and a deep frown creasing between his brows.

“I felt under the weather this morning,” you rushed to explain, your tone softer—not because he was angry, but because you could feel the worry radiating off him. “It’s nothing like before, Mike. I promise.”

He sighed, whatever was running through his head, he kept it to himself. Silently, he wrapped the cuff around your arm and took your blood pressure. His brow furrowed when the numbers flashed slightly above average, though that could’ve meant anything—stress, exhaustion, or the sheer weariness written all over your face.

Someone called his name from outside, and he sighed again. Standing up, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your head, a quiet, instinctive gesture of comfort. Almost paternal.

“Still waiting on your labs, but I’ll be back, okay?” he said, setting the monitor back in its place. “Try to rest a bit. I’ll have someone bring you food.”

You nodded, leaning back on the gurney. “Think you can find a blanket?” you asked with a small smirk, knowing full well he would.

He smiled at the question, rolling his eyes as he headed out, leaving you behind.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow breath. It was comforting, being surrounded by people you knew—friends, even—but the comfort only went so far. What you really wanted was to be home.

Your gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. Two hours until 7 p.m. already. Anxiety curled tight in your stomach. You didn’t want to still be in this hospital when that hour came.

He was leaving in a few days. He’d told you the last time you saw him—casual, like it was nothing, though you’d felt something inside you tighten at the words. It had been a few weeks since you had passed out on the street.

It wasn’t as if you were sick all the time. You didn’t have a list of chronic conditions, just the quiet fallout of years spent ignoring your own needs—prescriptions left to expire, symptoms brushed off, fatigue you called normal. He’d seen through all of it in minutes, like reading a language only he could understand.

Every time you found yourself at the Military Hospital—where you had no real right to be—he was there. You weren’t military, but that was where he worked when he wasn’t deployed.

He’d lied once, called you family just to get you through the doors. The nurses had known, of course. They always did. Their glances lingered longer than necessary, curious but silent. No one ever said a word.

Each time you left, he handed you a prescription : vitamins, supplements, the bare minimum to keep you standing—and repeated the same thing, soft but firm: “Take care of yourself, kid.”

You never did. Not because you wanted an excuse to see him again—though sometimes that was part of it—but because life was too heavy, too fast. Eating properly, sleeping eight hours, keeping yourself whole… it all felt impossible.

And maybe, deep down, you knew he’d show up when things got bad enough.

Now, you were back in the hospital waiting room, the faint antiseptic smell clinging to your clothes. You’d texted him about the rash spreading across your skin, the burning, the itching that wouldn’t stop and some stomach pains, and he’d told you to meet him here.

You’d arrived before he did. The minutes dragged. You stared at the door every time it opened, pretending you weren’t waiting for him—even though you were.

When he stepped through the sliding doors, you sat up immediately. His eyes found you right away, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t come over—just gave a small tilt of his head before heading toward the office area, knowing you’d follow.

Inside, once the door closed behind you, he pulled on a pair of gloves and glanced over. His gaze lingered on your neck, where dozens of tiny red spots bloomed across your skin like a rash of needles.

“Take your clothes off please,” he said gently, already turning to the computer to pull up your chart.

You froze. You’d known it was coming, but the words still hit hard. You hated showing your body, hated the idea of anyone seeing it—even yourself most of the times. Two men had, in your entire life, and only once each. You tried to reason with yourself : he’s a doctor, he’s seen everything.

But the thought didn’t help. Your mind whispered that yours would be the worst one yet.

Still, your body moved on autopilot. You peeled off your leggings and sweater, left in a T-shirt and your underwear. That should be enough, you told yourself. Without realizing it, your arms wrapped tight around your middle, shoulders drawn in, stomach pulled flat.

When Jack turned back, his brow furrowed—first at the clothes you still wore, then at how small you were making yourself. He didn’t say anything. He just approached, the sound of the gloves faint as he flexed his fingers.

“Lie down,” he said quietly, nodding toward the exam bed. His voice was softer now, almost careful—like he was reminding you he wouldn't hurt you. He watched as you lay back on the exam bed, your hands still locked protectively over your stomach.

His gaze moved slowly, tracing the faint white spots scattered across your legs and arms. As gently as he could, he reached for your wrists, guiding your hands down to rest at your sides. At his touch, your eyes fluttered shut, and you took a long, shaky breath.

Then his hands moved to your abdomen, lifting your shirt just enough to press along your stomach and lower. His touch was steady, clinical, careful not to linger more than needed. When he was sure nothing hurt, he lifted the stethoscope to your chest, first listening to your heart, then your lungs. Everything sounded normal.

“You can get dressed,” he said softly, stepping back.

You sat up, your movements small and quiet, pulling your clothes back on. From his chair behind the desk, Jack’s eyes flicked toward you once more—catching the single tear that slipped down your cheek before you wiped it away. He didn’t comment, but he noticed everything. Years in the field had taught him that silence often hid pain deeper than any wound.

But you weren’t a soldier. You were just a young woman who looked exhausted and scared and so, so fragile—and something about that broke his heart a little.

“It’s nothing serious,” he said finally, eyes fixed on the computer screen so he wouldn’t make you more uncomfortable. “Looks like an allergic reaction. Probably to the supplements. Have you been eating?”

Your gaze shifted toward him as you tied your shoes. He still didn’t look up, his fingers moving across the keyboard—and that’s exactly when your stomach growled, loud and unapologetic in the quiet room. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been eating on purpose—but finals had been yesterday and today, stacked between two double shifts at the restaurant. By the time you got home, you’d been more exhausted than hungry.

This morning had been no different. You’d studied for hours before heading to campus, then straight to work. The only reason you were even here now was because your boss had taken one look at you and sent you home.

“Didn’t have time today,” you mumbled, not sure why it sounded like an apology.

At your words, Dr. Abbot frowned and glanced down at his watch. It was late, meaning you hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. You didn’t like that look on his face, the one that said he was quietly putting pieces together. The longer he stayed silent, the deeper your guilt dug in. You started biting the inside of your cheek, wishing he’d just say something instead of thinking.

“You’re off to work after?” he asked finally, eyes flicking between your face and the computer screen. His tone was neutral—like it was part of the exam—so you answered without question.

“No. They sent me home for the night,” you said with a weak laugh. “Thought I had chickenpox.”

He hummed softly, writing something on his tablet before looking back at you. This time, his gaze was steady, deliberate—a kind of quiet resolve behind it.

“Alright,” he said, standing as he stripped off his gloves and shut down the computer. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. “We’re going to pick up your prescriptions at the pharmacy—they’ll be under my name, so you won’t have to pay for them.”

You frowned immediately. That couldn’t be legal. But before you could even form the words, he kept going.

“Then,” he continued, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “we’re going to a little diner a few blocks from here. My treat.”

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. He wanted to take you out to eat.

It was the first time a man had ever really asked you out—or maybe you’d just been too tangled in your own insecurities to notice when someone had tried before. But this felt different. Jack wasn’t giving you time to overthink it, he was leading, steady and certain, and all you had to do was follow.

Maybe you were just reading it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t kindness or interest, maybe it was pity. It had to be pity.

Jack had always had a big heart, and he’d proved it time and time again—treating you, checking in, never asking for a cent. This was probably just another act of compassion from a man who couldn’t help but take care of people who needed it.

“I—I, hum…” You tried to find your words, to come up with a reasonable excuse—any reason why you shouldn’t go, why this wasn’t a good idea.

But before you could say anything, he was already at the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. He looked back at you with that same calm smile, one corner of his mouth lifting as he tilted his head toward the hallway.

“Right. Perfect. Let’s go,” he said simply.

And somehow, you did—ending up with a paper bag full of new supplements in your purse and a seat on the cushioned side of a booth in a small diner. Jack sat across from you in the chair, one arm resting casually on the table.

Your eyes kept flicking between the menu, the man in front of you, and the plates of food passing by, steaming, heavy, full of things you’d never let yourself eat. But it was all so tempting. You wished your brain wasn't working the way it did.

Everything looked so rich, so caloric. That was why you hated eating out—especially with someone like Jack. Someone calm, handsome, and kind. You didn’t want him to think you ate too much. You didn’t want him to see you that way, greedy, weak, unable to control yourself.

You scanned the menu frantically, chasing numbers more than ingredients, until you found the lowest-calorie option: a simple Caesar salad. You didn’t even like it, but that didn’t matter. It was safe. It was cheap.

Not that Jack cared about price—he’d told you the moment you sat down to order whatever you wanted. “Doesn’t matter what it costs,” he’d said, smiling in that calm, unshakable way of his.

But it mattered to you. Everything always did.

He’d already done too much for you—the prescriptions, the appointments, the concern. You weren’t about to let him pay for an expensive meal on top of it. Even if the smell of the mac and cheese made your stomach twist with hunger every time a plate passed your table.

The waitress had mentioned it was their special, the house favourite. "Best one in the whole area," she had explained with a big smile. And it smelled incredible.

But your doubts were louder than your hunger. They always were. So while you stared at the menu, trying to look decisive, your thoughts tangled into shame and calculations — all while missing the way Jack’s eyes quietly followed you.

He noticed everything.

The way you bit your lip, lost in thought. The way your gaze lingered on every plate of mac and cheese that went by, the longing there, and the guilt that chased it.

So when the waitress came back, notepad ready, and asked if you’d decided, you opened your mouth to order.

“A Caesar—” “We’ll have two mac and cheeses, please.”

Jack’s voice cut through yours—calm, confident, louder, impossible to argue with. He handed both menus back to the waitress before you could react, a polite smile still on his lips.

“Excellent choice!” she said brightly, jotting it down before walking away.

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, too stunned to speak.

Across the table, Jack only smiled—those gentle eyes framed by faint crow’s feet, the kind that came from his older years. His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable, like he was daring you to argue.

“They said it’s the best around,” he said at last, the corners of his mouth curving into a soft smirk. “Might as well find out for ourselves, right?”

As the night went on, the conversation stayed a little awkward.

Jack talked about his work, asked about college, and you answered—but your words were always short, cautious, like you were afraid of saying the wrong thing. The more he talked, the more you realized how different the two of you were.

He spoke about his patients with a quiet kind of passion, about the army, about the places he’d seen and the people he’d helped. You found yourself fascinated by his calmness, by the certainty in his voice—but the feeling came with a weight in your chest.

Because while he spoke like a man who had built a life, you were still just trying to get through yours.

It had been years since you’d left home, and you still didn’t have things figured out. You were balancing classes and shifts, held together by caffeine and sheer panic. Your head was filled with doubts, worries and family issues. You were a mess. You weren’t living—not really. You were surviving.

And Jack? He was educated. Grounded. Kind. His life seemed steady, built on purpose and compassion—everything yours wasn’t.

Still, he never made you feel small. Never talked down to you, never made you feel like a child—apart from the small "kid" he sometimes called you. He listened when you spoke, asked questions, even smiled at the little things you said as if they mattered. As if he cared.

That night, he made sure you finished your plate, ordered dessert, and even watched as you took your supplements. He acted like someone who cared, really cared and it was messing with your head.

For the first time in your life, a man wasn’t asking for something from you. He was just making sure you were fed, comfortable, warm. He joked with you, dropped small compliments between sips of his coffee, and listened when you spoke.

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

As the night went on, you could feel your body reacting to the attention—the way his eyes lingered when you spoke, the weight of his voice when he said your name. You pressed your thighs together beneath the table, trying to quiet the restless hum in your chest. It was too much.

So when you finally stepped outside and the cold night air hit your face, you breathed out a shaky kind of relief.

Of course, he drove you home. The ride was quiet, the low hum of a song filling the silence while Jack talked—gently but firmly—about what you needed to do when he was away. Take your supplements. Eat properly. Sleep.

When he parked in front of your building, he turned off the engine and looked at you. The car went still, the music fading into the background.

“You have to promise me, sweetheart,” he said softly, his gaze steady and warm.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, suddenly feeling small. It wasn’t scolding, not really—but he didn’t trust you to take care of yourself, and you couldn’t blame him. You’d proven him right before.

Still, something inside you wanted to change that. Wanted to make him proud. Wanted to hear him say you’d done well. The thought settled somewhere deep in you, stubborn and growing stronger every time you saw him.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

When you opened the door two months later and saw Jack standing there, a sharp gasp escaped your lips.

His hair was shorter now more neat and strict—missing the soft curls you’d grown used to running your fingers through in your imagination. He’d filled out a little too, the new muscle was subtle, but you noticed.

His smile was gentle but tired, the kind that hinted at long nights and too many miles. His eyes, though as warm and steady as you remembered them—found yours as if no time had passed at all.

You didn’t know what took over you. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the simple fact that he was here, barely back and already standing at your door. Maybe it was the months of silence pressing against your chest. The months of imagining what could be if you had a bit more confidence, if you were more.

Before you could think, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

For a second, he froze, surprise flickering across his features. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you closer until your body moulded to his. His low hum vibrated between you—deep and satisfied—when he felt the soft weight of your stomach against him.

You’d listened to him. You’d eaten.

He could see it right away, the colour back in your cheeks, the light in your eyes no longer dimmed by exhaustion. You looked alive, and that alone eased something tight in his chest.

When you kissed him, he didn’t hesitate for long. In a heartbeat, he took the lead, his hands finding your hips as he guided you gently inside. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, sealing the two of you off from the world.

His palms lingered at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs tracing the soft curve of your skin as though memorizing it. He could fell fat on the bone, more than when he had left. A small, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips against yours.

“You listened, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured when he finally pulled back, his breath still brushing your mouth. You hummed, nodding faintly. That earned you a wider smile—one that reached his tired eyes. “Good girl.”

With those words, a small—and, if you were honest, pathetic—whine slipped from your throat. No one had ever praised you for something so small. No one had ever praised you at all. Growing up, that kind of affirmation had been foreign to you, and now here he was, saying it so easily it made your head spin.

Your legs brushed the edge of your bed. It wasn’t hard to reach—your bedroom was also your living room, and your kitchen. The second the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sank down, your lips breaking away from his as you caught your breath.

Jack’s pupils were blown, his gaze locked on you with a kind of focus that made your chest tighten. You watched as he dropped his bag to the floor, toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, letting both fall in a careless heap. When the cold air of your apartment met his bare forearms, goosebumps rose instantly along his skin. It was still winter, and the chill in the room didn’t go unnoticed.

His eyes moved back to you, trailing over your worn-in comfort clothes—thick socks, matching sweats, and an long-sleeved T-shirt peeking out beneath the sweatshirt. The blanket and two comforters thrown over your bed told him everything he needed to know about the cold.

"You don’t turn the heater on?" he asked carefully, peeking around as if trying to find one.

"Doesn’t work," you mumbled. But even if it did, it was too expensive to run. The windows—even tightly shut—let so much wind through that it would only be a waste of energy and money.

He scoffed not mocking you, but angry at the building. This wasn’t a normal temperature, and with how many deficiencies you had, the cold wouldn’t help. It would be easy for you to catch something with your immune system running lower than average.

You could see the doctor in him getting angry for reasons you didn’t quite understand. When he finally shook his head, his eyes softened again, filling with something warm—desire, maybe. Kneeling before you, he made your breath catch in your throat. This was starting to feel too real.

Kissing had felt nice—safe, even—especially because you were still fully dressed. So when his hand reached your sock-clad feet, nerves fluttered in your chest. His hands moved slowly upward, gliding over your legs but staying on top of your clothes. His eyes never left you, watching, analysing every breath you took, every flicker of anxiety that made your gaze dart away.

"Gonna let me take care of you?" he cooed, his calloused fingers rubbing slow, comforting circles into your calves. "You earned it, being so good for me," he murmured, his hands travelling up to your thighs, kneading the soft skin like a cat making biscuits.

Hesitation crossed your mind. It was that never-dying thought you’d carried for years : he’s going to think you’re disgusting.

That little voice had always been there the one that made you so inexperienced, that kept you away from men who showed interest. Every time, you convinced yourself it was a joke, a bet, maybe even a challenge they’d set for themselves.

"Sweetheart?" Jack’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, his fingers now resting on your hips. They’d stopped moving when you didn’t respond. His eyes were still soft, but there was a flicker of doubt in them—you could see it. "You can say no."

And somehow, those words reassured you. It was strange being given a choice, not that your other partners hadn’t—but they hadn’t been so concerned with you. You wanted him to continue, but expressing it was harder than you thought.

"Yes," you said, your big eyes locked on his, filled with an innocence he couldn’t miss.

"Yes, what?" he asked softly, an eyebrow rising as he tried to suppress the smirk threatening to appear. He knew exactly what you meant, but he needed you to say it clearly.

Looking away from his probing gaze, your fingers fumbled nervously while your teeth bit your lips. It was hard to voice what you wanted—especially with a gorgeous man looking at you the way Jack did, as if you were his entire world. Confusing, since you’d only known each other for a couple of months.

"Yes, I—huh, I want…" you stumbled over your words, more nervous than you had ever been. "I want you to do it," you finally whispered, barely audible. Even in your head, it was still hard to ask him to take care of you.

But Jack didn’t tease. He didn’t mock. He only smiled and nodded, letting his fingers drift upward until they rested on your cheeks, gently tilting your face so your eyes met his. Pushing on his feet, he pulled you into a gentle kiss, so soft it almost made you tear up.

"Take your sweatshirt off, sweetheart," he murmured against your lips. It wasn’t a question, nor an order but something in his tone made you do it.

Once it was done, he asked you to lie back on your pillows. And you did. You didn’t know why it was so easy with Jack. You still hated the way your stomach pressed against your shirt, the way your hips filled your sweatpants completely, and how your thighs rubbing together had worn out the fabric a bit.

Yet, you didn’t feel the need to hide. Not right now. Not with Jack.

Crawling onto the bed next to you, Jack’s fingers lingered at the rim of your sweatpants, his eyes asking questions without words. Without giving yourself time to hesitate, you nodded quickly. If you thought about it too much, that little voice in your head would return. Closing your eyes, you didn’t want to see his landing on your body.

When the cold wind of the room brushed your bare legs, you tried to calm your beating heart with a shaky breath but it didn’t really work.

"So beautiful," he whispered against your skin. Jack didn’t push you to open your eyes or to speak—he wanted you to do it your way. Still, his lips traced gentle kisses across your bare stomach as he nudged your shirt slightly upward. They moved from hip to hip, leaving soft kisses and tiny nips.

"You hide all that from me, sweetheart? Didn’t want me to go crazy too soon?" he teased lightly. You could hear the smirk in his voice. You desperately wanted to see it, but you couldn’t open your eyes—not yet.

A shaky, breathy laugh left your lips as you peeked a little at the scene. The sight only made you whine, and you felt your panties dampen slightly. His lips were still pressing against your stomach and hips, sometimes brushing close to your mound—but his eyes, his eyes, were locked on your face. He watched like a hawk, memorizing you and your small expressions.

When your eyes met, his lips didn’t stop—no, they got braver. This time, they moved closer and closer to between your legs, wetting the cotton of your panties. A dreadful feeling made your eyes widen.

You felt his lips press against your pubes. It was so sudden, being here with him like this, that you hadn’t had time to take care of yourself down there—or anywhere, for that matter. In seconds, you noticed how prickly your legs felt with hair, the way his lips pressed against the untrimmed pubes, and how itchy your armpits had become.

"I haven’t—huh, I…" you stammered, hands shooting to his head, trying to push him away. In response, he let you move his head away from your body, though his hands remained firmly on your hips.

"What, sweetheart? You haven’t had someone between your legs?" he asked, genuine concern and care in his voice. It wasn’t judgment, nor misplaced curiosity—it was true interest in your pleasure.

That realization hit you: this was another thing you had to tell him. No one had been between your legs—not with their head, not with fingers. "No, I mean… yeah, that too, but…" you mumbled, trying to catch your breath. "I didn’t shave."

"Okay," he said immediately. His eyes were calculating, boring into yours as he tried to understand what you meant. "Does it bother you?" he asked, frowning slightly, searching for an answer.

In his head, he didn’t understand why you would let that stop him. He had felt the hair beneath his lips—it didn’t bother him at all.

"Shouldn’t it bother you?" you asked, confused.

That made his eyebrow rise so high it almost made him look mad. Although he wasn’t, you could see in his eyes—there wasn’t a trace of anger. "Why would I be bothered, kid?" he asked, wanting to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Frowning in confusion, you looked away from his eyes, your gaze locking on the ceiling. Your fingers were still threaded through his hair, and you noticed just then how soft it felt. "I don’t know… just a common thing," you murmured.

No sooner had the words left your lips than his face was right above yours. "Guess that makes me uncommon then, ‘cause I really don’t care. Now… does it bother you to the point you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

Seeing only truth and genuine care in his eyes, you shook your head no, letting him know you wanted him to keep going. With a happy smirk, he kissed your nose before disappearing back between your legs.

He didn’t wait this time, sliding your panties off and leaving you bare from the waist down. Your eyes stayed locked on the ceiling, open this time but not ready to look down. You felt movement on the mattress and imagined he had settled in comfortably. For what? You didn’t know.

He pressed his body between your legs, opening them little by little until your thighs rested on either side of his head—the warm weight of his shoulders grounding you. One of his arms cradled your thighs, while his hand rested lightly on your mound, playing softly with your pubes without a care in the world.

"Nobody ever took good care of this pretty pussy then?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. He knew he was pushing with his words, but it was his way of helping you relax. "A shame," he added, planting a small kiss on your clit that made your hips jump. "She’s too pretty to be ignored, sweetheart."

His words were crude, filthy, but you’d be lying if they didn’t warm your entire body. If they didn’t send chills down your spine at the sound of his low, commanding voice. No one had ever taken their time with you like this, and combined with his gentle praises, it was getting to you—way faster than you had anticipated.

Casually, he rested his head on your thigh as he worked his fingers gently. They started like ghosts, barely lingering over your clit and pussy lips. It wasn’t teasing—it was getting you used to the feeling. His eyes shifted from his fingers to your face as you closed your eyes again. He watched as your chest rose quickly with the shallow breaths you were trying to control.

A small laugh escaped his lips at the sight; you were so exquisite, and you had no idea. It was hard to suppress the urge to ravish you but he wouldn’t do that. That would scare you off, and he definitely wanted you to stay.

Barely turning his face toward your inner thigh, he left a soft kiss there before settling into his work. His fingers now traced controlled circles on your clit, while the thumb of his other hand exposed the little bean of your hood. He chuckled softly—this felt almost clinical. It wasn’t, but he had to teach you how to feel, and he would.

It didn’t matter how long it took. It would take as long as you body needed, he wasn't in any hurry.

You were trying to control your breathing, especially as his fingers moved so heavenly against your clit. It was a completely new sensation, something you had never felt before. The two times you’d had sex, it hadn’t felt like this at all. He wasn’t rushing—his fingers took their time. Small circles rubbed your clit, then wandered lower to your wetness, only to return again to your clit.

It was fascinating how wet you were. Even when you had tried on your own, it had never been like this. This man and his words were doing unfamiliar, impossible things to you.

His lips returned to your clit in soft, fleeting pecks that still made your hips lift off the mattress. The feeling was strange—almost overwhelming—and you weren’t sure if you liked it. The voice in your head tried to whisper doubts, but the moment his tongue flicked gently against your clit, that voice vanished, leaving only pleasure in its wake.

He kept at it, patient and attentive, while your eyes stayed shut tight. His tongue grew bolder with every gasp and whine that escaped your lips—small kitten licks turned into slow, deliberate strokes, and sometimes he even sucked gently on the sensitive little bud. Each time he did, your thighs instinctively tightened around his head. He didn’t seem to mind, though you tried to hold yourself back.

“Don’t,” he murmured between breaths, his voice rough but calm. “Don’t try to control it. Just let yourself feel, yeah? You’re not hurting me.”

As his lips left you for only a moment, his tongue was replaced by his fingers, skilled, sure, and patient. Then he combined them. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles over your clit while his lips wandered—kissing your mound, your lower lips, your inner thighs. He was everywhere at once, and it felt delirious.

After a few minutes of this careful buildup, you finally opened your eyes. At first, you kept them on the ceiling, afraid to look down. Your breathing quickened as your thoughts started to spiral but when you did lower your gaze, the sight stole every bit of air from your lungs.

He was looking right at you. His head rested against your thigh, eyes locked on yours, steady, unhurried, full of patience. He looked like he could stay there forever.

“Ever had something inside, baby?” he asked softly, voice low and coaxing, careful not to startle you.

Still keeping eye contact, you nodded your head. Normally, a question like that from a man like him would have made you shrink with discomfort—but with Jack, it felt different. His tone was so gentle, so matter-of-fact, it didn’t awaken the voice in your head. It didn’t make you question yourself. It didn’t bring the anxiety back.

In answer, he gave you a soft smile and a raised eyebrow—then pressed another kiss to your thigh, right before laying a deeper one on your clit, replacing the fingers that now drifted toward your soaked opening.

When his middle finger slipped inside you, a long breath escaped your lips. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it didn’t hurt either. At first, it felt no different from when you’d tried it yourself : numb and strange. But then he moved—slowly, steadily—in and out, while his lips stayed on your clit.

Maybe it was the double stimulation, or maybe it was just the way he knew how to move his finger, but something started to change. A deep, unfamiliar tension began to coil low in your belly, pulling your muscles tight and making you want to squeeze your thighs together to chase that feeling, to make it stronger.

A few minutes later—though it could’ve been hours for all you knew—Jack added a second finger. Your eyes flew open, meeting his immediately. The sight of him, focused so intently on you, almost undid you completely. It was too much—his gaze, his touch, the way pleasure kept blooming faster than you could catch it.

It was ridiculous, almost shameful, how little it took. Just a few minutes of his fingers thrusting in and out, curling inside to find that small, special spot in you before pulling back and doing it all over again. His lips closed around your clit in soft suctions, alternating with gentle licks and whispered sweet nothings.

It was all dizzying, and before you knew it, the tight coil that had been growing in your lower belly since he started snapped. Your back arched off the bed as your head landed against his, your fingers tangling in his short hair. Instinctively, your thighs tried to clamp down around him, but the hand that wasn’t busy held them apart, letting him savour the fruits of his effort even more.

Had you opened your eyes, you would have seen him, dreadful in a way, caught between your legs, watching and admiring the way your body reacted to him. But you were lost in your own little world of pleasure, something you had never experienced before. It was surreal. You had never believed your friends when they talked about sex—the few times you had tried it yourself had always felt dull.

“Fucking perfect,” you heard him murmur as you came back to yourself, your back landing on the mattress and your legs going lax over his shoulders.

You felt his fingers slip out softly, just as he pressed one last kiss to your clit. Looking down at the same time, you saw him put his fingers in his own mouth, eyes locked on you again. Heat rose to your cheeks and neck, and your hands flew up to hide your face reflexively. Everything he did was just so hot, it was almost overwhelming.

“Felt good, right, sweetheart?” his voice cooed in your ear as he crawled over your body, pressing kisses to the hands still covering your face.

Even with the dread creeping in, you felt the need to answer. So you simply nodded—fast and firm—wanting him to know it had felt good. More than good, in fact. He let out a soft laugh before pressing two more kisses to your hands. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

And then he was gone. Completely gone from the bed.

His disappearance made your hands drop from your face as a shiver of shame ran through you. You had given yourself so easily—and he was already going? Maybe this was just how it worked. Maybe he only wanted to release some tension before leaving. Sitting up on your elbow, you scanned the room, expecting to see him putting on his shoes—but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jack was approaching the bed again, a towel in hand. His own hands were slightly damp, probably from washing. He smiled at you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips, as he knelt beside you. Without a word, still holding your gaze, he pressed the warm towel gently between your legs, making your hips jerk instinctively.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” he cooed, his other hand brushing your hair off your forehead. His touch—so careful, so attentive—almost made you want to cry. But you didn’t. Instead, you took a deep, shaky breath and let yourself fall back onto the mattress.

With still-gentle hands, he helped you pull your panties back on while coaxing you into bed. It was still early—not even midnight—but you obeyed anyway. With wide, doe eyes, you watched him slip back into the bathroom, only to pause in front of the bed for a few seconds.

“You don’t want to…?” The words caught in your throat, but you knew he would understand the meaning behind them.

With a careful smile, he shook his head. “That’d be a bit too much for you, wouldn’t it?”

You returned a tight smile, grateful he wouldn’t push you into anything. You would have said yes, ready to please him just as he had pleased you, even though you had been overwhelmed by just his fingers. So, with sad eyes, you watched him as you lay in bed, growing sleepier with each passing minute.

But he didn’t leave. He simply took off his pants and socks, then slid in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you. It was still cold in your flat, and the warmth of him next to you made you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding—relieved. Relieved that maybe he liked you as much as you liked him, at least enough to stay the night.

Curling around him, you pressed your face to his chest, inhaling his scent in a deep, calming breath. He felt so comfortable, so familiar—it made no sense. But in that moment, you told yourself you never wanted him out of your life.

If only you had known how many sleepless, tear-filled nights that thought would one day bring.

Almost all of the day-shift students were gathered around the nurses’ desks, whispering questions and theories about you to Princess, in hope she answered their questions.

“She looks so young… didn’t take Abbot to have a younger wife!” Santos said, surrounded by Whitaker, Javani, and Princess. Santos had been the only one of them to actually see you—even if Princess had known you from your years married to Abbot, she hadn't seen you today.

“Like, young young?” Whitaker asked, confused and a little taken aback.

Princess just rolled her eyes, laughing softly. She had always loved gossip, and your ending up in the ER was creating the juiciest stories.

“She’s legal, Huckleberry,” Santos shook his head at his own dumb question. “She’s 33, but I’m telling you, she looks way younger.”

At that moment, McKay chose to join the conversation, clearly enjoying the gossip too. “They’ve been married 12 years,” she informed the group, leaning on the high desk her eyes still on her patient chart on the iPad.

The three students immediately turned toward her. Javani’s eyes were so wide it looked like they might pop out of her head.

“She married at 21?” Victoria asked, trying to wrap her head around how someone only a year older than her could marry a man 12 years her senior.

“Hum hum,” McKay confirmed, laughing at their faces. Meeting Princess’s eyes, they both continued chuckling.

“A year into dating,” Princess added, her eyes still on the patient chart she was filling out.

“Okay, now you’re fucking with us,” Santos replied, rolling his eyes and getting ready to leave the group behind. But McKay wasn’t finished.

“She has a lot of chronic deficiencies and other small things that kept coming up,” McKay began, locking her tablet and glancing back at the students. “They got married so she could have his army insurance and all the other benefits while he was away. It was before his… hum… accident.”

Both Whitaker and Javani were about to ask more questions, while Santos remained deep in thought. The way McKay and Princess had briefly talked about your marriage had made it seem sweet, if a little rushed. How could it go from that to you almost snapping at her for calling you Mrs. Abbot?

“Don’t you all have things to do instead of spreading things you shouldn’t?” Dana’s voice cut through the small group, scattering around the ER at his voice, in search of something to occupy themselves.

Her sharp eyes landed on Princess, still at her desk charting, a smug smile tugging at her lips. The smile only widened when she met Dana’s gaze, shaking her head with a small laugh.

“You know better, Princess,” Dana said, but the lingering chuckle in her tone made it clear that Princess wasn’t in any real trouble.

“It’s not like it’s ever not the main topic for a few days whenever she visits,” Princess shrugged as she stood, checking on a patient. “Gossip runs fast, it’s not my fault.”

Dana was left alone at the main desk, laughing softly at what her nurse had said. It was true—whenever you visited your ex-husband, everyone gossiped about it for days. How young you looked, how beautiful you were, how the hell Abbot had managed to land someone like you.

Dana liked you, a lot. She had always thought you were a good thing for Jack, with your sweet, confident nature. From what you had told her, you hadn’t always been this way. Abbot had taught you how to be yourself, how to carry yourself with confidence. Years with him had shaped you into the person you were now, and you always spoke of Jack with love and adoration.

And then, one day, Jack had arrived with your ring around his neck.

Dana hadn’t had time to see you today. Robby had said you were sleeping and had asked for food to be delivered. Dana had overseen the delivery, but she had been so swamped with work she hadn’t even had a chance to check in. Locking her tablet, she finally glanced at your chart.

The lab results were back. Her eyes scanned the page until they froze on one line.

“Fuck.” Her voice was sharp as her eyes darted around frantically for Robby.

They landed on the time: 6:37 p.m. Jack would be here soon, and he always looked at the patient list first, sorting alphabetically. Your name would be at the top. Everything was about to be a complete mess.

Her eyes finally found Robby as he walked toward the desk, talking with Mel. Dana felt a flutter of nervousness as he approached, even though she knew she shouldn’t—this was her job.

“Robby,” she called, gaining his attention. When he saw the serious look in her eyes, the soft smile he’d been carrying vanished. He frowned, leaving Mel behind with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

He nodded toward her, silently prompting her to continue.

“These are Abbot’s lab results,” Dana said, her voice tight.

Robby took the iPad from her hands and perched his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Dana’s gaze stayed fixed on his face, waiting for him to reach the line that had made her curse under her breath. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor.

“Fuck,” Robby muttered. “You went to see her?” he asked, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his pocket.

“This just arrived,” she explained, shaking her head.

The doctor took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. At that moment, he wished he had called Jack the minute you had stumbled into his ER, but that would have angered you enough to refuse tests and treatment. So he hadn’t. And now, he certainly regretted it.

“I’ll tell her,” Dana said, watching Robby’s expression fall.

“No, I’ll do it. It’s not your job,” Robby said softly. He wasn’t undermining her, he just needed to take responsibility.

“Tell me how it goes,” Dana said before heading back to chart for the waiting patients. She was also behind on her nurses rotations so she needed to do so much before she could say hello to you.

Before the nurse was out of earshot, Robby muttered under his breath, “The only fucking day he had to get here on time.” That made Dana giggle, as Abbott usually arrived at 6 p.m. sharp. Maybe the divorce was finally making him realize there was a life outside the hospital.

Robby let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was not news he wanted to deliver—it wasn’t even his place—but today, he was your doctor. The name on the top of your chart.

The curtain opening startled you out of your half-conscious state, your heart racing at the sudden fright. You sat up quickly, looking around the room, disoriented, until your heart settled at the sight of Robby entering, an apologetic smile on his face. You knew the ER didn’t move slowly—doctors rarely had time to be quiet.

“So… your labs are back,” Robby said, glancing down at the tablet in his hand as he perched on the stool beside your bed.

“What’s my sentence, Mike? Iron?” you joked, already guessing the most likely culprit.

It was always iron. Ever since you and Jack had separated, you hadn’t kept up with your yearly iron supplements. You had blamed work and moving, but the truth was you didn’t want to see another doctor. Robby had been your doctor for the past thirteen years; it felt too strange to go elsewhere.

“Well… yes,” Robby replied with a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Your teasing smile faded instantly. “But that’s not all,” he added, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Oh God,” you whispered, eyes widening in fear. Michael looked utterly devastated, and your mind immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. “Is it… cancer?”

Robby’s eyes went wide as he looked up at you, noticing the small tears gathering in your eyes. Of course, why did he have to be so mysterious?

“No, no, no, it’s good news,” he started, rolling the stool closer and taking your hands in his. “Or… a bad one, depending on how you take it. But it’s not life-threatening.”

“What?” you whispered, frowning deeply at his confusing explanation.

“Oh God,” Robby breathed, shaking his head as he stared at his feet. He had done this for years, telling parents their child had died, handling far worse situations. Yet here he was, confusing

He just wanted to go home.

“You’re… pregnant,” he finally said, looking up into your eyes.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes going wide.

Hot water ran down your tired body, soothing tense muscles and washing away the fatigue of a long day at work. It was all worth it, tonight, your husband finally had a night off.

You had debated going out but had settled on a cosy, warm dinner and a quiet night in with Jack. It didn’t matter what you did, all that mattered was being with him—just the two of you.

It had been nearly two months since he’d truly had a whole evening off. You understood how important his work was, especially after his accident, but you always thought you mattered too. He had never given you reason to doubt it—not in the thirteen years you’d been together—but lately, small doubts had started creeping in.

Looking down at your left hand, your fingers brushed over your wedding ring. Simple, with a small diamond on top, it wasn’t much—but you cherished it. Deeply. Inside, it was engraved with the date you married, twelve years ago.

Turning off the water, you quickly dried yourself and slipped into comfortable, silky pyjamas. The soft fabric clung to your skin, making your nipples peak and giving you a thrill as you caught your reflection in the mirror. The clothes hugged your hips and thighs just a little too tightly, but it didn’t matter. You loved your body now—it had taken years of learning how—but there was no longer any shame in it. Probably slightly less than Jack loved it.

Smiling at the thought of his hands on you, you stepped out of the bathroom, greeted by the delicious aroma of the meal he had prepared. Jack was such a good cook—a fact that had surprised you at first. How could a manly, military man love to cook and be so damn good at it? Nothing about him was fair.

You went down the stairs, smiling, ready to call his name—then froze. Your smile dropped faster than you could speak as your eyes landed on him in the entryway. Your husband. In scrubs. Putting on his shoes.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a sigh as your eyes met his.

“You’re fucking kidding me?” you exclaimed, your voice louder than you intended.

You couldn’t believe it. He had promised. He had said nothing would make him leave tonight, but apparently, that had been a lie. Tears gathered in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. This was all the confirmation you needed : his work was, without a doubt, more important than you.

“There’s been a bus accident,” Jack tried to explain, taking a careful step closer. “Walsh called, they’re getting overwhelmed.”

His hand rose to catch yours, but you slapped it away—hard. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and he looked up at you, frowning. Neither of you were violent. When you fought, it had always been with conversation, listening to each other, trying to understand, not shouting or slapping away comfort.

But Jack could tell this was going to be different.

“Of course, yeah,” you spat, your voice sharp with mockery. “And that night you had the helicopter accident, all alone, with no back up showing up? What did you do? You did it all alone because that’s what you’re fucking trained to do. Why do they always need you?”

You knew it was unfair. He had sworn an oath to protect and heal—but your anger didn’t care. You pressed on. “And where are they when you need them? It’s like you’re their god and they can’t function without you. But what about me, Jack?”

Your words were harsh, cutting deep, and you could see the effect on him. His eyes darkened, sorrowful with every syllable you spoke.

“It’s like I don’t matter to you anymore,” you whispered, pushing past him toward the kitchen.

The sight made tears spring to your eyes again. He had set the table beautifully, lit candles, and a fresh bouquet of flowers sat in a vase nearby. The meal was simmering on the stove—you turned it off immediately.

You weren’t hungry anymore. You certainly didn’t want to eat something so perfect alone. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. Once again, his work had ruined it all. You could hear him following you, so you kept talking.

“All I asked for was one night, one single night of peace and quiet with my husband,” you continued, carefully putting the pot into a Tupperware, planning to store it in the fridge once it cooled. You could feel Jack’s eyes on your movements, probably ready to tell you to eat—but it was better if he didn’t say anything.

“Baby,” he tried again, keeping his distance this time. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” you shot back, heat rising from the anger and rage blooming inside you. “It’s not fair that I’m married to your work against my will. It’s not fair that they always get to take you away from me. You have a fucking life outside that goddamn hospital, Jack. It’s time you start remembering it.”

Turning toward him, you couldn’t keep your eyes on him for more than a few seconds. The guilt and pain in his expression were too familiar. They were always there, every time he left you alone after promising he wouldn’t.

That was when your elderly cat—Pope—chose to let out a loud, demanding meow from in front of his bowl. The same cat Jack had adopted for you right after your wedding, so you wouldn’t feel lonely while he was deployed. His deployment hadn’t lasted long—he’d lost his foot barely a year in—but the cat had still helped, especially now that Jack worked nights.

He looked rough these days, his fur a little thin and his movements slow, but he was still the healthiest cat you’d ever known. His perpetually grumpy face made him look like a cranky old man—which, in many ways, he was. Especially when his dinner was late.

Right now, he didn’t care about the fight. He just wanted to be fed.

Sighing, you opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of wet food. It wasn’t supposed to be his wet food day, but you didn’t care. You wanted him happy—so you’d have someone soft and warm to cuddle when Jack left.

“It’s really not like that, sweetheart. You are important to me, but this is special,” Jack tried again, his voice calm, almost pleading. He watched you as you bent down to pet the old cat, your fingers gentle in his fur while he ate greedily.

“It’s always special,” you scoffed, straightening up to look at him. “Always something you can’t say no to. Can’t they call Mike?” The question came out desperate, like maybe, just maybe, this time there’d be another option.

“He already did the day shift, baby,” Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that somehow justified everything.

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “Oh, right, because Robby’s never done a double shift before.” You shook your head, heat rising in your chest. No, there’s something else. Something he never told you, but one of the new nurses did, a long time ago.

His brows furrowed, but you didn’t let him speak.

“Or is it because you told them to?” you pressed, voice rising. “Because you made sure they’d call you if they needed backup? Because you wanted to be the one they relied on?”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly, his voice catching. “How—”

“Does it really matter?” you cut him off, stepping closer, your finger pressing against his chest—not hard, but enough to make him look down at you. “Maybe what matters, Jack, is that you’re always so willing to leave this house. To leave me behind.”

He was about to answer you when his phone rang again. He didn’t want to pick it up—not now, not when you were standing there, spilling every fear and insecurity that had been quietly eating at your marriage. But the name Walsh flashing across the screen was a cruel reminder of why you were fighting in the first place.

“We’ll talk about it when I come back, sweetheart,” he said at last, exhaling the words like they hurt. He wasn’t even angry—just tired. So damn tired. And guilt was eating him alive.

He turned toward the front door. You didn’t try to stop him, and he didn’t look back until he heard you mumble something, your voice so low it almost blended into the sound of the cat licking his bowl.

“I might not be here when you come back.”

He froze for a moment. He didn’t know if you meant for him to hear it—but he did. And it broke something deep in his chest. When he finally opened the door, he turned halfway back, his voice soft but clear.

“I love you.” And then he left.

The rest of the night was spent debating your life and your marriage. You sat on the couch with only one dim lamp lit, the room bathed in soft amber light. Pope was curled in your lap, his old bones rising and falling with every sleepy breath. He would let out a grumpy meow whenever you stopped petting him, a gentle reminder that he still ran this house.

Your mind kept drifting back through the years with Jack. From the first time you met on that lonely street, to your rushed wedding, born out of love, and maybe a little fear for your health. To the day he lost his foot, when everything you thought you knew about life shifted. You had stayed. You had cared for him, endured his anger and frustration, helped him heal.

And after the storm, you had peace. Real happiness. You moved to Pittsburgh for him when he got the offer at the hospital, and you’d fallen in love with the city. You left your broken family behind, found work you actually liked, made new friends. Jack did too. For a while, it was perfect.

It only began to unravel when he started the night shift.

At first, it was supposed to bring you closer : he’d work while you slept, and you’d share the daylight together. He was used to running on almost no sleep. But little by little, the calls came more often. The just one more hour turned into entire mornings, and then whole weekends. He was one of the best, they said. The hospital couldn’t function without him.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear hit the back of your hand. You wiped it away quickly. You’d cried too many nights over a man who wouldn’t change, no matter how much you begged him to remember the life waiting for him at home.

And then there had been that one of too many lonely afternoon, when you’d finally called an attorney. The divorce papers were still tucked neatly in the drawer Jack never opened.

It had broken your heart to ask for them, but you’d told yourself it was necessary. You still had most of your life ahead of you and it hurt to think of spending it with someone who didn’t have time to live it with you.

You still loved him. You would always love him. But maybe, you thought, as Pope purred softly against your legs, maybe it was time to love him from afar.

Before you could turn this moment into another sobbing mess, you made yourself get up and go to bed. A cold bed. An empty bed. Still, that felt better than making any rash decisions at almost midnight.

You told yourself he’d probably be home soon—that maybe, if it was just a quick in-and-out at the ER, you could talk things through once you’d both calmed down. But of course, the clock hit midnight, and then one, and he still hadn’t come home.

You must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing you knew, the bed dipped behind you. Pope’s small weight had disappeared, he must’ve gone to greet Jack when he came in. You sighed softly and shut your eyes again, too tired to start anything. You weren’t angry anymore—just sad, heavy, and numb.

Jack’s body slid in behind yours, warm and familiar. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you gently back against him. You felt the brush of his lips against your shoulder, then the nape of your neck, and finally near your ear.

“You know you’re important to me,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “I love you.”

It was the same thing he’d said hours ago, right before walking out the door. But this time, it came out softer, quieter, real.

You never doubted his love. You never had. What you doubted was whether this marriage meant the same thing to him as it did to you. Maybe you just saw it differently—had different definitions of what it meant to show up. You had barely talked about that before getting married, and for a long time, it hadn’t mattered. Somehow, it had always worked.

Until it didn’t.

"I know it's hard for you, but—" he was cut short when you turned around and kissed him. Hard.

In that moment, you didn’t want him to talk. You didn’t want to hear his voice — the same voice that spun promises he’d barely keep until the next call from Walsh, or Robby, or Dana. Whoever it was, he’d always answer. And he’d always leave you behind.

"Baby," he murmured, trying to push you off gently, clearly wanting to talk.

"Please don’t make me talk right now," you said, your breath trembling, warning him that tears weren’t far. "I don’t wanna talk. I wanna feel."

You wanted to feel his love, his body—him. Nothing else. No explanations. No excuses. No promises. Just the two of you, the way it was supposed to be tonight.

He didn’t say anything. Just sighed softly before kissing you again. His hands slid into your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue met yours. It had been so long since you’d felt him this close. His work was unpredictable—most nights you were already asleep when he got home, or getting ready to leave for work.

You pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips. In a rush, you tore off his shirt, then yours. You didn’t want delicacy, didn’t need tenderness—only his warmth, his touch, his presence.

Pulling away for just a moment, you slipped off your pants and panties, then pushed his sweatpants down his thighs.

"Sweetheart," he tried to soothe you, to slow your movements, but you couldn’t hear him. What your mind translated instead was that your husband didn’t want you.

"You don’t want me?" you asked, your voice trembling as tears welled in your eyes. Was that why he kept staying late at the hospital?

"Of course I do," he said softly. He took your hand and guided it gently to where he was already hard against his stomach. "I just don’t want you to do something you don’t want to."

You were on your knees, naked in front of him, desperate to undress him completely—and somehow, Jack thought you were forcing yourself.

"I want you," you said, stopping yourself before the rest could slip out.

One last time.

I want you one last time.

But you didn’t say it. Instead, you aligned yourself with him, letting him stay on his back. Even in your sadness and anger, you knew how much a full day and night on his feet strained his leg and back—you didn’t want to make it worse.

When you sank down onto him fully, a heavy whine escaped your throat. It felt good, achingly so, yet so foreign. It had been so long since you’d touched each other that you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it.

You felt his hands grip your hips in a tight squeeze, as if he were trying to ground both of you in the moment. When your hips began to move—slow, gentle thrusts at first—his grip only tightened. You let out a soft moan at the thought that he might leave bruises behind. Like he used to.

Used to.

That was what this moment felt like, what you used to be. A couple in love, tangled up in each other every chance you got. You clung to that thought, moving your hips faster, rising a little higher each time. His breathing grew heavier, matching yours, and when you placed a hand on his chest, you felt how hard his heart was pounding.

Behind your closed eyelids, all you could see was his younger, happier face, the one from your wedding night. You’d ended up in the same position back then too, only that night you’d been full of joy instead of ache. Your mind replayed flashes of laughter, of dancing, of promises whispered under the soft lights—each memory making the ache of longing grow sharper.

When you opened your eyes, hoping to pull yourself back into the present, you almost wished you hadn’t. Jack was watching you, the same way he always did. That look in his eyes hadn’t changed since your very first night together. He looked at you like you hung the moon. Like you were his everything.

He looked at you that way, but he still didn't stayed. The thought cracked something open, and tears finally spilled over your lashes. You moved harder, faster, chasing something—release, escape, anything that might quiet your thoughts.

"I love you," Jack gasped between moans, his eyes still locked on yours.

At those words, a sob tore from your chest. But your body didn’t stop. Through the blur of tears, you kept moving, grinding down for more friction. His body met yours perfectly—every thrust hitting deep, every movement both too much and not enough.

Desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him completely, you grabbed his hands, pressing one against your breast, guiding the other between your thighs until his fingers brushed your clit.

He got the message, and his fingers began to move in rhythm. His eyes never left your face—not even when you threw your head back with a sharp moan as he found the right pace against you. Your hips grew erratic, chasing release, and he could see the tears slipping down your cheeks, catching the soft light of the moon.

He didn’t say anything. There would be time for words tomorrow.

And just like that, after a few more tear-filled thrusts, you came—moments before he did. It wasn’t the kind of release that left you breathless and laughing. It was small, quiet, full of hurt and longing and love and sorrow. When your mind whispered again that this was the last time, you collapsed onto his chest, sobbing.

The tears didn’t stop for a long while. Not when Jack pulled out, not when he gently cleaned you up, murmuring soft words to soothe you. Not when he drew you close and wrapped his arms around you in bed. They only stopped when sleep finally took you—worn out from the day, from the ache, from everything.

Jack lay awake for hours afterwards, holding you against him. His chest was still damp from your tears, and he knew this time was different. He had messed up, and no apology could fix it easily. As he finally drifted to sleep, anxiety settled deep in his stomach, heavy with the thought of the conversation waiting for both of you tomorrow.

Except the talk never came.

When Jack woke up, he was alone in bed. He glanced at the clock and sighed—he had overslept, and you were already gone. On the coffee machine was a small post-it, your handwriting scrawled across it.

I’ll be back late. See you tomorrow.

No heart. No I love you. Just facts. He sighed again, understanding that maybe you needed space. He wouldn’t push you—he never had, and he wasn’t about to start now.

But maybe he should have.

Because when he returned the next morning, after his night shift, he was met with a cold, silent house. Something felt off immediately. Most of Pope’s things were gone—his toys, his two bowls. Your favourite coats were no longer hanging from the rack. He called your name, and the only response was silence.

As he passed the kitchen doorway, his heart sank.

On the table lay two things.

Divorce papers. And your ring.

As Jack passed through the ER doors, he felt a strange weight in the air. A lot of eyes seemed to settle on him. True, he was a bit early—by ten minutes—but that wasn’t unusual. Well maybe it was since he usually got here earlier than that. He glanced down at his pants, checked that his leg was properly covered. It was. So why the hell were people staring?

Looking around, he searched for Robby, hoping for a quick rundown of how the day had been, who the important patients were, what he needed to know. No sign of him. Dana? Same result.

Making his way to the nurse’s office, he swiped his card— ready to scan the patient list, bypassing the reasons for everyone’s visits just to gauge how his night would go. He offered gentle hellos and smiles to a few colleagues, returning their greetings.

Then his heart dropped.

The first name on the patient list: ABBOT.

You were here. In the ER. And no one had called him. The divorce wasn’t even finalized—he hadn’t signed the papers yet. He knew that wasn’t the point, delaying it didn’t matter. But why hadn’t anyone called him? He couldn’t make sense of it. Had you asked them not to call or did the nurses chose not to on their own?

Without a second thought, he ignored everything else. He focused only on the details in your chart. Passed out in the street. Brought in by paramedics. South 12.

On the other side of the ER, you were trying to process what Robby had just told you. Pregnant. Of course. The only time you had missed your pills, thinking it didn’t matter since you weren’t having sex anyway… and of course, you had. And now this.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Even more so considering that a couple of years ago, you had tried—and it had never worked. You’d done all the tests, everything had come back perfect. No fertility issues. Jack had just shrugged it off, saying it simply wasn’t the right time yet. So you’d gone back on the pills, your periods too painful to stop.

But then you had forgotten a few doses and now, here was the result.

Tears had gathered in your eyes when Mike had told you. You clenched his hands tightly, smiling through the joy and frowning through the panic. What were you going to do?

"You know we tried for months," you said, laughing softly. You barely registered your own emotions — not the tears, not the laughter. "It never took. We tried everything. And now… now it chooses this time." Your voice dropped to a whisper as one hand left his, resting over your stomach.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, forcing a tight smile. From what you’d told him, he assumed the baby was Jack’s, which meant you might still have a few weeks to decide what you wanted to do. "We can do an ultrasound first, just to know—"

His words were cut short as the curtain was pulled back harshly. Robby leapt up reflexively, scanning for any threat to the patient, but there was none.

Jack.

It was the first time you’d seen him since that night—since you’d left your house. He looked the same, though a bit more tired, more worn out. This was the moment you had dreaded : the night shift, face-to-face with him.

"Oh," Robby said softly, stepping in for a gentle hug. He was glad to see Abbot—it meant he could finally leave—but also relieved that this wasn’t his case to handle anymore. Robby cared about you like a sister, but this was something only Jack should hear.

He left the room quietly, closing the curtain behind him, offering a soft smile and mouthing, You got this.

Once he was gone, heavy silence settled between you. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if you even wanted to talk about it yet. He had your chart open on the iPad in his hands, surely having already reviewed the results. He knew.

"Are you okay?" was the first thing he said.

You only nodded as you watched him sit on the same stool Robby had just vacated. The air felt heavy and tense. How had things come to this? You had once been so in love. Your eyes flicked down to your hand resting on your stomach.

"Is it mine?" he asked quietly, not looking at you.

A strangled gasp escaped you, and small tears slipped from your eyes. You brushed them away harshly, rubbing your cheeks and turning your face to the wall. You couldn’t believe he had even asked.

"Who else do you think it could be?" you spat, your voice sharp, still facing away.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. You knew it was only a legitimate question—you had left him without explanation. He had no way of knowing whether you had moved on in the two months apart. Still, it stung.

"Did Robby do the ultrasound?" he asked gently this time.

Shaking your head, you looked back at him. His eyes met yours—the same way they always had, like you hung the moon. Just like the last time he had looked at you, it made your chest ache.

"I’ll be right back," he said, standing.

Ten minutes later, here you were. You were still lying on the bed, he sat onto the same stool beside you. Both of you stared at the ultrasound machine as Jack searched the screen, finally letting out a shaky breath and tilting it toward you.

"Here they are," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, pointing at a tiny, clear dot on the screen. "Still so small," he murmured, taking measurements, while you stared at your baby—or more accurately, what would become your baby.

You had created this together. It was bad timing, yes, but it was also a blessing. You had always wanted to be a mother—mostly because your own had been so shitty, leaving you with so much love to give. With Jack, it had been easy to daydream about a family. And now, it was real.

"By the size of our little bean, it’s eight weeks," he said, looking at you gently.

Our little bean. The words made your heart ache.

"Told you," you tried to joke, your voice weak, laughter mingling with tears. Right now, you had nothing left to fight. With another heavy breath, you asked the question that had been burning inside you. "What now?"

"We do whatever you want," Jack answered without hesitation.

You let out a small, relieved sigh. You noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring and the new chain around his neck. You’d bet your entire bank account that your ring was nestled there. And he still hadn’t signed the papers.

He was still attached—to your marriage, to the love you shared, to you. And you were still attached to him, but you couldn’t endure the pain of him being gone most of the time, especially now that you were pregnant.

"I want to do this," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I want to do this with you, but I can’t… if you don’t change."

This time, the tears ran freely down your cheeks. If he wasn’t willing to change, this would be the hardest decision of your life. You knew he would be a good father, and you could do joint custody, but you didn’t want him here just to be absent.

He was either committed—or you were gone.

"I’ll ask for the day shift," he said without a second thought, his eyes fixed on the tears sliding down your face. His own eyes were wet now, a few tears escaping. "I’ll do it. They won’t refuse, not with your pregnancy. I’ll be there."

He took your hands in his, holding them tight, his gaze locked on yours. You could feel his sincerity, his understanding, his willingness to change — to be present, to truly be there for you.

"You’re everything to me," he whispered, tears finally falling freely. "I can’t keep going if you’re not by my side."

When you didn’t say anything, he misinterpreted the silence, gently pulling his hand from yours. He leaned back slightly, eyes returning to the ultrasound screen.

"Can we start from the start?" you asked after a few seconds, your eyes full of hope and love.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he cupped your cheeks in both hands and kissed you. It was a kiss full of apology, sorrow, guilt… but also overflowing with love. You kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, pouring into him all the feelings you hadn’t been able to express over the past two months.

It went on for a few minutes. There was so much to catch up on, yet it felt right—still him, still your home.

When your lips finally parted, leaving you both breathless, you shared a gentle smile. He pecked your lips once more before turning back to the screen and clicking the print button, producing the first-ever picture of your baby.

As you watched the photo emerge, you silently hoped he truly meant it this time. You were willing to try again—one last time—because you loved him. This was his final chance, and somehow, deep down, you believed he wouldn’t mess it up.

Hands resting on your stomach, you leaned back on the bed, looking at him with hopeful eyes. Everything was going to be okay, you told yourself—and your baby.

"How’s Pope doing?" Jack asked, breaking the silence. You laughed, the sound light and genuine.

Yeah. Everything was going to be more than okay.

©fromsil.

a.n : this man had taken over my entire life. you can only thank @arabellasfvv for this, they forced me into watching the pitt...kinda. and yes im sorry, but i feel like jack would actually be those kind of husbands that are married to their work.

[wabbadoo]

I am no artist, which is why I am begging... BEGGING you talented Pitt fans to draw Robby x Whitaker x Abbot in these poses. My life will be yours 💕

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

In the space between Pt.1

Jack X Robby X Reader

Summary: Three people, one home, and a growing tension that none of them can quite name.

Warnings: mutual pining, jealousy, a little angst, roommates catching feelings, she/her pronouns for reader, slow burn, emotional tension, no use of y/n

Word count: 3.7K Part 2

Robby is bone tired. He walks around the ER, checking on patients and making sure everything is in order for the night staff. His mind is filled with thoughts of a warm shower, a hot meal, and his soft bed. Any minute now, Jack will walk in, and Robby will finally be off the clock.

Robby glances at his watch one last time, his head lifting as his eyes catch a glimpse of his friend’s token camo backpack. Jack looks around the floor before focusing back on Robby. He takes a step forward, accepting his friend’s embrace. It’s a ritual of sorts—the way they changed shifts every day. A hug to end Robby’s day, and one to make sure Jack’s night started on the right foot.

“Everything seems to be in order. Slow day today?”

Robby laughs, knowing Jack is being sarcastic. There are no slow days in the ER. Not ever.

“Today wasn’t so bad.”

It’s true. There had been worse days—much worse.

“The show must go on,” Jack says, giving Robby a pat on the back before heading to his locker. Then, remembering something, he turns around.

“Oh, try to be quiet when you get home. When I left, she was watching TV on the couch, but she’s probably out like a light by now.”

Robby shakes his head.

“I keep telling her not to wait for me.”

“What can I say? She’s stubborn,” Jack grins. “Like someone else I know.”

Robby rolls his eyes, muttering a small “yeah, yeah,” which only makes Jack’s grin widen.

“See you later, Jack.”

“There’s soup in the fridge. Oh—and give her a goodnight for me.”

“Will do.”

Robby drags himself home, every step reminding him of his aching feet and sore back. But the trek is worth it when he finally manages to get to the apartment—and see you.

You’re on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. The remote is on the ground a few inches from your hand, which tells Robby you fell asleep without planning to. He smiles at the sight. After taking his shoes off, hanging his hoodie, and dropping his backpack, he makes his way to you. He picks up the remote, turns off the TV, and focuses on you again.

His hand moves softly across your cheek. He doesn’t want to startle you, but he needs you to wake up. Your nose twitches, and then your eyes start to open slowly. You blink a few times, trying to remember where you are.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.”

“Robby…” you mumble.

“Yeah, honey, it’s me.”

You lift yourself off the couch so that you’re sitting, a small yawn escaping you. You press a palm to your eyes before looking around the room.

“Did you just get home? What time is it?”

“You should be in bed.”

Typical Robby—ignoring your questions to, yet again, tell you what to do. You ignore his affirmation, as you usually do.

“Did Jack get in okay?”

“Same as always.”

Robby stands, stretching to his full height, groaning as his muscles pop.

“There’s soup in the fridge.”

“Yeah, Jack told me.”

“Do you want a bowl?”

“What I want is for you to stop waiting for me. You’ll have a hard time waking up for work tomorrow.”

You bat your hand at him, getting up without bothering to argue. Robby watches you stumble into the kitchen and pull a container from the fridge. He lets out a soft sigh as you move to put a pan on the stove.

“Go take a shower.”

He doesn’t find it in himself to argue. He’s tired, and you’re stubborn—that’s just how things are. So he trudges his way to the bathroom while you heat up his dinner.

You had come into Robby’s and Jack’s lives as a surprise. They’d been living together for a year, and the three-bedroom apartment was feeling emptier by the day. They rarely spent time at home—both too busy to do much more than come in and collapse into bed. The unused third bedroom just meant expenses they didn’t need.

So they decided to put up an ad, not expecting much from it. And then you showed up at their door, asking about the room available—and the rest was history.

You were like three peas in a pod. Everything about you just fit into their dynamic. Even with their odd hours, you found ways to make yourself a constant presence in their lives. You were there to greet Jack when he arrived in the early hours of the morning, a plate of fresh pancakes already waiting on the counter for him. You were there for Robby’s late-night dinners, when all he could manage was enough strength to leave the dishes in the sink before collapsing into bed. And on the rare days they had off, they tried their hardest to repay you for your kindness.

Not that you ever expected them to. You liked taking care of them—it was nice to have someone to share space with. You’d lived alone for a while, and as much as you’d enjoyed the freedom that came with it, the loneliness had been almost unbearable.

When Robby made his way back to the kitchen, smelling faintly of mint, a damp towel hanging off his shoulder, you were almost falling asleep on the counter. You lifted your head at the sound of his footsteps against the floor, a tired smile spreading across your face. You knew how much Robby enjoyed the quiet—it was such a contrast to the constant chaos and noise of his day-to-day—so you just watched him eat in silence.

When he was done, you watched him hang his towel up and place his dishes in the sink. You climbed off the stool and followed him into the hallway. Once you reached your door, you stopped, your hand gripping the handle before turning to face him.

You stifled a yawn as you spoke, your voice soft. “Night, Robby.”

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

He leaned down and brushed a kiss against your forehead. Soft. Thoughtless. Automatic. When he pulled back, tired eyes watched yours flutter open. You turned, opened the door, and disappeared into your room, leaving him standing in the hallway for a moment longer before finally heading to his own.

It wasn’t until the next morning, standing in the locker room, that it hit him. The kiss. The warmth of your skin beneath his lips. The soft twitch of your mouth as he pulled away.

It was all he could think about.

It hadn’t worried him last night—not when his brain was so deprived of sleep that the action had felt like nothing important. But it worried him now, as the bright lights hit his eyes and he realized he might have fucked up.

“You look like hell,” Jack said.

Robby ran a hand over his face. “Did something stupid last night.”

Jack’s brows rose. “Define stupid.”

Robby hesitated. “Kissed her goodnight.”

Jack blinked. “You what?”

“It wasn’t—” Robby sighed. “It wasn’t like that. It just… happened.”

Jack leaned back against the locker, smirking. “You sure it just happened?”

Robby shot him a look, but Jack’s grin only widened.

“Well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “if you’re handing out goodnight kisses, I might start staying up late too.”

Robby groaned, but the tension between them—the kind that wasn’t just about teasing—hung heavy in the air. He leaned his head against his locker, sighing loudly. Jack shifted, resting his back against the lockers, his eyes fixed on his friend.

“So,” Jack said finally, voice low, “you gonna tell me why this is eating you alive, or do I have to guess?”

Robby huffed a humorless laugh. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

Robby turned his head slightly, meeting Jack’s gaze. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was just… habit, I guess. I was tired. She was half asleep.”

Jack tilted his head, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “And yet here you are, looking like you confessed a crime.”

“It feels like I did,” Robby muttered. “What if she thinks I crossed a line? What if I made her uncomfortable?”

Jack studied him for a moment, his expression softening. “You didn’t.”

Robby frowned. “You don’t know that.”

Jack shrugged. “I know her. And I know you. You wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t instinct. You care about her. Hell, we both do.”

That last part hung between them, unspoken for too long and now too late to take back. Robby’s eyes flicked up, searching Jack’s face.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We do.”

Jack pushed off the locker, brushing past him with a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gave Robby a pat on the back, silently asking him to straighten up. Robby did as he asked, accepting Jack’s hug without hesitation.

“You want me to talk to her about it?” Jack whispered, his tone clearly playful.

Robby let out a dry laugh, pushing the other man off him so he could look him in the eyes. “Didn’t your shift end like an hour ago?”

Jack just smiled, turning on his heel and making his way toward the exit. Robby stayed where he was, watching him go. And then Jack spoke—without turning around.

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

Robby frowned. “What is?”

Jack paused in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. The hallway light caught the edge of his profile when he finally glanced back.

“You,” he said simply. “You think too much.”

Robby raised an eyebrow. “That’s the problem?”

Jack’s smirk softened. “No. The problem is—you’re not the only one losing sleep over her.”

And with that, he left, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor. Robby stayed there a while longer. For once, the noise of the hospital around him felt distant, muted—like the only sound left was the echo of Jack’s words.

The week passed like it always did. You’d wake up and greet Jack as he came through the door, yelling a quick “Breakfast is on the counter!” as you rushed out to work. And when you got home—finding Jack getting ready for his shift—he’d ask how your day went while gathering the last of his things before heading out again.

You’d scroll through channels until you found something somewhat interesting, then settle on the couch to wait for Robby—fully prepared to hear him tell you, for the hundredth time, not to wait up for him.

There was no mention of the kiss. No shift in the atmosphere of the apartment, no change in the rhythm between the three of you to suggest anything had happened at all. But it kept eating away at Robby.

Every time he decided he was finally going to bring it up, he’d walk in to find you already asleep on the couch, and the words would die on his tongue.

It didn’t help that Jack was still being frustratingly vague about what he’d meant when he said Robby wasn’t the only one losing sleep over you.

So by the time Saturday rolled around, all Robby wanted was to sit in silence and talk to absolutely no one.

Unfortunately for him, that wasn’t an option. Because even though he didn’t have to go in to work, he had a gala to attend.

You stepped out of your room, your shoes clicking against the floor as you made your way down the hall. The smell of coffee hit you first, mingling with the unmistakable scent of aftershave and cologne.

Robby was standing by the mirror in the hallway, trying—and failing—to get his tie to sit right. Jack leaned against the wall nearby, already dressed to perfection, nursing a mug of something that definitely wasn’t coffee.

“You clean up nice,” you said, tilting your head as you took in the both of them.

Jack grinned. “We try. Someone’s gotta make sure the ER doesn’t look like a pack of zombies in suits.”

Robby huffed out a small laugh but kept his eyes on his reflection. “Speak for yourself.”

You stepped closer, motioning for him to bend down slightly. “You’re going to strangle yourself with that thing if you keep pulling on it.”

He hesitated, then leaned forward enough for you to fix it. The air between you was soft but charged—your fingers brushing against his collar, his breath catching ever so slightly. Jack’s eyes flicked toward the two of you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

“There,” you said finally, patting Robby’s chest lightly. “Perfect.”

He murmured a quiet thanks, eyes meeting yours for half a second too long.

Jack cleared his throat. “Alright, dream team. We should get going before the hospital board thinks we skipped.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “You’re lucky I like you, Abbot.”

He winked. “Most people do.”

The hospital’s annual gala was more extravagant than you expected. String lights wound around tall columns, and soft jazz floated through the air. Tables shimmered under glassware and silver, and everyone—doctors, nurses, administrators—looked momentarily free of exhaustion.

You found yourself walking between them, one arm loosely linked with Jack’s while Robby trailed a step behind. It was instinct, not preference, but Robby still felt the faint twist of jealousy in his chest.

“You really didn’t have to come,” Jack said at one point, leaning toward you to be heard over the music.

“I wanted to,” you replied easily. “Someone has to make sure you two actually enjoy yourselves instead of talking about patient charts all night.”

Jack’s grin softened into something more genuine. “You’re good to us, you know that?”

Robby could practically picture the way your face had lit up at Jack’s words, the easy smile that always seemed to come to you whenever Jack spoke seared into his mind. He turned his head away, pretending to look for someone. He couldn’t bear to see it—couldn’t make himself look at your face, knowing he wasn’t the one causing that expression.

When the speeches started, the lights dimmed and the crowd quieted. Robby and Jack were called up together, honored for their work in the ER during what had been the hospital’s toughest year in decades.

You clapped until your hands stung, pride swelling in your chest as the two of them took the stage—Jack composed and charming as ever, Robby standing beside him, shoulders tense but eyes steady.

Jack, of course, ended up taking the microphone.

“We wouldn’t be standing here without our team,” he began, scanning the crowd. “Without every nurse, every tech, every person who kept showing up even when it felt impossible. And, uh…”

He hesitated just long enough for Robby to glance over, curious.

“There’s also someone who puts up with us outside the ER. Keeps us fed. Reminds us we’re human. You know who you are.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the audience. Your face flushed warm, but you couldn’t stop smiling. Robby glanced at you then—really looked—and it hit him again. That same tug in his chest, the same weight that kiss had left behind.

Later, when the music picked up and people started to dance, Jack was the first to find you.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “You’ve been standing still too long.”

You laughed but took it anyway. His hand fit comfortably in yours, his grin easy and bright. You danced among the crowd, the two of you falling into a rhythm that felt effortless.

Robby watched from the edge of the room, fingers drumming lightly against the rim of his glass. He told himself he was happy for the two of you—that it was fine, that he was tired and overthinking again—but every time you laughed at something Jack said, his heart gave another slow, uncomfortable twist.

He slipped outside for air. 

The night air was cool and quiet, a relief after the buzz inside. He leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the city lights, trying to clear his head.

He didn’t hear the door open until you spoke.

“You disappeared.”

He turned slightly, his expression softening when he saw you. “You two looked like you were having fun.”

You shrugged. “Jack’s easy to dance with.”

Robby smiled faintly. “Yeah. He’s easy to like.”

The words came out lower than he meant them to. You watched him for a moment, the faint breeze tugging at your hair.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” you said finally.

“Just tired.”

You stepped closer, close enough that your hand brushed against the railing beside his. “You’ve been tired since the day I met you.”

He huffed a small laugh. “That’s fair.”

Silence stretched, comfortable at first—until it wasn’t.

“Robby,” you said softly, “is this about the other night?”

He froze, eyes flicking toward you. He hadn’t expected you to bring it up—you hadn’t mentioned it all week, so why talk about it now?

“It was just a goodnight kiss, Robby. You don’t need to get worked up about it. It meant nothing.”

He exhaled slowly, his chest tight. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

The words hung between you, raw and unguarded.

You didn’t get the chance to respond, because the door opened again.

Jack stepped out, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair slightly mussed. His gaze flicked between you and Robby, reading more than either of you said.

“Found you,” he said lightly, but his tone didn’t match the ease of his words. “They’re starting the awards for the donors.”

Robby straightened, nodding. “We’ll be right there.”

Jack lingered a second longer, then met your eyes. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your voice caught.

He gave you a small nod—one that said I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it go—as you passed him to go back inside. Once you disappeared from view, Jack turned to look at Robby, his eyes catching on the way Robby clenched and unclenched his fist.

“You coming?” Jack asked.

Robby nodded, but didn’t move. Jack lingered for a moment longer, his brows furrowing as he watched his friend before heading inside.

The ride home was quiet. Jack drove, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping idly against his knee. You sat in the backseat, head against the window, pretending not to notice the glances they kept exchanging in the rearview mirror.

By the time they finally made it back to the apartment, the night had settled deep into the city—quiet, heavy, and humming faintly with exhaustion. Jack was the first to unlock the door, the click of the handle echoing louder than it should have in the stillness.

You slipped off your shoes with a sigh, the relief visible in your shoulders. “I forgot how tiring those things are,” you murmured.

“Tell me about it,” Jack said, tugging at his tie until it came loose. “Next time I’m faking a cough.”

You smiled faintly, amused, but Robby barely reacted. He’d been quiet the entire ride home, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights, his thoughts miles away from the conversation.

Jack noticed—he always noticed—but said nothing. He just gave you a soft “goodnight” before disappearing down the hall to his room, leaving you and Robby standing in the living room’s dim light.

You took a small step closer. “Robby…”

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he said finally. “You live with us. You’re our friend. It was… selfish.”

“Robby, you didn’t—”

“I did.” His voice was gentle, but there was something breaking underneath it. “And I’d probably do it again if you stood that close to me.”

That made you go still. Because a part of you wanted to test it out—a part of you wanted to inch closer, just to see what he’d do. Yet another part of you remembered that Jack was only a couple of steps away, and for some reason, the thought of him opening the door to find Robby kissing you—even if only on the cheek—made you hesitate.

When you finally spoke, your voice was careful. “You think you’re the only one confused about what that kiss meant?”

That made him look at you again—really look. His breath caught.

For the first time all night, you didn’t look like his roommate. You looked like something he’d been trying not to want for a very long time.

It took everything in you to reach for the handle. Took everything in you to turn away from Robby and face your bedroom door. You could feel his gaze on your back—could almost hear the way his breath came ragged. And then you paused, turning so that you could look at him.

“You two make it really hard to choose, you know that?”

Robby’s mouth opened, maybe to say something, maybe to stop you—but before he could, another voice cut through the hallway.

“So don’t.”

You both turned. Jack stood at the end of the hall, one hand on the doorframe, eyes flicking between you and Robby. You didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. Neither did Robby.

Jack’s expression softened when his gaze landed on you. “Don’t choose,” he said again, quieter this time. “At least not tonight.”

The silence that followed was deafening. None of you moved.

Robby’s jaw tightened. You couldn’t tell if it was from guilt, surprise, or something else entirely. Jack straightened from the doorframe, his voice quieter now, but still steady.

“Come on,” he said, eyes never leaving you. “You’re both exhausted. Get some sleep.”

You swallowed hard and gave a small nod, retreating toward your room. Robby didn’t look at you this time, though you could feel the weight of both their stares following you until your door clicked shut. 

The apartment had gone still, but sleep didn’t come easy for any of you. Not for you, with your heart caught between two steady heartbeats, and not for them—each lying awake in their rooms, pretending not to think about the same thing.

----------------------------------------------------------to be continued....

Part 2

[wabbadoo]

Oh.....I'm FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW. My beautiful wife noticed me.

[petersoftparker]

Hucklerobby October Fic Recs

Prosopagnosia by spectral099

“Whitaker, you need to sit down. You have a concussion.” The voice next to him tries to tell him, and it's almost familiar this time.

“Yeah I realized that, I am a fuckin' doctor. Student doctor. Whatever.” he replies, turning to squint at the man sitting next to him. “Look, can you just get Dr. Robby? He’ll tell you I'm fine, I gotta get back to work, I got… patients and shit.”

The man looks at someone behind him, some expression he can’t quite figure out. He starts to say something else, and—oh shit he’s gonna throw up fuck—he tries to lean away and not vomit all over anyone else. He doesn't quite make it.

“Shit,” yeah, he definitely ruined that guy’s shoes. Whoops. “Sorry.”

I (wanna) feel guilty by Syntheticpalindromes

The first couple of dollars that the machine ate up without remorse were an annoyance, something that made Dennis sigh and unzip his wallet without thinking about it to try again. By the time that the vending machine had eaten seven whole dollars, in coins, and Dennis didn’t have anything to show for it, he was close to thumping his forehead against the cool glass and hoping he could derive some sort of enjoyment or nourishment from simply just looking at the colourful packages as they remained firmly in their coils.

He didn’t often carry coins. Those were his last few dollars and he was woefully aware that somebody had offhandedly mentioned that the staffroom vending machine destroyed notes, so he wasn’t going to be getting a soda, a bag of chips or anything else that might settle his belly from the incessant grumbling it was doing.

5 times + 1 that Robby buys something for Dennis and makes him feel like he's about to keel over, right there and then, in the ER.

Take me out (steal me away) by justanotherspine

Robby didn’t expect for Dennis’s date at the ballgame to deny the kiss cam. And he can’t stand the look of hurt on the younger man’s face. So what does he do? Kiss him. He kisses him.

Step into the holy water by theflyjar

Robby’s suppressants go through a product recall, leaving him unmated and alone, about to go through his first rut in years with only the promise of an “at-home care package” from his insurer.

His hindbrain seems to rumble out something akin to a purr when it realises that this Omega — with its unmarked neck and gentle eyes that are solely fixed on him — is his care package.

Mind Loaded by ricepudding124

With the holiday season arriving, no family to spend it with and Trinity going home; Dennis finds himself stuck with an unwelcome sense of emptiness.

However, the yearly staff party is fast approaching and all of a sudden Dr Robby is showing strange levels of favouritism towards him that he isn't quite sure how to deal with.

I only have eyes for you by fingerstripesofchaos

If anyone asked, Robby could easily tell the story with a lovesick smile and eyes focused only on the younger man as if he hung the moon and stars himself. A rough hand caressing his arm before intertwining their fingers.

“It was almost like fate.” He would say, awe in his tone, still surprised at how this man chose to be with him.

If anyone asked Dennis, he would look at you with furrowed eyebrows and a slowly reddening face as he’d reply, “What do you mean? Dr. Robby and I aren’t dating.”

5 + 1 of everyone knowing that dennis and robby are together except for dennis

Daddy-long-legs by sushishorts

He learns much from the kid this way. The first letter is written frantically, as if in disbelief.

You have no idea how much this means to me, he has written. Robby notices the warp of the paper and the bleed of the ink. Thank you for giving me a fighting chance. I will not waste this.

In which Robby starts sponsoring a medical student from Broken Bow, Nebraska.

[wabbadoo]

If you are as obsessed with Hucklerobby as I am then you have probably seen the edit where they are both country men. But I can't tell you how insane this idea makes me.

Robby is visiting the small town to help out with the local hospital (think Dr.Benton in that episode of ER) and he accepted it to get away from the problems that are eating him up in the big city, he tries to get away from the things that remind him of what happened...the faces of those he lost or hurt. So he goes to Broken Bow, Nebraska. He's seen as an outsider, some "city folk" which peaks Whitkers interest. Whitker wants to get out of this small town and be known for something other than a farm boy. He yearns for a life outside of what her knows and he yearns for the older man. Robby has the age dilemma whereas Dennis has a religious dilemma.

I need one of you to write a fanfic of this idea because holy crap it would be amazing

[daughter0d3v1l]

Say It Like You Mean It

John Carter x Fem!Reader

@omgbrianab tagged as requested <3

Summary: 

You think you've always secretly known Carter can't stand you for the same reasons you can't stand him.

Tags/Warnings:

SMUT 18+, dialogue heavy, there's a buildup okay, enemies to lovers, workplace romance, you're both kinda dummies so, technically idiots in love, mild age-gap, forced proximity, lowkey submissive-and-breedable Carter, (consensual) manhandling, hickeys/love bites, dry-humping, oral (fem-receiving *cheers*), John is a WHORE and I will not be taking criticism about it, not BETA'd

WC:

4.5 k

Author's Note: 

This idea came to me in several parts that I smashed together into a single one-shot so if it seems a little plot-lazy, that’s why. I'm also only on season 2 of ER, so canonical inconsistencies are highly likely. Please remember that I am human, so if you notice any mistakes – no you didn’t. I hope you enjoy and have a lovely day/night <3

♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘ ♘

“As I already said, John, I gave it to you two hours ago.”

You look up from the chart in your hands to glare at him. Carter shoots the same, spiteful look right back down at you; he hates when you call him John in that tone, especially because that usually means you’re trying to be a hard ass.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s. Not. There.” Every word is punctuated with irritation and a tilt of his head while he follows close at your heels as you try to get away from him. He’s become good at trying to cancel out every move you make lately.

“Well, someone must’ve fucked up something,” you say, smiling tightly at Carol as you pass her while ignoring her glance up at John trailing behind you, as well as the quirk in her lips when she looks back down at her work. She always does that.

“Hm, I wonder who that could’ve been.” He puts a hand onto his chin, feigning a look of puzzlement that does absolutely nothing to hide the patronization.

It’s moments like these, on other days you’ve had this exact conversation with the resident nearly word for word and certainly insult for insult, that you wonder how you’ve yet to be restrained from taking a swing at him—right across his stupid face.

“Would you both shut up?” Susan breaks the thick air hovering between the two of you, slapping a folder against Carter’s chest. “Carter,” she looks up at him, turns to you, repeats your name with the same tone of voice, then briefly spares him another glance, “please, try to act like grown-ups during the hours you’re working at a hospital?”

She leaves you both standing there defiantly. John expels a heavy huff in your direction, looking down at the file, then back at you. “I didn’t tell you to leave it on my desk.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you exhale, turning away from him without sparing another glance. You’re lucky to leave the conversation with both of your eyes still in their sockets, with how much you’ve been having to roll them. Sometimes you think John wakes up some days with the sole purpose of being dissatisfied with everything you do.

And on days like today, when that seems to be the likely case, you’re usually better off just avoiding him—which, to be fair, is what you usually do.

Unfortunately, today you just can’t seem to get away from him.

“I need another line in,” he tells you as he passes you in the hall. “Room five.”

You’re already on your seventh IV of the hour…

“I want the you to get the labs for Kelson, Morris, Martin, and Alan ordered, and make it quick.”

You already have two sets waiting…

Eventually you just end up switching some of your assignments with other attendants, just to get a few minutes away from his constant barking. It’s usually not this bad. It’s never this bad, you have to say. Sometimes even, horrified as you are to admit it, he’s not all that miserable to be around—only, of course, as long as someone else is with you both and neither of you actually have to be alone with each other. You’ve never had to spend more than five minutes alone with Carter since your first day. Haven’t even cared to wonder if you could even possibly stand it, either, as the chances of that actually happening have been dwindling day by day.

Of course, it would be just your luck that you’re at work on the day the possibility swings wide open like a door on loose hinges.

You hear your name said loudly over the hallway bustle after another hour of bickering between collisions throughout the area, Carter’s immediately following. Susan is standing stiff with a clipboard in her hands, though her face looks rather proud for someone who sounds so pissed.

Carter gets to her just as you do. Both of you glance at each other with equally narrow eyes.

“Alright kids,” Susan begins, “let’s for, just a short while, play nice so we can get our work done, hm?” She smiles between you both. “There's a supply closet that needs its inventory taken.”

“Inventory?”

You both say the word at just the same time, just as baffled. You veer your head at him, and just as you do so, his head is already turned at you.

“Yes. Inventory. Maybe you’ll both learn to work together for once.”

And you know that’s not what she means. You and Carter can work together just fine. Hell, you’re one strange, hell of a pair when you’re not being so stubborn. With patients, you flow around each other like you’re both on tracks, knowing where to and not to move to get things done efficiently around one another. During procedures you’re on the same wavelength, too. You both have the same laser-focus that pulls through when you need it. If you didn’t despise each other, you might just make a good team.

So, as you crowd yourselves into the miniature-home-sized supply closet while trying not to stir up dust, you try to figure out what this is really about. To understand Susan’s mindset when she made the decision to lock the two of you up (metaphorically, as the closet you find yourself in doesn’t even have a lock) for however long it’ll take to log all of this.

At the very least, it’s a break from the bustle of the ER. It’s a busy day and Susan has found someone to cover for both of you for the hour—the least she could do as an apology for locking you up with Carter in the first place. That nearly makes this worth the hassle. Nearly.

After all, the small, subdued smiles and giggles from the direction of the front desk were not lost on you as Susan gave you both the ‘briefing’, and you’re betting they weren’t lost on John either. The more you question this ‘assignment’, the less happy you are with the lot of them.

You know about the rumors. The generic ones that always come in workplaces when there are two people who are even somewhat relative in age and disposition. No one ever says anything when Carter is barking tailored orders at you. When he’s looking at you sternly while, at the same time, giving you positive feedback on a patient or decision of yours’. No one does anything but stare and smile behind their hands, and of course, that’s plenty to get the general idea of what’s going on in everyone’s heads.

You’ve ignored it, thus far. You pretend it’s not that big of a deal to you because really, it shouldn’t be. They’re just rumors. The result of low-maintenance days around the wing with nothing much else to do but wonder why you and Carter look at each other like that while just less than shouting at each other at the same time.

“Count?” Expelling the thoughts of it all from your mind, you look up from the clipboard Susan gave you to John, who’s leaning up and over one of the shelves into a tub on the top. “What’re we working with?”

“Uhm… sixty—no. Fifty-seven.” He puffs out his cheeks and drops his heels back down to the floor. “It’s uh, it’s fifty-seven.”

You nod. Another box checked. One less reason to spend any more time in this sauna.

This is part of the level that no one bothers to do any work on. It’s air conditioning has been out for months. Another reason, you’ve noted, to be pissed off at Susan.

Carter, somehow, must be thinking the same thing, because he plops down onto the floor next to you with a hand over the back of his neck. “Fuck, I thought they fixed the air.”

“Not here, apparently. Susan has us working out of the sixth layer of Dante’s inferno.”

He laughs. It’s sudden, quiet, but a laugh nonetheless. A genuine laugh at something you said. There’s a first time for everything, it seems. “Ah, could be worse.”

“You think?”

“Sure,” he says confidently, looking at the palm of his sweaty hand before looking up at you, “I could be in here with Benton.”

Snickering involuntarily, you fold your arms around the clipboard and hug it to your chest. “I though you liked Dr. Benton?”

Assuming that statement is true, considering John has never actually told you this himself.

“Course I do. He’s the best resident I’ve ever worked with. Hell of a guy,” he confirms, looking down at his feet, then quickly looking back at you with an intensity that feels like he’s piercing right through to your soul. “I just can’t stand to be around him sometimes.”

You hum. Know that feeling.

It’s his words that make you start to think you understand why you and John behave towards each other the way you do. Because you’re not immune to knowing that somewhere, deep down, you admire John. Honestly, it’s the only reason you can stand being around him as much as you can. He knows what he’s doing when it comes to doin his job. Caring, compassionate, and attentive to every patient. Smart, too, you know. Might not always seem smart, but he is. Capable. He's really not all that terrible, at least as a doctor. You don’t hate him. Not at all unfortunately. As much as you’d like to be able to, you can’t.

A silence settles over you both. Some unknown reason prevents you from speaking up about the eleven categories you still need to take inventory of, so in silence you both remain for a long time.

“Look,” he says, finally breaking through the quiet haze filling the room. Your name falls off his tongue with a sigh, then he hangs his head down, tapping his knee with his thumb. “You know, I’m not—I’m not hard on you just to be an asshole. Right?”

“Sure.”

He chuckles—the kind that tells you your answer exasperated him—and looks up at the dim ceiling light. “I’m not,” he repeats, looking up.

After a moment of dragging out your silence, you nod, resigning your stubbornness to the backseat. “I know, John.”

Impulse bids you to add on a little bit of a dig to the end; just as a force of habit, really. Doesn’t make you any less of an asshole, you want to joke, but don’t. Strange.

“Good.”

Another stretch of silence, this one louder with the presence of your mutual inner thoughts than the previous.

It’s not that this is some incomprehensible revelation. You had figured (or, possibly just hoped) that John wasn’t just being an asshole to you for no reason. You’ve had other mentors; one’s that are sweet on you, one’s that are hard on you, and one’s that fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. John is strange in that sense. Even if he’s less than sweet about it, he has always challenged you for the better. You know at the end of the day, it’s helped you to make improvements in your work and education. It’s kept you entertained, for sure. All of the bickering and snide comments and little jabs at each other’s work ethic that are never truly more than a way to annoy the other.

And maybe that’s why you’ve always tried to follow it all with a grain of salt and an equally hard-ass response. It’s irritating on the worst days; something close to fun on the best.

“You’re gonna be a great doctor.”

John’s voice is quiet, softening the unfathomably sudden weight of his words.

You quickly look at him. He’s already staring back at you, eyes gentler than you think you’ve ever seen them.

There’s a stillness you can’t seem to break from holding you right where you are. You feel your eyes drift over John’s face. You’ve never been so close to him before. Never been able to get a proper look at his features. When he’s not being such a jerk, he’s actually pretty handsome. (Only when he’s not being a jerk, you have to specify to yourself, otherwise you’d have to admit that you’ve always known he’s handsome.)

“Thank you.” It comes breathless from you, without much thought. You’re not sure what else you could’ve possibly said, anyway.

John nods, looking away, shoulders stiff. His lips press tight together, chin dimpling. You never noticed it did that before.

It goes on for too long; the stillness. You watching John. John watching his hands. Neither of you seem capable of moving, you’re sitting there for so long.

“We should probably—”

“Yeah,” you confirm, thankful he was the one who decided to press play again. “Probably.”

And yet neither of you stand. The stillness continues, now with confirmation you definitely should be doing something else.

John sighs. Runs a hand over the back of his neck. You try not to notice the way his arms stretch out or the ridges of the veins flowing underneath the skin.

“John—”

You stop, as that’s as far as your thoughts got before you started speaking.

He sighs again, heavier this time, expectant. It makes you feel like you’ve made a mistake.

“I’m sorry.” You shake your head at yourself, backtracking. “I don’t know what—”

“It’s alright.” His hand shoots out to gently touch your shoulder, only for a moment, before he withdraws. “You’re fine, it’s just… I’m—”

“Yeah, I know,” you say. You understand that you’re both thinking the same thing. “Resident.”

John’s shoulders droop down with a puff as he says your name again quietly, more to himself, it seems.

“John, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have… We should just get back to work.”

You stand up and go to start sifting through bins once more, but you feel a tug on your arm. Suddenly his warm fingers are wrapped around your wrist, thumb against your pulse point.

And then he’s pulling gently on your wrist, wordless. You follow his lead and inch your feet closer to him. It feels awkward, standing there while John stays crouched down on his feet below you, and it immediately feels even more awkward when he drops his forehead against your knee.

“… John?”

You stare, totally stunned, as he rolls his cheek over your leg with a groan. He starts shaking his head, like he’s answering a question he’d asked himself in his mind.

“I shouldn’t be doin’ this.”

“You’re not doing anything, John,” you say, trying to sound comforting.

“Aren’t I?” He looks up at you, eyelashes casting a shadow over his iris. “And, please, stop that,” he adds, scrunching up his face.

“Stop what?”

“Calling me that.”

“Your name?”

“Yes.”

Huffing, you bend your knees and drop down to be at his eye-level. He watches closely as you do, every move you make tracked by his eyes.

“I like your name,” you say.

“Nobody likes my name.”

“Do you just enjoy neutralizing everything I say or is there some sort of bet going on that I’m not aware of?”

“I do not—”

You tip your head a little at him, eyebrows standing tall.

John presses his lips together. For a moment he stays that way, then in a sudden burst, he laughs softly and nods.

“I do, don’t I?”

“Often.”

You’re both smiling, and it’s almost possible for you to forget how you got to this point in the conversation in the first place. Almost.

It gets quiet suddenly. So very quiet. Both of your smiles start fizzle out, but your eyes remain locked on each other. The heat of the room becomes much more noticeable in the silence. You notice the thin sheen of sweat over John’s forehead, the way his hair sticks to it in thin, long spikes. His cheeks are pinker than usual.

“John,” you murmur. Suddenly, your eyes are focused on his lips.

“I told you to stop that,” is his response, a smile repositioning his lips ever-so subtly. “Seriously, I hate it.”

“John,” you repeat in the tone you know very well he hates. You’re not sure what you’re trying to achieve now, but it is still fun nonetheless.

A huff blows out from his nose, but the smile remains, so you keep going. Or, at least, try to.

“J—”

You don’t get the satisfaction of finishing his name. Before you can, your tongue is being held incapacitated by John’s lips. His hands are gripping your hips, and all you’re able to do is sink into it. Your legs go useless under you, body giving way. John’s chest cushions what would be your fall, his hands pulling you flush against him.

And then his lips are cruelly dragged away from yours. It causes a quiet whine to escape you. A whine which only slightly makes you want to die from embarrassment.

John whispers your name with a sigh. His head shakes, and he starts to say something, but you don’t give him enough time to make any sense before you’re catching his lips back into a kiss to stop him from continuing. He doesn’t complain about it at all, just tightens his hands over your hips and scoots a knee between your thighs.

“We can’t be doing this,” he tries.

You just hum, kissing, kissing, and kissing him some more between every attempt he makes to change your mind—maybe to change his own mind, too.

“I shouldn’t—”

“Please stop talking,” you manage to get out between kisses, firmly enough that you hope he understands this is an alternative measure to get your point across rather than to gently smack him like part of you wants to.

John grunts, squeezing your hips, and nods.

Smiling at his silent agreement, you sift your hands through his hair, down the back of his neck, nails scraping lightly over the skin above his collar as you trail all the way down to his shoulder blades. You’re able to feel the muscles flexing across his back through his shirt.

You don’t think about things you should; not the possible (and likely) repercussions there could be on both of your careers if this is to go on or the fact that this supply room has no lock, not the fact that you’re not actually supposed to like John according to your own strict set of personal rules. All you’re thinking about in this moment is the desire you have to find out what John’s skin feels like under these clothes.

So, you start tugging. Lifting John’s shirt out from under the waistband of his pants. The movement of your bodies makes it a little difficult, but you still manage to get it off quicker than you thought you would, and the second his chest is bare your hands glue themselves to it. His skin is softer than you’d thought it’d be. Covered in a layer of thin fuzz and not much else. As you skim your hands over his chest, he migrates his lips down your neck. Sliding his teeth over your skin. Suckling along the ridges that aren’t hidden by your own scrubs.

He's getting handsier by the second. The grip he has on your hips is tightening, loosening, then tightening again even more. Teeth, scratching a little more with every pass over your neck.

Eventually, he seems to get frustrated with the barrier between his lips and your skin, and suddenly your shirt is being torn off of you and thrown to the corner of the room. He’s back on you in an instant, too. Back to sucking on your skin, almost certainly leaving little red spots all over you, which should bother you, considering you are still at work and, given the circumstances, will look very suspicious once you leave this room—but it doesn’t. At the present moment, all you want is to be marked up by John in every possible area, visible or not.

And he’s delivering on that desire just fine on his own, leaving marks all along your body; over your shoulders, down your neck and down your chest, reaching the plush skin available in two slivers above your bra cups. He seems to like it there especially. Spends plenty of time pressing his face into your chest, breathing you in.

“Thought about this,” he then says, muffled into your skin. “Thought about this a lot.”

You don’t necessarily register the importance of this statement. Just nod and smile, pet the top of his hair. “Me too.”

He groans, sliding his hands up your back. His teeth graze the edge of your bra strap. You wonder, briefly, if he’d be able to undo the clasp with his teeth.

“Want you,” he murmurs suddenly, slightly crazed. “Want my girl.”

Oh.

Your own craze follows, hands grasping and gripping all over him in desperation. Your teeth find his ear, gently clamping down. A grunt punches out of him as his hands smack down over the curve of your ass, fingers digging into the plush skin through your pants.

“Yes, John—fuck.”

You feel the shape of a smile against your breast. His breath his hot and heavy. The sensation of the sweat on his skin mixing with your own makes you shiver.

“My baby,” he says, and you only now realize he’s been whispering to you this whole time. Rambling words that dilute themselves against your skin. “You’re my baby. My girl. All mine, all mine.”

Shit. You’ve heard some of what the other ladies around the unit have had to say about John. You’ve known, at least in theory, that he has the notion of a reputation with women. But Jesus, you weren’t expecting this. Not the rambling of a man deprived or the desperation in his touch. You’ll have to remember to wonder if he’s like this with every girl or if you’re getting special treatment—some other time though, as you’re plenty content focusing on the needy man devouring you in the present moment.

Before you know it, you’re on your back. You don’t question how you got there; all that matters is that John is on top of you with his knee pressing up between your legs and his hands pinning you down to the floor. You moan into his mouth as he digs his knee against you just right, sending a wave of heat up your body.

“Like that?” He sounds eager. So desperate to please.

“Yes, baby. Right there.”

“Like that,” he repeats, satisfied. In the midst of all of this depravity, you find yourself thinking that he’s kind of adorable.

One of his hands disappears, so you break away from where your lips are attached to his neck to search for it and return it to where it belongs on your body.

You’re somewhat torn from this thought when you find it: pressing palm-down onto the tent in John’s pants in a rough rhythm. It works alright there, you suppose, listening to the quiet whimpers pouring from John’s throat as he grinds his hand down on himself.

“Touching yourself, baby?”

“Mhm.” He licks his lips right up against your skin.

“You gonna come?”

“No… want you to…”

You smile, kissing his nose. He shudders, shoulders tight. You feel it shoot down through him to where his knee is still pressing against you.

“Then make me come, baby.”

He lets out all of the air in his lungs, shoulders going loose, body nearly collapsing on top of you. His skin seems to be getting hotter by the minute.

It's only a few more moments before he’s slipping your pants off and tossing them out of sight. His hands hitch up your thighs and then he’s there, lapping at your wet slit and pressing his nose against your clit.

He doesn’t disappoint you. Not one bit. It seems that his… knowledge… of the female anatomy does him well in many aspects of life. He knows just where to suck. Where to gently slide his tongue against to make your back arch off the floor.

You don’t know how long he’s on you for—only that by the time he finally drags himself away you’ve come at least twice and your legs feel weak. He pants against the inside of your leg, face damp, kissing you between heavy breaths. His fingers stroke over the tops of your thighs, gentle circles, easing you down from your orgasm.

“S’okay baby,” he coos. His lips come down to press a kiss to your stomach, the side of his face coming soon after to rest on you. You feel his body relaxing, so you find the top of his head and gently brush your fingers through his hair. He sighs, the corners of his mouth curling up. You never thought you’d be able to know when he’s smiling just through the sensation of it.

You lie there together, just long enough to catch your breaths and to cool off—hard to do in the room now steaming with the additional heat of your bodies. You don’t feel compelled to speak, and he seems to feel the same. Things remain quiet, nothing but the sound of your shared breathing filling the space.

The eventual process of getting your clothes back on is… interesting. It’s not silent. Not very verbal either, though. You both take turns bumping your shoulders against each other, snickering when fabric won’t go smoothly over a head or a button won’t poke through a hole. It feels light; the weight of your fake-distain for one another has lifted and you’re now free to enjoy each other’s presence. Despite this, neither of you will actually talk. Really talk. No actual words pass between you until you’re both dressed and standing next to each other awkwardly, looking around the small room, looking at the work you still need to get done.

For some reason, it’s then that it finally occurs to you that this truly had nothing to do with inventory.

“You don’t think that Susan—”

“Probably,” he replies before you can finish, looking up from where he’s been staring at his feet.

You sigh, place your hands on your hips, and drop your chin. For a moment you think about what to do now, then try: “Do you think we should—”

“Finish?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, probably.” He nods. “She’ll send us right in again if we go back with unfinished paperwork.”

“Probably,” you say, but add: “Wouldn’t be the worst thing, though.”

Both of you smile at each other simultaneously.

“No, it wouldn’t be.”

“But we have work to do,” you say solemnly, a faux frown tugging on your lips.

“But… we have work to do,” he repeats, his smile weakening. “Right.”

“So we should get to it, then.”

“Yeah. We should.”

The smile he returns in response to your own makes it easier to be unsurprised when it takes another hour before you’ve finished taking the inventory, and another thirty minutes before you both emerge from the closet—messy hair, hickeys, and all.

The looks you both get once you return to the unit tell you there are likely to be several bets coming to an end today. You can’t bring yourself to pay it much mind; you just care about the piece of paper folded up in your pocket with an address written messily in blue ink.

[wabbadoo]

I need some of you freaks (in the most endearing way) to recommend me some yaoi AKA ✨HuckleRobby✨ fanfictions. The age gap, the two different personalities, the work places romance..I CRAVE IT!

[wabbadoo]

So insanely jealous of his wife