Alyssa

One scene was romantic, almost, with just a hint of tension. It was easy enough to perform for the camera with my agent off to the side. The other scene was—well, eerie. No lines really, just a test to see how I looked if I was in a trance. Then, the next week, they sent me to try on some costumes. Still no script. Still no decision. Just some photos of me in the period style. My contact that day let me in on the fact that the director had a serious vision, and that was the reason for all the secrecy. That’s when I realized this could be big—really big. And that’s when I got nervous.

But then the phone rang. I booked it, and almost immediately, I was flying south to start filming for the next three months. I’d booked jobs before—some film, some theatre, some online, but nothing of this magnitude. I don’t even want to describe my reaction when I walked onto set and saw Michael B. Jordan for the first time. Swooning is an understatement. However, I’m a professional. I’m capable of keeping it cool and acting just as nonchalant as all the other professionals around me. Or so I thought.

I was fifteen when I watched Skins for the first time. All my friends were watching it like some sort of teenage rite of passage, and that’s when I was first introduced to him. Cook was cute—cute enough to be my screensaver and to write and read fanfiction about in my free time. But he was nearly ten years older than me, and overseas. No matter how many times I fantasized about it, I couldn’t imagine any real scenario where my celebrity crush and I ended up together. I forgot about him almost as quickly as I obsessed over him, moved on to being obsessed with some Marvel character probably. Teenage girls, ya know?

The first time I saw him, I had just been given the official copy of my script. I was walking to my trailer and beginning to finger through the thick binder, haphazardly with it in one hand and a coffee in the other. That’s when the door to the makeup trailer opened, and he stepped out—face and neck covered in blood. I stumbled, dropping my binder but managing to save the coffee. He smiled at me as he walked down the steps, scooped up the binder before I could collect myself, and gently handed it back. I’d once written fanfiction about the man standing in front of me now, his blood-streaked costume a far cry from the charming English teen of my daydreams. It was surreal, even disorienting, to be on this side of the screen, and I was shocked. It took me just a millisecond too long to respond for it not to be awkward, but I still managed a grateful smile as I took the binder from his outstretched hand.

“Sorry, I’m still learning my way around a set this big, and my head was in the clouds when I tripped,” I tried to explain. His smile grew as he looked down at me, the blood down his chest a stark contrast to the kindness on his face.

“It’s easy to get turned around, where you headed? I’ll walk you there on my way to set,” he said, his smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

I blinked at the unexpected kindness before opening to the first page of the binder and the map they had tucked in the front. “Uh, trailer six,” I responded.

It was Jack’s turn to look a little surprised, though his surprise was more humorous where mine was embarrassment. “You’re my Maggie. Nice to finally meet you. I can’t wait to work together.” Maggie was my character's name—a daughter of Irish immigrants who was struggling to settle down in places where she was neither a person of color nor white. That was about as far as I’d gotten with my parts of the script other than the scene where- oh god. He put his hand to his chest to introduce himself, “Remmick, at your service. But you can call me Jack. I’ve been excited to meet you, how far have you gotten?” he asked as he motioned to my script, and we began to walk, him leading the way.

"Uh, not too far yet, just got it handed to me about twenty minutes ago actually." My heart thundered in my chest as my mind raced—Remmick. Remmick. Most of my scenes are with him. The scene I read for was a romance scene with Remmick.

When I was fifteen, I had no idea that the boy I’d once dreamed about would be standing in front of me, covered in blood, and asking about my script. My schoolgirl fantasy felt like a lifetime ago, a harmless fantasy I used to entertain in the corners of my mind. Now, I was about to work with him, in a way that was far too real. I should have been focusing on the script, right? But instead, my mind kept wandering back to the fact that I was walking next to him. My teenage daydream, here, with his blood-stained shirt and charming smile. I had to remind myself—this was my job, not a fanfiction come to life. But my heart didn’t seem to care about that. I have to finish reading this script. Jack walked me all the way to my trailer and had the decency to open the door for me. I was lucky to keep my cool as I walked up the steps and looked down at him to say thank you.

“Not a problem at all,” he said with kind eyes. “And my trailer’s right next door. We can run lines together as soon as you're caught up,” he motioned to the binder. “I know they got you here kinda late, so just let me know if you need anything.” I smiled and nodded my head as he gave a slight bow, signaling his departure and turning to walk to where I only assumed he was about to be filming for the day. I am absolutely not qualified to handle this.

---

The trailer was comfortable, way nicer than what I was used to when working on a project. But I didn’t have time to enjoy my new niceties, not when I was trying to consume the script at record speed. It took most of the afternoon and well into the evening to finish reading, and god, the story was moving. A beautiful horror story, layered within our history, that challenges not only religion but the things we were raised not to question. The diversity of casting is a breath of fresh air, and with that being said, the diverse character plots also point out the fact that the cost of survival isn’t always unity. Reading it again and again, it became clear I hadn’t just booked a horror movie, but a movie about survival, about assimilation or freedom.

Maggie’s role in all of this? To me, there are four romantic foils at play here. Smoke and Annie represent true love, trust, and freedom at the cost of everything. Stack and Mary are the forbidden lovers who search for freedom and family at the cost of those very principles. Sammy and Pearline are lust, a short-lived love that we never get to see blossom and that haunts Sammy for the rest of his life. Maggie and Remmick? They represent obsession masked as love. She’s a link to the place he misses the most, and she’s desperate for fulfillment from a man. Where the other three relationships love truly, Remmick and Maggie’s love is only masquerade, just as his offer to the patrons of the Juke is just a masquerade.

I had been moved to tears a few times this evening, and I couldn’t wait to pick Ryan’s brain while filming. But I was tired now, and I needed to shower and sleep. Still, tickling the back of my mind were anxious thoughts about the scenes I was going to have to film with my teenage crush. As I showered, I recalled all the forced proximity romances I’d consumed through the years. I also recalled the lewd stuff I had written a mere ten years ago about the man I would now be forced to interact with. A nightmare, or a dream come true? I had just pulled on my nightgown when there was a knock at my trailer door. A knock I was not prepared for.

Towel still in my hands, I swung the door open expecting a PA—not him. The air seemed to thicken as I swung open the door, and the heat of the Louisiana night seemed to press in on me. My breath caught in my throat when I saw him—tall, dark, and impossibly close. His smirk, playful yet knowing, sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. This wasn’t the boyish crush from my youth. This was... something else. Standing there, grown, no blood, nothing to remind me of the immature character I dreamed of just a few years ago. But the funny thing about life is it rarely gives you the ‘dream’ version you expect—it gives you this. Reality. With a side of nerves and a dash of inappropriate excitement. I hadn’t been in any sort of frame of mind to notice earlier, but he was clean-shaven for this role, his hair a longer dark ruffle already sticking to his forehead from the Louisiana heat. The sight of him at the bottom of my steps in the dark, with only the lamp from our trailers illuminating him, almost startled me—almost. But there he was, my teenage wet dream, smirking up at me.

“Sorry to bother you so late, I just finished for the day and wanted to check in and see how you’re settlin' in and doin' with the script?” he asked, and Jesus Christ, his accent pulled my mind to a place it absolutely shouldn’t go.

Sheepishly, I dropped the towel from my hair and held it in front of me, a sort of modesty blanket to cover my nightgown. Not that my nightgown was outrageously inappropriate, it was an action more out of self-consciousness than anything.

“That’s very kind of you,” I smiled. “I’m settling in well. I’ve finished the script and begun preparing for my first scene.”

“Aye, our first scene?” he interjected, matter-of-factly.

My smile turned sheepish. “Yes, our first scene.” I only had one scene that wasn’t with him before he turns me, and we aren’t filming that for weeks. That’s kinda Maggie’s whole thing—always right there, always in his reach. The thought of all the scene cues I read where he’s possessively holding some part of me made my cheeks heat. The thought of the scenes where he would be holding me, marking me, doing more with me, made my stomach flip, not just because they were more than intimate, but because I couldn’t help but wonder how much of that would be Maggie and how much would be me.

“I suppose you wouldn’t want to let me in to go over it a few times together?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his tone.

My sheepish smile turned into a smirk. “The irony, you standing at my door in the dark asking to be let in?”

At that, he let out a genuine chuckle. “It is, isn’t it?” God, was he charming.

“Happy birthday!” 

You blink at the scene before you. The central hub is littered with gift bags, balloons and banners. Half of your colleagues and friends are gathering around, beaming at you and a grin stretches across your soaked face when Santos pulls the string on a party popper. 

Mel’s feet quickly bring her to you, her smile wide as she awkwardly wraps her arms around you from the side and pulls away with an overly ecstatic grin. 

“Happy birthday,” she repeats again and you mirror her expression, though yours is slightly more softened. 

“Thanks, Mel,” you breathe, turning back to the central hub. 

You purse your lips together, can feel your eyes welling with unshed tears. In the eight years you’d been at PTMC, you’ve always managed to book your birthday off. And while they’ve always made an effort to plan a birthday meal or drinks to celebrate with you, you’ve never walked into something like this. 

It makes your heart swell, makes it ache. You’ve had a few casual jobs before here, while you were in college and even before, but never once have you felt like you belong. Not like they make you feel. 

You sniffle and wipe your eyes, smile still wide, and the rainy, music-less walk to work is suddenly completely forgotten about. Approaching the nurses desk, you take in the scene properly through a slightly distorted vision. 

At least seven gift bags are scattered across the top section of the desk, two bouquets of flowers, three helium balloons and two large banners. 

“You guys are so cute,” you coo as you inspect the bags. That’s when you notice the open white box and your eyes widen even further. A cream frosted cake sits neatly in the box, the words ‘Happy 30th Doc!’ are piped on in a green icing calligraphy. 

You’re slightly overwhelmed at the amount of love they’re outright showing you. 

You hear a clap of hands and turn to find Robby standing in front of you all, a fond smile on his lips when he looks at you and dips his head. 

“Alright, you’ve all seen your favorite Doctor. Now, respectfully, fuck off and go home. It’s been a long day and the majority of you are back here bright and early tomorrow morning.” 

Mel is the first to give you a hug goodbye, excitement still evident in her body as she bounces on her feet slightly. Then Santos, which is more of a pat on the back, and Whitticker hugs you like he’s still a teenager that hasn’t ever touched a girl before. 

Langdon almost crushes you when he wraps his arms around your shoulders, Javadi opting to wave goodbye and Dana pressing a kiss to your cheek and smoothing down your wet hair. 

“Have a good shift, doll. Enjoy the cake.” She grins as you blow her a kiss goodbye. 

You feel the weight of Robby’s hand on your shoulder and turn to face him and the rest of the staff you’ll be working with tonight. 

Only a few familiar faces looked back at you. Shen, Boone, Ellis, Mohan. Nurses flitter about but your eyes land on four new faces you haven’t yet seen. 

Robby looks at them expectantly and you notice the way they shift to stand a little straighter. 

The young blonde clears her throat and plasters on a smile. “Amelia Crovinch, MS3.” 

The second is a short man, probably early thirties with a ginger stubble and a podgy stomach. “Ricky Perkins, MS2.” 

The third is much taller. A man in probably his late twenties, dark hair, dark eyes and you would be stupid to not admit that he’s attractive. He grins at you, eyes flirty. Fucking fantastic. “Charlie Holloway, MS3. Happy birthday, gorgeous.” He winks. 

You turn away from him to the final one, trying to hide your grimace at the wink. A woman who looks to be in her mid twenties, expressionless and far too snooty for your liking. “Karen Molloy, MS4.” 

“Perfect.” Robby claps his hands together. “This is Dr. Y/L/N, R4, though hopefully soon attending. If Dr. Shen and Dr. Abbot are otherwise busy, this is who you will go to for a typical attending clearance.”

“But she’s not an attending,” Molloy argues. 

Fantastic, you’re sure you’re going to get along just superbly with her.

You raise a brow, turning away to look back at Robby. “Jack’s working tonight?” You ask instead, hoping you hide your excitement well enough. 

Robby nods, opens his mouth to speak when another voice does it for him. “Happy birthday to my favorite R4.”

Jack approaches swiftly, that crooked yet flirty smile on the corner of his mouth. Your stomach flips at the sight of him, the sound of his voice. It’s pathetic really, the amount of affect he has on you over something as trivial as speaking. 

You roll your eyes fondly. “I’m your only R4.” 

Jack stops just short of you, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And if there were more, you’d still be my favorite.” He says it lightly enough for it to be perceived as a joke but you know better. 

You know you’re Jack’s favorite. If his behaviour toward you compared to others is anything to go by. He taught you most of what you know, advocated for you to sit in on new things and take control when more authority was needed. Jack believes in you, respects you wholeheartedly, and he has never been afraid to show it. 

It’s made you giddy for years, makes you silly enough to believe you’re his favorite something else, too. But Jack is a flirt, he gives eyes to everyone he speaks with and since you started working here eight years ago, you’ve had to remind yourself of the fact every day. 

His gaze is still on you, one that lingers just a second too long. When he moves his eyes to look at Robby and most probably send him home, you take the moment to address the students with a kind smile. 

“It’s nice to meet you all, night shifts can be a little crazy but we all try to work together as a team to get through.”

Another set of hands meet your shoulders as a presence looms over you from behind. His scent consumes you, warm and enticing, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be, in a way you want it to be more. It takes every ounce of composure you have to not allow your face to betray you. 

“I am going to get our birthday girl up to speed…Dr. Ellis, Cravinch, do you mind moving all of this to the break room, please?” Jack gestures to the gifts and balloons on the nurses station. 

Ellis nods, reaching for your arm and smiling wickedly. “Happy birthday, baby.” You grin at her, offering thanks and telling everyone to help themselves to cake whenever they want it. 

You salute Robby playfully as you pass him, heading toward the lockers to rid yourself of your damp jacket and backpack and change your shoes. You can feel Jack following close behind you, can hear his soft steps before he leans on his crossed arm against the lockers, body facing you. 

“Robby said you’re working a double?” You break the silence as you stuff your damp sneakers and jacket into the locker, toeing on your dry pair of spare converse. You side-eye him playfully. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for that shit now?” 

Jack’s brows rise comically high at your comment, his own mouth curling into a smirk. He rolls his shoulders, not moving from his position leaning against the lockers. “I’m forty-seven.” 

You nod slowly, lips pursed as you shut your locker and turn to face him, mirroring his body language. A playful look gleams in his eyes and you have to force your thighs not to clench together. 

Jack is a flirt. 

He does this with everyone. 

You are his favourite R4 and nothing else. 

“I didn’t think you were working tonight.” he comments and for a brief moment you let yourself be deluded enough to believe he keeps tabs on your shift pattern. 

You sigh. “I was supposed to be in this morning but apparently there was a scheduling error, so instead I’m spending my birthday in my favorite place.” You grin at him sarcastically and the corner of his lips kicks up in a smile. 

It makes your pulse thunder. You need to get a fucking grip. 

You take a step away from the lockers and Jack follows, his arm brushing yours as you adjust the stethoscope around your neck. It’s comfortable and professional as he walks you around the ED, filling you in on the current patients, what they need, what they’re waiting for. 

And Jack also makes a point of letting every patient know it’s your birthday and to be on their best behaviors. It makes you laugh, blush and cringe every time they offer birthday wishes, but it made you beam when a seven year old girl with a broken wrist sang to you. You promised to bring her a fat slice of cake for it. 

“This is the last one. Caleb Dawkins, thirty-three year old male who has been persistent to the day shift that he is unhappy with their lack of diagnoses and insisted on waiting to be seen by a different doctor on the night shift.” Jack mutters to you as you both stop just short of outside the curtain. 

You sigh, plaster on a smile and walk into his private sector. 

The patient on the bed is quite attractive. Dark hair, long lashes, bright eyes that remind you of Langdon’s. His skin is tan, patchwork tattoos across his arms and absolutely no reason for his shirt to be off with no motoring equipment attached to him. 

“Hi, Mr Dawkins, I’m Dr Y/L/N, what brings you in today?” you poise it as politely as you can but you really don’t have the energy tonight for someone coming in and wasting time and resources if there’s nothing wrong with them. 

Caleb stills when he sees you, a smile breaking across his lips when he realises you’re a doctor that hasn’t yet seen him. “Hey Doc, I got some pain in my chest,” he grunts, rubbing at his sternum.

You frown, reaching for his chart and reading over the notes. You feel Jack’s presence behind you, looking over your shoulder at the notes and you bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Caleb, your EKG and bloodwork came back all clear.” Jack tells him—which you feel like isn't for the first time with the huff that follows—and takes the chart from you as you approach the patient. 

“Lay back for me, just gonna have a listen.” You recline his bed back, pressing the cool metal of the stethoscope to his bare chest. You keep it there for a few moments, eyes focused on the wall opposite you. 

You pull away. “Your heart rate is perfect. Have you experienced any vomiting, fever, dizziness…?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been feeling hot and cold on and off.” 

You hum and reach for the thermometer, guiding it to his ear and checking for a fever. It beeps, flashing green and you place it back, side-eyeing Jack who stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed. 

You turn back to Caleb with a friendly smile. “Your temp is fine, but I can get one of the nurses to come back and run some more bloods, see if there’s anything we missed.” 

“Can’t you do that?” he argues. 

You make a pout and let out a breath. “Our nurses are very capable and I have a lot of patients to check on, but I will be back soon when I have your blood results, okay?” 

You don’t wait for him to reply before following Jack out of the section and loosening a breath. “He is going to be here all night isn’t he,” you mutter and he hums in agreement as he guides you both to the break room. 

You corner Princess on the way, asking if she can run another lot of bloods for Caleb before the smell of coffee washes over you and Jack is handing you a cup, his fingers ghosting against yours for a brief moment. 

The break room is filled with your gifts and balloons and cake. You smile at it all, that warmth in your chest returning. “Seems pretty calm out there, why don’t you take a look at what you got?” Jack says over the rim of his polystyrene cup. 

“I’ll go through it when I get home.” You wave a hand, picking up the card in the flowers to read the note.

A bouquet of pink and white tulips from Robby. A bouquet of pink and blue hydrangeas from Whittaker and Santos, and a large bouquet of red roses with no note. You turn to Jack, pointing at them. “Do you know who those are from?” 

He shakes his head, approaching to look at them. “Dana said they got delivered for you this afternoon, no card on them, though. Maybe Collins?” he suggests. 

You laugh loudly at that. “Yeah, because Collins is going to get me roses for my birthday.” 

That stupid fucking smirk spreads across his mouth. He shrugs again. “I don’t know then. Are you…seeing anyone?” 

Your gaze snaps to his then, and you must be seeing things because you’re almost certain the smirk on his face is fading as he asks. You swallow, tongue swiping across your lower lip as you look back at the roses. 

“No, I haven’t even been on a date in like…forever…” Realisation of the fact crept up on you and a crushing weight began to settle its way beneath your ribcage. While you haven’t been on a date in a hot minute, you have seen these exact roses far too often recently. Something that no longer feels like a coincidence.

For the past six weeks, every Wednesday, this exact bouquet has been left sitting on the steps to your apartment building. Something you never truly acknowledged much of before. There on a Tuesday, gone by Wednesday. But now, they are here. Left at the nurses station. A delivery for you. 

It makes your blood run cold, a daunting fear that begins to wedge its way beneath your ribcage. You’re not seeing anyone, there is no reason for you to be receiving roses.

The stillness of your shoulders doesn’t go unmissed by Jack. It concerns him slightly, piques his interest.  He takes a step closer, frowning at the roses then frowning at you. 

“What—”

Jack’s words are cut off when one of the med students—that you’ve already forgotten the name of—calls out to you for assistance. 

You take a breath, grab the roses and shove them into the trash in the corner of the break room. Jack watches with raised brows and confusion swimming in his eyes. He’s about to speak again when another call for help shouts across the ED, Jack’s name tagged onto the end of it. 

He grabs your wrist and gives it a squeeze. “We’ll talk about this later.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next five hours of your shift is chaos incarnate. 

No coffee, no breaks. Three cardiac arrests, two addicts who had overdosed, three critically injured in a car accident and a guy who was stupid enough to attempt to breath fire after watching a four minute long youtube tutorial and ended up with third degree burns in his throat and across his face and neck. 

You haven’t been on your game. You mind has been distracted, stuck on those fucking unsolicited roses. 

And by the time it gets to 2am and you sneak off to the break room for at least a sip of coffee, all of your birthday cake has been eaten and the coffee pot is empty. It’s typical for you to be interrupted the second a fresh pot finishes brewing. 

“Um, your phantom chest pain guy is refusing to speak to a doctor that isn’t you.” Amelia mutters apologetically. 

You close your eyes for a moment, blindly pouring coffee into a cup and pressing the lid on. “I can come with you, assert some male dominance.” Charlie suggests, like it was an offer that would do you a favor. 

You find yourself wishing it was Charlie that passed out at the sight of blood and got sent home instead of Perkins. 

You look at him with a bored expression, brow quirked at the audacity. You wonder how far up his ass his head really is. A hand lands on his shoulder—one you’re too familiar with, one you fantasise about late at night. 

“I am going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.” Jack speaks low, eyes peering into yours but you avoid his gaze. 

He’s been trying to speak with you since your little outburst in the break room at the start of shift but you’ve been avoiding him. You don’t feel like admitting your little situation aloud to anyone—least of all to him. You won’t be able to handle the disappointment on his face when you also admit that you’ve been oblivious to it for weeks.

“Shen is about to perform a chest tube thoracostomy in Trauma Room 3, great learning experience,” he mutters to the students. 

When you sneak another glance at him, he’s already looking at you, Charlie and Amelia rushing to the action. He jerks his head to the side. “Walk with me?”

You huff but relent, shoulders low and feet scuffling. “You gonna tell me what's going on?” he presses softly. 

You keep your eyes ahead. “If I make it through this double shift, sure—Mr Dawkins, I heard you were asking for me, what’s going on?” 

He sits up in his bed, still not attached to any monitoring equipment because it still isn’t needed. You truly don’t know how much longer you can keep your patience with him. You raise your brows expectantly when you’re ignored and follow his line of sight to Jack who remains close behind you. 

“You her guard or something? She not capable of doing anything on her own?” Caleb’s voice is harsh as he addresses Jack and it gets your back up immediately. 

You whirl back to look at him with raised brows. “I asked Dr Abbot to assist me. We’re at a loss here, Caleb.” You sigh as you take a seat on the swivel stool beside his bed. “Your bloodwork is coming back perfectly normal, your heart rate is steady, no temperature. You have no bruising or swelling, no abnormalities when we’ve checked over your chest.” 

Jack watches with crossed arms from the curtain. 

“So what are you saying?” he asks you softly. 

But before you can even open your mouth, Jack is speaking. “We’re saying we don’t think you’re really having chest pains.” 

Caleb’s face grows angry, expression furrowed as he sits up in the bed, all frustration directed toward Jack. You stand immediately. 

“You’re saying I’m making this shit up?” 

“No! No, we are not saying that,” you reassure as calmly as you can, palms in the air in a futile attempt at surrender, an offer to calm him. You sit back slowly on the stool when Caleb lays back in the bed. 

You chew on your bottom lip, shifting closer on the stool and trying to keep your expression friendly and open. “Caleb, are there any…mental health illnesses within your family?” 

He blinks at you, slowly before a brow raises just an inch. “You think I'm insane?” 

You smile as you shake your head. “No, but I think you think you’re feeling sensations that aren’t there. We’ve run many tests, Caleb, and nothing is coming back to suggest that what you’re feeling is physical feeling.” 

You let the words hang in the air, let him stare at you as he processes what you said. For a brief moment, you think he might lunge for you, so does Jack by the way he takes a careful step closer to your back. 

Caleb blinks again. “My dad has uh…he has schizophrenia.” 

With pursed lips, you nod. “Okay, I’m going to put you in for a CT scan so we can see if there are any enlarged ventricles or cortical atrophy. They can sometimes be a sign of schizophrenia, but not always. We have a social worker in the ED, her name is Kiara. I can get her to come down and speak with you if you’re open to it?” 

Caleb shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to speak to anyone that isn’t you.”

You swallow with a nod, forcing a kind smile. “Okay. I won’t be able to take you for the CT but I will come and check on you when you’re done.” 

You stand to leave, palms clammy as you approach Jack when Caleb calls your name again. Turning to face him, he smiles at you, kind, flirty. And not at all worried about the possibility of having schizophrenia. Figures. 

“Happy birthday, baby.” 

You nod a thanks a little hesitantly, irked by the nickname and with a hand on your lower back, Jack guides you to the nurses station. “Happy birthday, baby.” He mimics playfully in a low voice and the repetition of the nicknames makes your shoulders tense. 

Because it doesn’t irk you when it’s coming from Jack’s lips. It sets your body alight in excitement and wonder. Baby. Oh God, you’ll be playing this moment in your head for weeks to come. Your mind is already storing the nickname and tone away into your mental Rub Hub.

Despite his attempt at lightening your mood, you can feel Jack’s eyes on you as you sit at a computer to chart, to book in that CT. You feel him hovering and while you’ll usually bask in the attention, this time you rear away from it. 

The questioning is coming, you know that. But if you can avoid it until at least the end of the night shift, you will. 

“You want me to make a call to Psych?” Jack asks and you sigh. “Would you mind? I know a CT isn’t a definite way to pick it up but at least it could rule out a mass or tumor in the meantime.” 

“Hey, this got delivered for you about ten minutes ago.” Boone calls, pushing a brown take out bag in your direction. 

You look at the bag, then her, your brows furrowed. “I didn’t order anything.” 

She shrugs a shoulder as you open the delivery to inspect the contents. “Maybe someone on day shift wanted to surprise you.” 

The smell of sushi hits you immediately and your stomach churns. Not because you don’t like it, but because it was your favorite and no one on day shift would be awake at midnight to send you sushi.

Anger burns your blood and Jack watches it happen. You scrunch the bag up, stand from your chair and throw the food into the trash with as much force as you can muster. You don’t look back to see wide eyes and confusion following your retreating form. Nor do you see the increasing worry that’s taking over Jack’s face. 

You have a stalker. Someone following you. Who knows where you live and where you work. Who knows you’re working tonight. Who knows it's your birthday. It’s with that heavy and dizzying thought that you’re locking yourself in the restroom and bursting into tears.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jack Abbot has a way with women. Well, not just women, he tends to have the same effect on people despite their gender.

Strong eye contact, lazy smiles, low tones. He’s sure, confident, assertive, nice. But right now he’s growing more and more pissed off by the second. He has no energy for lazy smiles or undisturbed eye contact. 

Worry is beginning to wedge its way deep into his bones with every moment that passes, every slight behavioural change you display. Your outburst with the roses was one thing, but when it happened again with the take out delivery, the entire team was then beginning to notice. 

On top of that, you’re avoiding him. Which in your eight years of working at PTMC, you have never done. Jack doesn’t like it. Not one bit. 

“Who shit in her birthday cake?” Molloy mutters from her position where she charts, her distasteful eyes following you across the Pitt as you assist on a head trauma. 

McKay gives her an unimpressed look before stepping up beside Jack to watch you through the glass window. “She doing okay?” she asks quietly, the concern evident in her voice. 

Jack’s mouth scrunches slightly to the side, a barely noticeable movement of his head following. “Yeah, I think she’s just got a lot on her mind. Keep an eye on her for me?” 

Mckay nods, not quite convinced at the way he tries to vouch for your mental state but she doesn’t press, it’s not her place. “You’re on a double right? It’s almost 4am, why don’t go for your break, we’ll be okay out here.” she offers. 

Jack hesitates, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep even if he tries. But ultimately, he knows McKay is right. He still has another fifteen hours ahead of him and his leg is fucking killing. Jack relents with a sigh, running his hand down his face as he nods. 

“Yeah, okay. Make sure she goes for hers when she’s done.” he nods his head in your direction and Cassie nods hers. 

It takes twenty minutes for Jack to even begin to feel comfortable on the small couch in the break room. An unofficial designated space for staff to get at least an hour's shut eye if they were on a double. His leg is aching, the pathetic massage he gave the stub doing little to ease it. But his mind is the one thing he can’t shut off from. 

Something is wrong, bothering you to the point that it’s affecting your work. Your patience is wearing thin, your smiles are forced and tight. He’s never seen you like this; so out of your element to the point that you’re snapping at people for the smallest things. 

Everyone is used to you being a ray of sunshine. Someone who laughs hard at things that aren’t that funny, who believes everything is a learning experience, who takes what is thrown at them with your head held high. 

Tonight it looks like you’re barely swimming above water. And your outbursts with the roses and the take out bag…he can’t stop thinking about them. Jack has come to the conclusion that perhaps you have been seeing someone—a thought that sours his expression no matter how much he’ll try to deny it—and they are wanting another chance you aren’t willing to give. 

But you told him earlier that you haven’t dated in a long time. 

His mind is a mess of jumbled thoughts over the situation. It takes another twenty minutes before sleep finally begins to catch up with him. It’s short lived, though. It always is. Not even an hour later he’s blinking himself awake, his mind racing back to you as if he never even slept. 

By the time he sorts himself out and grabs a cup of coffee for him and a chamomile tea for you, he’s back at the nurses station. The Pitt still seems as lively as it did before he retired for a nap, but everyone seems to have everything under control. 

He notices you immediately, slumped on a chair as you no doubt chart for probably the hundredth time tonight. Jack approaches you steadily, body still slightly stiff from cramming himself on that small couch. He doesn’t speak at first, just places your tea beside your hand and waits. 

Slowly, your eyes trail up his arm and chest before settling on his still slightly sleep-ridden face. Your hard expression softens just an inch and Jack’s shoulders relax briefly at the sight. “Thank you,” you whisper, eyes not leaving his. 

Jack pulls a swivel stool to his legs, takes a seat beside you. He opens his mouth to speak; to tell you he’s worried, that if something is bothering you he will listen, he will help in any way he can. But he doesn't say that. You’re starting to soften and he doesn’t want to make you tense again. 

“Why don’t you take your break,” he suggests instead. “We’ve still got another shift ahead of us.” Your shoulders droop at that, a heavy and exhausted sigh slipping past your pretty lips. A groan is soon to follow, your hand coming up to rub at your face. 

“I’m so tired but I don't think I could sleep if I tried.” Your voice is defeated but Jack can’t help the soft smile that threatens to pull on his lips. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It took me a little while.” 

You hum, eyes still on him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t dare. Jack has always thought you were incredibly beautiful, those gorgeous eyes and pillow lips… he knows it’s inappropriate, but he’s never acted on any of those dirty thoughts that creep up on him in the middle of the night. 

He’s too old for you, and you’re too good for him. 

“I’ll keep an eye on your patients,” he promises. 

You smile wider at that but a sleepiness overtakes your features. Jack doesn’t think you've ever looked so…soft. He wonders if that’s what you look like every night, when you’re settling yourself to sleep in your big, empty bed. He wonders if that’s what you’d look like if he woke you up to his head between your—

“Go,” he cuts his own thoughts off, jutting his head slightly to the direction of the break room. “Couch is already set up for you.”

You blink slowly at him, leaning in just a bit closer to playfully flick his knuckles with your finger. “You’re too good to me, Jack Abbot.” 

His heart—he doesn’t want to think about the rhythm of his heart right now. Instead his lips turn downward to hide his grin as he shoots you a wink. You don’t offer the same restraints as a grin stretches across your mouth. Your hand meets his, squeezing in silent thanks before you stand with your tea and excuse yourself to the break room. 

“Oh, by the way, phantom chest pain guy? He’s with Psych now, thank you.” you call back to him over your shoulder.

Jack watches you retreat, the sway of your hips, the heaviness on your shoulders. He’ll get to the bottom of whatever is bothering you. He won’t let you suffer alone. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Your nap is short lived, much like Jack’s. Barely an hour of sleep before you’re waking with a groan and a kink in your neck. 

You have to push the fear of your crippling situation way deep down if you’re going to get through the last half of your double shift. You’re a doctor for fucks sake, you can’t not afford to not be on your a game. 

So you do. You push it down, you ignore it. You complete your rounds, treat your patients, write up your charts and do everything in your power to avoid the questioning stares from Jack. 

Until the time reaches almost 7am and another delivery is made. A cup of coffee from the coffee shop across your apartment and another bouquet of red roses. 

The delivery man calls out your name but you’re frozen in place behind the nurses desk. Boone looks at you, a little spooked at your pale complexion as she thanks the delivery driver and takes them from him. 

Everyone seems to still around you as Boone places them on the desk in front of you, your change in behaviour causing an uncomfortable shift in the air. 

You approach the roses and coffee as if you’re on the brink of death; slow, hesitate, fearful. And when you grow close enough to see the note tucked between the buds, your blood runs ice cold and you snap. 

Jack walks toward the central hub just as you pick up the drink and flowers and hurl them into the trashcan, shoving your foot into it to crush the flowers, the drink almost exploding under the force of the kick. 

You turn to everyone with wide eyes, your chest heaving and tears welling your eyes. “If I have one more delivery, you put it straight in the fucking trash.” 

Jack watches with wide eyes as you storm outside through the ambulance bay, not missing the confused and startled looks everyone gives your retreating form. Fuck this, he can’t wait for you to come to him. Jack doesn’t think twice before following you outside, and what he finds almost cleaves his heart in two. 

You’re crouching on the ground, head almost tucked between your knees and you sniffle and sob to yourself. He’s quick to rush to you, bending at the knee despite the ache of his leg protesting. 

He pulls you into him and lets out a breath when you don't argue. “You need to tell me what the fuck is going on, sweetheart.” His tone isn’t mean but firm. 

You can barely catch a breath and he knows what a panic attack looks like. He pulls your hands off the back of your head, lifts your face with his palms cupping your wet cheeks and angles you upwards, allowing the air to hit your face. 

“You’re okay. Just breathe, I’m right here, you’re okay.” He coos at you, suffocating his own anxiety at the slightly frightening sight of you. 

You try to focus on the feel of his skin on yours, his warmth, his scent. You make it a focal point, something to try and ground you, to coax you out of your spiralling mind. Jack feels you shake in his hold, and even though your breathing begins to slow just slightly, he can’t let go of the pure look of fear in your eyes. 

He doesn’t speak again until you have calmed to a more manageable state, offering quiet coos of comfort, large and steady palms soothing up and down the length of your spine. He calls your name, quietly so as to not startle you but loud enough to hear over the ringing in your ears. 

Turning to him, your dry lips part and silent tears continue to slip down your flushed cheeks. You look away, can’t stomach the concern in his eyes. A friend that’s worried about you and your strange behaviour. That’s all. 

You rise to shaking feet and take a step away from him in an attempt to regain your bearings. Jack doesn’t push, he waits—impatiently—as you take steadying breath after steading breath, hands shaking out at your sides. 

“I think I have a stalker.” Admitting the words aloud causes more silver to line your eyes. You refuse to look at him, can’t subject yourself to his disappointment. 

But his silence is deafening and when you cast a cautionary glance toward him through your peripheral, you wish you didn’t. His face drains of color, lips parted in what you could only assume is shock. 

“What?” he breathes in pure disbelief, brows knitting. “A stalker? Is that what those deliveries are?” 

You nod shakily, blowing unsteady air through rounded lips as Jack takes a careful step closer to you. “How long has this been going on for?”

You shrug, hands reaching for your hair and loosening the stands at your roots. “I think like six weeks.” 

Jack can’t control his eyes, how they widen and blink rapidly, has no control of his head bobbing and rearing back as though you’ve just physically assaulted him. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” His voice raises.

You cringe, squeezing your eyes shut as you close the distance between you, your palms now cupping your own face in an attempt to shield yourself from everything. You shake your head rapidly, tears streaming down your face. “No, it's not—it’s not like that. It just—look I didn't know until today!”

Jack appears even more bewildered. “What does that even mean?”

You huff; angry and scared. “About six weeks ago, I started seeing a bouquet of red roses outside my apartment building. Every week. I didn't think anything of it, why would I? And then last night, those red roses were left here—for me. The same florist, the same bouquet… its– its never happened at work, I never even considered the flowers outside the building were—”

“Okay, okay, breathe.” His voice softens, palms stretching for you to rest on your shoulders. Warmth radiates through your scrubs and into your skin, you try to focus on his touch, his proximity without being swept away in it. 

“And then there was the sushi delivery, from my favorite place, the coffee from the coffee shop across the road from my apartment that I go to every morning… then just now with another fucking bunch of roses—”

“And the note. I’ll see you soon, my love.” 

Your eyes are screwed shut tightly. “Jack, I’m freaking the fuck out.”

He hates this. His blood is roaring beneath his skin, veins threatening to burst at just how tightly wound he is. You have a fucking stalker. “Alright, okay. We're going to the police. Right now.” 

You shake your head. “I—we can’t, we both have another shift ahead of us before—”

“Fuck the next shift. You have a stalker, sweetheart, that's not something that can be pushed aside to deal with later.” He argues gently but his tone is firm, booking no room for argument. 

You scratch feverishly at your scalp, tugging on the roots of your hair to inflict anything but fear. Something else to focus on, something to take it away. Jack grabs your wrists, warm palms soothing against your skin as he guides them away from your head. 

“What’s your locker code?”

You rattle off the string of numbers, barely registering the question. But when you realize he was going to retrieve your things for you, you wipe your face and make your way back inside. You can’t just leave, you at least need to get someone to watch your patients while you are gone. 

The fluorescence of the Pitt sting your swelling eyes, concerned glances following as you approach the nurses desk and lean down to Ellis. She watches you carefully, brows knitted and lips parted in worry. You shake your head before she can ask. You don’t want to get into this with anyone else. 

It’s bad enough that Jack knows.

“Do you mind including my patients on rounds with day shift? I need to step out for an hour or so.” You ask her quietly and she nods quickly, eager to help. 

Your eyes flitter up as day shift begins to trickle in. Many of them liked to show up twenty minutes early to get a head start, find the rhythm of things. You avoid their gazes, looking to the right instead where Jack stands with your bags, lips a thin line on his worried face. 

Robby whistles as he strolls in, Jack moving closer toward you the same time Robby does. He eyes you both with raised brows. “You both look like shit.”

Before either you or Jack can even make a sound, your name is being called softly from across the Pitt, followed by a birthday wish. You smile weakly as Paige approaches, a nurse who typically favours a position in triage. She’s only been here a few months, but in the off shifts that you’ve worked with her, you very much enjoy her company.

“Hey, have I had any deliveries today?” she asks Boone as she grows closer, arms folded over the top of the nurses station, resting her cheek on her palms. 

“No, don't think so hon, what were you expecting?” Boone asks softly. 

She blushes a bit. “Oh, my uh my girlfriend said she’d dropped off a few things but I haven't gotten anything. Unless they’ve been delivered under her name instead of mine. It was uh, roses, sushi, coffee, her name’s Y/N.” 

You blink. 

Once. Twice. 

All eyes turn to you but yours meet Jack’s. It’s in synchronicity that your lips part, eyes widen, shoulders sagging. You turn to Paige, your face pale and red-rimmed eyes staring at her with so much guilt she looks a bit scared.

“I am so sorry.” 

“Oh, thank god.” Jack rubs his hands down his face. 

“Um. You have had some deliveries, and we all assumed that when delivery guys have been bringing things in for Y/N, that they meant me. And I have been…throwing everything in the trash because I thought I had a stalker.” You explain the last words slowly, carefully. 

Embarrassment flares bright on your cheeks, blood rushing down to your toes and you almost feel frozen in place. You can live with the embarrassment, right now the most overwhelming feeling is pure, unbridled relief. 

Robby looks at you in complete bewilderment. His eyes dart around the E.R in a state of pure confusion before he blinks it away and shakes a hand by his head. “Not even going to ask.”

“Paige, I will pay for everything. I—” She laughs softly as she approaches you, arms out with a tender expression before embracing your frozen form in her arms. 

“No, it’s okay. Are you alright? That must’ve really freaked you out, I’m so sorry.” You finally manage to will your body to move, arms wrapping around her lightly as you return the hug. You laugh against her shoulder, pulling back to rub at your eyes with a groan. 

“I need about a gallon of coffee if I'm going to get through this next shift.”

“Oh, you didn’t get the email?” Robby speaks over the rim of his beverage. 

“What email? You frown. 

“You’re not down for the day shift, you’re not in ‘til Saturday,” he looks behind you to Jack, pointing a finger that’s wrapped around the paper cup, “Neither are you. Scheduling error.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jack huffs at the same time you do, the pair of you rubbing hands down your faces in something akin to telepathic synchronicity. It causes Robby to raise an amused brow.

“You two need to go home. I don't know what the hell happened on this shift, but I’m sure Shen and Ellis can handle change over.” 

Neither of you argue with Robby’s offer. You silently take your bag from Jack and haul it over your shoulder. “Come on,” Jack nods his head toward the break room. “We’ll get your birthday gifts and I’ll take you home.”

You don’t argue on that offer either. Don’t acknowledge the butterflies in your stomach at the thought of being in such close proximity to him for a ten minute ride home. You’re too tired, head far too fuzzy. 

You need a pint of wine and a fucking nap. 

Retrieving your things from the break room is done on autopilot. You take the balloons and two bouquets of flowers while Jack takes your gift bags. It’s a no brainer to offer the flowers as a peace offering to Paige on your way out, a plethora of apologies once again tumbling from your lips. 

You don’t stay long enough to let her refuse them, feet rushing you out through the ambulance bay and toward Jack’s car. Right. His car. The vehicle he drives. A vehicle that you’ve never been in, only ever seen in passing. Black and sleek, simple yet clearly expensive. 

You feel him approach from behind and swallow as he opens the trunk and gently places your gifts inside, reaching an arm toward you for the balloons. He nods his head to the passenger side silently, your heart rate picking up at the simple command. 

It's wordless when you open the door and settle inside. It smells like him. Something rich and manly and a hint of coffee that somehow kisses every unexposed nerve ending. The seats are leather, durable and good quality. It’s modern, with a CarPlay screen and heated seats. You don’t know enough about cars to understand the logo in the center of his steering wheel. 

You watch him get in effortlessly, clipping his belt and starting the engine. You watch as he gets comfortable, readjusting the rearview mirror before pausing to look at you. He catches your staring but doesn't say anything. 

And when neither of you make any attempt to look away, a tired yet fond smile kicks up at the corner of his mouth. He leans toward you and your breathing stops, the hairs on your skin standing tall. Jack’s arm reaches to your side and only when you hear the faint zipping of the seatbelt being pulled do you realize that he was waiting for you to put it on. 

Embarrassment crawls up your neck as he clips the belt for you instead. “Sorry,” you whisper breathlessly, quickly clearing your throat. “My head’s a little all over the place right now.” You excuse your foolishness the best way you can as Jack cracks open a window. 

He offers a huff of a laugh as he pulls out of the staff parking space slowly. “I’m not surprised after the night you’ve had.” He reassures, his hand reaching out for the screen. You watch with deft attention as his long fingers tap on the GPS, waving that finger at you and then back at the screen again.

You get the hint, lean forward just enough to be able to type your address in, only a ten minute journey that's mapped out for him. 

Jack raises a brow as he pulls out of the hospital. “Swanky area,” he comments.

You can’t help but scoff at that. “Not really. It’s my Uncle’s apartment, he just rents it out to me.” 

He hums, non committal. The drive is silent, not suffocating or uncomfortable but…needed. Jack doesn’t push for conversation, doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t comment on your stupid mistake of thinking you had a fucking stalker. 

He lets you bask in the quietness, lets you have these ten minutes for your body to begin to relax. It isn't until he pulls up outside the apartment building that one tiny flaw in the stalker situation arises. Because there, on the front door steps, is another bouquet of red roses. 

It hits you the same time it hits Jack, both of your bodies stiffening at the sight of them. But the stiffness is quickly replaced with another overwhelming sense of relief and exhaustion when you notice Paige again, walking up to those doors and retrieving the flowers with a gentle smile before going inside. 

Your hands rub at your face. “I forgot she lives in this building.” you admit, words muffled by your palms but your body tingles at the sound of Jack’s breathy chuckle. 

“You definitely need some sleep.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, then reaches to unclip yours before opening his door. “Come on, I’ll walk you up.” 

He doesn't let you carry the balloons or the gift bags as he walks beside you up two flights of stairs. Guilt gnaws at you for it, you know his leg must be hurting, but Jack always hides it well. 

When you reach your apartment door, you slow, bashful almost. You've been friends for eight years, yet you’d never been in his car before tonight, he’s never been in your apartment building. The whole thing feels…different…intimate. 

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For the shift, driving me home…walking me up.” 

Jack shrugs a shoulder, handing you your things before stuffing his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything, just looks. Like he’s assessing. It’s not scrutinising, but it’s not the fond look you’ve grown accustomed to, either. 

It’s new. It sends your pulse racing. 

You wait, anticipating something else, something more. But it doesn't come. Jack takes a step back as you unlock your front door, he turns toward the stairs as you push the door open. But when you take your first step inside, he turns back to you again.

“Hey, are you doing anything tonight?”

Your heart stops. Beats. Skips a beat. Then it stops again. 

“Other than crying that I didn't get a slice of my own birthday cake? No, nothing.”

That earns a breathy laugh. Jack looks at you, soft and a little sleepy. “I’m sorry you had such a shitty birthday.” 

You shrug. “Believe it or not, I've had worse. Besides, it wasn't that bad, Shen could’ve forgotten his iced coffee again. And it turns out I don't have a stalker, so a win is a win.”

He laughs a bit louder at that. “I'll tell you what, I’ll come over later. I’ll bring dinner, we’ll try and do a redo for your birthday.”

You smile, swallow down the eager yes! that wants to desperately crawl out of your throat. “You don't have to do that.” Is what you manage to settle for. 

Jack makes a sound of disagreement. “Actually, I do. As your attending, you should consider this a work-place incident check-up.”

You might be exhausted but you’re not deaf. You pick up on the change in his tone, the underlying yet silent suggestion that’s hidden within his words. 

Still, you don’t let yourself get your hopes up. He’s a friend. You’ve had a bad day. He’s being nice. 

You roll your eyes with affection. “Can’t exactly say no to that.” 

Jack grins, untamed and wide. “I’ll come back a little later.” It’s the last thing he says before descending the stairs. 

And when you step inside your apartment and close the door behind you, you realise this little crush on Jack is becoming something much deeper. And the idea of having dinner with him tonight has you sick, horny and completely out of your element.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sammy considered himself to be a pretty tolerant man, you had to be with a wife like his and a job that required endless patience and levelheadedness.

He tried not to let anything get under his skin and he prided himself on his ability to keep calm in tough situations. Clearly he had not properly prepared himself for the sight of you on any given day, especially today as you greeted him from across Nate’s pool.

You’d started to babysit for the Moretta family when you had just turned eighteen, needing to make some quick money for the summer without wanting to do any actual hard work.

Sammy had laughed at the sight of you when he first came over to one of Nate’s cookouts and saw you in the front yard with Petey, wearing these ridiculously tiny shorts and squealing with laughter as you threw water balloons at each other.

“No way you’re having that in your house all summer.” He had scoffed at the thought and nudged Nate with his elbow knowingly, eyeing you from where they’d been working on the new grill in the garage.

“Shut up it’s not like that. Pete loves her and she’s flexible.” He said back, shaking his head and doing his best to avoid looking at you considering you were pretty close to his daughter’s age and he was apparently a bit more morally sound than Sammy at the moment.

Speaking of, he was currently raising his eyebrows at Nate’s choice of words which earned him an eye roll and a wrench tossed in his direction.

A year had passed and you hadn’t gone anywhere, getting a part time job somewhere else but asking Nate and Mariella if you could still babysit occasionally. You liked the kids and the house but, admittedly you also liked the rare occasions you got to see Nate’s partner.

He didn’t come over often and if he did it was always brief outside of the occasional backyard barbecue he managed to get forced into attending. You weren’t a stranger to older guys looking at you but you didn’t mind it at all when it came from Sammy.

All the curious and half longing stares made more sense to you when you finally met his wife on one of those weekends and saw the way they interacted, how tense and unhappy they both seemed. You figured she must have something severely wrong with her to look at Sammy in the disgusted way she did for the entire evening before disappearing into the house with some of the other wives.

“Officer Bryant.” You greeted with a smile and your amused eyes gleaming beneath your hand that you were using to block the sun, hip cocking dangerously as you stood in front of him. “You look lonely over here.”

He was leaned against the house with a beer he was barely sipping, raising his eyebrows at the title you used and smiling.

“Shouldn’t you be watching Petey?” He was only teasing back, both of you well aware the little boy had been following his mom around the entire party. You’d helped set up and then been invited to stick around as a courtesy and a thank you.

You rolled your eyes at him and reached your hand out for his beer, sighing when he sent you a warning glare and pulled it further away from you.

“Your wife seems nice.” Your attempt at a compliment fell flat and you both heard it.

“You don’t mean that.” He replied easily but thankfully he still looked amused even if he had tensed a little at the mention of Tammi.

And even if she was nice, you wouldn’t have meant it. You didn’t feel much guilt towards being attracted to him regardless but it certainly helped your small moral dilemma that the taken man you were lusting over was married to a gigantic bitch.

Just like you weren’t a stranger to the way he looked at you, Sammy was well aware of your goal when you came over to him. You liked to flirt with him when Nate wasn’t paying attention even though his presence sometimes wasn’t enough to stop you either, although you kept it more PG when he was around since he was technically your boss still.

You pulled all the typical moves that almost left him wondering if he was being pranked, if one of the guys at the station who came over for food sometimes had put you up to it.

You’d bat your eyelashes and ask him about his day, run your finger along his belt buckle and pout whenever he said it had been a rough shift. Your constant innuendos and scandalous outfits were poison to any man let alone one as desperate as Sammy.

He hadn’t even really considered himself deprived until he met you. Sure, his marriage was basically a hostile roommate agreement and you were certainly the hottest woman he’s ever had so openly flirting with him but you were also young and he had figured he was a better man than that.

Assumed he wasn’t the type of guy to be in his late thirties and getting all warm at the sight of you in your wet bikini top and jean shorts.

“I don’t, you’re right.” You say and take a few dangerous steps closer to him that make him audibly sigh. “You staying long tonight?”

“Cut that out.” He said and his tone was still light but bordering scolding now, eyes less amused the closer you got to him with a yard full of people around you.

You hadn’t been drinking considering you were underaged and surrounded by cops, off duty or not, but you still had a natural flush to your neck and chest from the sun and he selfishly let his eyes trail down it now that you were so close.

“What?” You replied softly and your head tilted a little at him in question even though you both knew you were well aware of what you were doing to him. You had that effect on most people but especially Sammy.

You liked that he was a little awkward, nervous and good at pretending he had game but still stilted and out of practice in his delivery. You could tell he was married before you even subtly asked Nate, knew it had been a long time since he had tried to flirt with somebody casually.

Even though he really didn’t do it often in his defense, he tried his best to just be kind to you but it was almost impossible to make small talk around your constant advances. You certainly weren’t as shy as him and you only laid it on thicker when he squirmed.

“You know what.” He sighed back and you frowned at the tone of voice he’d taken, hand sliding over his to take the beer bottle and set it down on the outdoor table beside him. He tensed at the feeling of your skin on his but surprisingly didn’t immediately shut it down.

“Tell me Sammy.” You whispered and shifted closer, way too close for anybody who looked over to consider it remotely casual. Especially considering you looked like that and Sammy definitely had the expression of somebody about to lose their mind from a simple hand touch. “What am I doing?”

Luckily he was halfway saved by the slider door opening and Nate poking his head with a tray full of hotdogs, his relief fading when his partner furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of you nearly caging Sammy in against the wall. You took a step back and sighed a little at the much needed interruption, Sammy’s face turning a little red as he straightened up and pushed off the house.

He grabbed his beer on his way past you and you felt his palm run across your stomach, regardless if it was intentional or not you still felt a burst of heat hit you hard at the feeling of his fingertips on your bare skin. You were half tempted to follow him inside but you decided against it very quickly when you remembered Tammi was in there.

Sammy managed to avoid you for the rest of the night and he tried his best to focus on Tammi. Despite their problems that seemed to have no end in sight, she was still his wife and once upon a time he had loved her.

She used to be nice and she’d even flirt with him too even although he couldn’t remember ever feeling as affected by her as he did with you.

Maybe it wasn’t a far comparison considering you were quite literally walking sin and he was sure no girl your age could even hold a candle to you let alone somebody twenty years older like Tammi.

Had a younger version of her even made him feel like that?

He told himself that when Tammi was ready to leave a few hours after arriving that he only stayed to help Nate clean up after. He also told himself that he wasn’t half expecting it when you came into the kitchen only a few minutes after his wife’s car pulled out of the driveway, a more serious look on your face than he was used to.

“Trouble in paradise?” You said softly, leaning against the counter as you eyed him putting untouched fruit appetizers into a container for later.

Thankfully you were wearing a shirt now but the tiny tight tank top did little to help him, almost worse than your bikini considering it was still wet underneath and causing the fabric to cling to your sun kissed skin.

“Wouldn’t necessarily call it that.” He tried to keep his voice gruff and uninterested but he was already aware you knew better than that.

“Trouble or paradise?” You smile and move closer as you say it like putting down his marriage gives you a free pass to nearly invade his personal space.

He hates that you’re not exactly wrong either, his marriage so dull and lifeless that there isn’t even enough care to argue from either of them. He would almost prefer screaming matches with Tammi than how completely stale they’d become.

His hands stop moving, pretty sure he wasn’t doing anything productive anyways since you walked in the room, and he turns his head to look at you more directly. It’s a mistake on his part because you’re so devastatingly pretty that he feels like a sixteen year old boy seeing a pair of tits for the first time again.

“I don’t want to talk about this with you.” He says back to your invasive teasing and he finds himself genuinely meaning it.

Partially for all the right reasons, you have clear intentions with him for whatever purpose you’ve decided and discussing the cons of his marriage with you felt shady enough within itself. But also because he could barely remember Tammi’s name whenever you got that look on your face.

Pleased. Like you had won something that he didn’t even know you had been competing for.

“That’s fine.” Your voice was low, nearing a whisper and Sammy was suddenly very aware of the fact this was the first time he’d been truly alone with you. “I have better ideas for conversation.”

You’d moved fully into his space now and he made the mistake of facing you, back to the counter and his eyes pained as he watched you get closer. You might as well have been slithering, your expression like one of a satisfied predator even though he was sure the roles were typically reversed.

It was straying incredibly far from the stereotypical dynamic of a pervy older guy trying to seduce a cute young girl but you seemed more than comfortable in the part you were playing.

He wondered for half a second if he was the only pathetic married man you tried to seduce like this and then mentally scolded himself for sounding like a jealous high schooler.

“Bad idea.” He eventually replied in reference to your innuendo but it was paired perfectly with your hands brushing against his belts leather. “Terrible.”

“You always say that.” You pout and it would have been extremely cute if it wasn’t for the look in your eyes, completely mocking and almost gleaming the more he denied you. “It’s not fun Sammy.”

“I’m not supposed to be fun. I’m married.” He said it simply even though you didn’t need the reminder.

You made a show of widening your eyes slightly before looking over both of your shoulders in an exaggerated scan of the room. Then you were back to staring up at him and letting your hand brush his stomach next, stopping and applying light pressure just under his ribs.

“I don’t see your wife.” You concluded and he couldn’t stop the huff of laughter that left him at the audacity.

His hand landed ontop of yours that was still on his shirt, confusing you for a second as he pressed down before you realized he was rubbing his wedding band against your skin. You glanced down between your bodies and wanted to sneer at the sight of it but instead you smiled and his eyebrows raised in question.

It was clearly a mistake to try and assert himself like that because your fingers wrapped around the metal and you tugged it off slowly, letting it loosely hang around the final knuckle before you were removing it completely.

He halfway watched as you stretched behind him to set it down on the counter, your bodies pressing together for a few seconds as a result.

“She doesn’t wear hers.” You pointed out to him and his shoulders deflated, knowing you were right.

Tammi hadn’t been wearing her ring for over a year now, giving him some bullshit story about it clanking uncomfortably against her camera as she held it. He’d demanded to see it for weeks while he slept on the couch, knowing in his gut she probably pawned it for that new lens she carried around.

Eventually he stopped asking and it never made an appearance again.

He wondered for a second if you were the type of girl to flaunt a wedding ring, eyes shifting to your pretty hand that was now resting against his chest.

“Such a shame Officer Bryant.” You frown again, the same mocking one that brings heat to his neck, and rub up and down his chest. “I bet you make a good husband.”

“I try my best.” He replies in a lower tone and he knows he means it, or maybe meant it before he met you and apparently threw all of his vows in the trash can.

Technically he hadn’t done anything wrong, he always turned you down when your advances got further than light touching and flirty lines. But the way he thought about you was a sin within itself, maybe worse than if he had actually just cheated.

He lets out a deep sigh when your hand rubs his chest softly over his shirt, your eyes peering up at him with the same level of desire you always seem to have. It makes no sense to him that somebody who looks like you would want him that bad and he’s still not convinced he’s not being pranked by somebody.

“You should go back outside.” He whispers and he really means it because it’s getting harder and harder to keep his hands off of you.

You hesitate and he’s shocked when you actually take a step back and give him a long look, hand lingering on his chest for a second before you’re retracting that too.

It’s perfect timing because the slider door is opening and Nate is appearing again, interrupting like he had earlier and mirroring the expression too. He looks between you both with suspicion, narrowing his eyes at Sammy specifically when you smile and go back outside.

“You’re an idiot.” He tells him simply, shaking his head and moving to put away unopened beers in the fridge.

Sammy can’t even defend himself to his partner, still stuck on the feeling of your hands on him a few seconds ago.

He’s well aware of how idiotic he’s being and he isn’t sure if it’s because he’s so bored and withdrawn from his marriage or if he was secretly that depraved and perverted this entire time. He wonders if maybe it was just dormant until you arrived but the thought makes his stomach ache so he tries to forget it.

There’s a strong effort that goes into avoiding you for the next few weeks, refusing any opportunity to go to Nate’s house and keeping his distance when he has no choice. He stays out in the car or only comes around when he knows you’re not babysitting, hair on the back of his neck standing up whenever he hears your honey voice from the backyard.

He feels pretty proud of himself for resisting the pull to you, the magnetic energy you have constantly calling to him even when he’s at home in bed.

That is until he walks in after work and sees you sitting at his dining room table with Tammi.

He freezes in place and feels like all his worst fears are coming true, a crossover episode straight out of his nightmares. He’s hit with a moment of panic and certainty that you’re here to tell his wife about all the times he’s stood there uselessly and let you flirt with him or touch him lightly.

There aren’t any real stories to tell where he actually participated but he never stopped you and his wandering gaze was bad enough alone.

But Tammi is smiling at you and turning her laptop further in your direction, pointing at something on the screen and talking about coloring and editing in the obnoxiously pretentious way she does. It’s a lot of buzzwords without any real meaning so she can attempt to sound professional and normally it would drive him crazy but he can’t even hear the words she’s saying currently.

You’re looking at him as soon as he enters the kitchen and you have the same expression as always. It’s dangerously wanting and a little smug now.

“Hi Officer Bryant.” You say softly while Tammi doesn’t even glance in his direction, rarely acknowledging him when he comes home.

He stares at you as he takes off his jacket and sets it down on the counter, eye contact not waning for even a second as Tammi continues to talk to you.

“What’s going on?” He finally speaks and he hates how hoarse his voice comes out. If Tammi was ever paying attention to him then she’d probably realize something was going on internally.

“Mariella said she’s in photography club at school and wanted some pointers.” Tammi says and her excitement is palpable, clearly proud that somebody had thought of her when it came to mentorship.

His eyes narrow at you and your smile brightens, shrugging your shoulders innocently like he would believe for a second you had actually wanted Tammi’s help with anything.

He knows he’s right when you softly tell Tammi that you were interested in seeing her variety of lenses and cameras, his wife jumping out of her chair at the opportunity to show off. She tells you to just wait there for a few minutes while she goes and gets them all to present to you.

You’re standing and coming closer to him the second she leaves the room and he sighs automatically, knowing he should have expected it.

“How was work?” You ask him in a soft tone as you fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, his eyes tired as he stares down at you in light disbelief. The sheer audacity of trying to make domestic small talk with him when you lied your way into his kitchen and were sitting rambling about hobbies with his wife.

“Why are you here?” He asks and he knows how pained it comes across but he can’t be bothered to rein it in.

“You were avoiding me.” You pout up at him like it makes perfect sense to you, as if this was the only logical next step after he stopped coming around.

Your hands stop playing with the buttons in favor of rubbing over his chest and shoulders until your arms are looped around his neck. He sighs and lets himself rest his on your waist, feeling the warmth of the sliver of skin your shirt doesn’t cover.

You smile at the rare touch from him, clearly not expecting it and it takes everything in him not to rub your sides curiously.

“This is exactly why.” He tells you and shakes his head, upset with himself already.

“Because you want me?” Your head tilts and he thinks you might be teasing him but he can’t stop himself from nodding his head in quick agreement. That only seems to excite you more, fingers playing with the hair that touches the back of his neck.

You shift even closer if it’s possible and stand on your tiptoes so you can press light kisses against his jaw. It’s the first real time you’re touching him and he visibly melts at the sensation, doing nothing to stop it as his hands clench around your sides and instinctively tug you even closer.

Your lips are warm and moving so softly across his skin as you cling to him, careful not to leave marks but still sucking enough to bring a stir of heat to his gut.

He knows he should be stopping you, should shove you away and confess to Tammi your true intentions coming here but clearly he’s not as good as he can pretend he is because the thought of ending this barely crosses his mind.

“She’s not right for you Sammy.” You whisper softly in between kisses, moving down his neck which he easily bares for you. “I’d make you feel so good.”

His big hand rubs from your side to the small of your back, skin on skin as he pulls you tight against him and keeps you in place. You smile against his skin at the clear show of need, kissing further down until you’re stopped by the collar of his shirt.

“You’ve got to leave.” He sighs and you pull away from his neck to frown at him, the most disgruntled expression he’s ever seen from you.

You look genuinely upset by his rejections this time around and he wonders for a second if maybe this is actually more to you than just some fun.

“Let me do something for you Sammy.” You pout up at him and press closer again, hand rubbing down his stomach and stopping at his belt. “Can I suck you off atleast?”

His hand grips your wrist and he groans lowly, beyond conflicted just from lewd words like that leaving your mouth. It takes everything in him to remove your hand and shift you backwards so you’re not leaning against him anymore.

“We aren’t doing this.” He tries to sound firm but it comes out as weak and nearly desperately. “You’re a nice girl.”

“I’m not.” You shake your head immediately and he has to bite his lip and look away from you and your wanting eyes. “I’m really not.”

Clearly that’s the truth because you’re rocking forward to kiss him lightly and he instinctively melts into it, mouth moving with yours for a few seconds before he’s making a pained noise and moving your backwards with his hands that are still on your waist.

His thumbs press into your stomach until he releases you once you’re on the other side of the kitchen and your eyebrows furrow before you’re turning around and placing your hands behind your back. Your wrist cross each other and you look over your shoulder at him and smile at his confused stare, raking up and down your body.

“You should cuff me Officer Bryant.” You say softly and your voice has taken that low seductive tone you liked to use when you were really testing him.

He wishes he could stop himself from stepping forward and moving your hair over your shoulder so your neck is exposed, pressing a light kiss against it and drinking in the deep inhale you take. His hand goes down to hold your wrist in place, keeping them pinned there like you’re fantasizing about.

Sammy shifts closer until he’s pressed against you from behind and you rest your forehead against the wall.

His free hand slides around your body until he can rub the smooth skin of your stomach softly, his thumb teasing the edge of your tank top.

He’s as close to a man losing control as somebody has probably ever been, his hands nearly shaking from how bad he just wants to touch you. You’re so desperate for him it almost feels comical on his part, not understanding how he possibly got so lucky and cursed at the same time that a pretty girl like you would go this far just to make him feel good.

You make the prettiest sound when he first really presses himself against you, intentional in the way his hips rock forward to feel the curve of your shorts.

“Sammy.” Your voice is so sweet and he knows he can’t handle it so he moves his palm to cover your mouth, resting his forehead on your shoulder blade as he shushes you.

You seemed to like that, either the direction or the feeling of his hand on you because your back arches and you push back into him.

You’re both quiet as you can be aside from some soft noises, muffled and choked on your part. He’s shutting his eyes tight as he moves against you to try and rid himself of any guilt while also being hyper aware of Tammi coming back any second.

You feel so small pressed into the wall the way you are, hands still pinned behind your back like you’re cuffed. He thinks about how much he’d actually like to see you like that, maybe down on your knees for him and unable to touch him other than with your mouth.

He considers bringing it up to you but he knows you’re a live wire and probably wouldn’t hesitate to drop down despite his wife being a few rooms over.

The reminder of how limited time you have spurs him on and he manages to completely forget how wrong this is in favor of letting himself feel good.

Sammy has you pressed against the wall even harder as he ruts into you, grunting low in your ear with his hands leaving your mouth and wrist to press bruises into your hips. He seems almost pained as he moves but your soft whimpers and the way you press back against him makes him unable to think clearly.

“God Sammy you’re so hard.” You whine as you arch your back enough to feel him even more, the way he’s using your body to get off clearly driving you absolutely insane. You feel almost dizzy as his frame crowds yours against the wall, knees weakening but being stabilized by his grip on you.

“Fuck, you know exactly what you do to me.” He groans as he keeps rubbing himself on you, one of his hands sliding from your hips to where your zipper sits. He pulls you further backwards with a hand on your shorts and you made a pleased noise. “Walking around here dressed like that.”

“Just for you.” You whimper and he already knew it but hearing you say it out loud is a whole new beast. “Only you Sammy.”

He can hear Tammi making disgruntled noises from the bedroom, complaining about not being able to find a certain piece of equipment and he somehow finds it in himself to push away from you.

He’s running a hand over his face to attempt to sober himself up when she comes back, glancing at you and being glad to see you had turned around and managed to present semi normal other than the wild look in your eyes.

The signs are obvious to him, the way your shirt is slightly pushed up to your ribs and how your thighs rub together when you sit back down by Tammi. He can’t stand the sight of you so needy still, left unsatisfied but still turning your head to watch him with that same adoring look.

Tammi thankfully never pays attention to anyone but herself and certainty doesn’t notice the dent in his pants or how tense his jaw is when he leaves the room in a hurry.

-

Sammy feels guilty about it for days afterwards, laying in bed with tears in his eyes as he thinks about how wrong it was.

How terrible it is that he still wants you so bad, consumed by the thought of you even more now that he’s felt your skin and heard you whine so desperately for him. The taste of your mouth is haunting him and he can barely stomach arguing back with Tammi when she creates a problem because he feels so torn.

He knows it’s the worst choice to make when he seeks you out but he tells himself it’s about closure.

You’re leaving Nate’s house later than usual after they had a date night, something he’d casually mentioned to Sammy on their way out of the station. He’d been parked outside for almost an hour waiting for you to come out, watching you and the unfamiliar tired look on your face as it turns into recognition at the sight of his car.

He starts the engine as soon as you notice him, letting the headlights turn on and illuminate your figure, painting an image of a spotlight that seems fitting considering how beautiful you look even after a long day.

You take the hint and make your way over to the passenger side of his car, opening the door and getting in quickly incase Nate or Mariella look out their window.

It’s quiet when Sammy pulls away even though he can almost feel the excitement radiating off of you, your hands fidgeting together in your lap and your gaze constantly on the side of his face.

He has half the urge to scold you for getting into a car with him when you barely know him but he can hear how paternal that sounds and quickly decides against it, stomach turning a little at the thought.

He sighs when he pulls into an empty parking lot, some old restaurant that closed down a few years ago in an area that saw little foot traffic. You angle your body towards him expectantly and he finally looks at you directly for the first time that night, how wide and hopeful your eyes are reminding him that this might be more than fun to you.

“What we did was wrong.” He starts softly and your face falls before it hardens, eyebrows furrowing as you start to shake your head in denial. “It was wrong and I need you to know that.”

“It wasn’t.” You say quickly as soon as he’s done and sit up straighter, shifting forward so your stomach is almost bent over the middle console in an attempt to get closer to him. “It felt good Sammy, you know it did.”

“That’s not the point.” He scoffs in near disbelief even though he figures he should have expected you to react like this. “It’s not about it feeling good.”

“But it did?” You ask and he pauses at the sound of your voice sounding almost insecure. He’d foolishly built you up as this sex driven vixen wanting to destroy his marriage out of teenage boredom but he was realizing more and more with each encounter how wrong he was about you.

He stares at you for a long few seconds in the silence of his car, the smell of your perfume mixing with the familiar leather and creating a whole dilemma of its own.

There’s a small awareness of how wrong the sight of the two of you is, how much younger you look when your hair is a little messy and your eyes are searching for his reassurance.

He hates that it doesn’t deter the want still steadily building inside of him.

If anything it just makes it ten times worse, the want to praise you and soothe all of your insecurities away hitting him hard. He’d never been very in control when it came to Tammi, her sharp demands and pickiness bleeding into their intimacy too.

He’d simply settled for shutting up and doing whatever she said made her feel good no matter how vanilla or repetitive it got to avoid an argument afterwards.

But now here you were, sitting sideways in the darkness of his car and bringing a level of excitement to his veins that could rival foreplay.

“Of course it did.” He says softly after the silence starts to settle almost uncomfortably, your shoulders relax and you lean almost naturally closer to him.

He convinces himself he feels bad for you and that’s why his hand reaches out to brush your hair behind your ear. You let out a breath and nuzzle into his palm for the brief moment he keeps it there before it’s dropping back to his lap.

“Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t know why he asks, why he feels that same need in his chest he gets when he sees a helpless victim or a kid going down the wrong path. The urge to help you and steer you away from any wrongdoings, even if he’s included in that.

“Because I want to.” You say it firmly and you sound a little bit more like the version of you he was used to before this, self assured and confident. “I’m not a little girl Sammy. I’m choosing this.”

He almost asks you why, demands you give him some sort of backstory or trauma lore that would explain why you are making these choices.

The chance is stolen by your lips pressing against his and he folds immediately, mouth moving against yours as he shifts closer to you. His hand goes back to cupping your face to keep you near him, kiss heated from the beginning and not slowing down.

You kiss for a long time, your tongue running across his bottom lip for a while before he actually lets you in to taste him. And then it’s even worse, wet and sloppy as you sit up on your knees and nearly climb over the middle console to get to his lap.

He stops you with a firm hand on your hip and you whine into his mouth, clearly not liking the distance between your bodies that he knows is for the best. It’s bad enough he has you panting and squirming from a simple make out session but he definitely doesn’t need to feel the weight of you on top of him.

His hand tightens around your face, holding your jaw so tight your cheeks puff a little in a pucker look. You look so beyond cute and helpless like that but he forces himself to focus as he pushes your face back away from his.

You whine his name and he sighs, shushing you and shaking his head to try and get some clarity knocked around.

Sammy hadn’t kissed anyone like that since high school, long before Tammi even. He sits back in his seat and puts the car in drive as you frown and hesitantly put your seatbelt back on.

“Gonna drive you home.” He says gruffly and you don’t even try to protest when you hear the strained tone he’s taken on.

You come around more and more after that under the guise of getting help from Tammi but he knows better so he tries to stay out of your way.

It never works, you either corner him in the kitchen or pretend you need the bathroom just to make your way down to their bedroom.

That’s the worst place for him because he can’t resist the sight of you in the dimly lit room, hands tangled in your hair as you make out desperately. Your back hits the dresser and a wedding photo topples over and lands on its front aggressively, a soft giggle leaving you when he pulls back and sees what the sound was.

He can’t help the laugh that comes out of him too, head pressing into your neck and kissing lightly, a little dazed from the absurdity of it all.

Sammy was already addicted to you, to your teasing and your eyes locked on him but now it’s so much worse and he can’t resist it anymore. He takes any opportunity you give him and goes out of his way to bring things over to Nate’s house or offers to carpool to work despite the fact it’s actually out of his way completely.

It’s pathetic and his partner knows it too but luckily he’s stopped calling him out on it after the first few times Sammy walked past him looking a little too flushed to be normal.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Nate had asked him one day at lunch when Sammy was engrossed with his phone, eyes locked on a selfie you had sent him that was far from appropriate.

“Nope.” He answered easily before turning the screen off and shoving it into his pocket.

It was an all over consumption that easily ate away at the guilt and replaced it with a thick level of excitement. He’d pick you up almost every night now, parking his car somewhere and spending hours just kissing and touching in the protection of the dark.

He knew your age gap wasn’t small, even if he wasn’t married it wasn’t going to result in small side eyes and the occasional disapproval. It would be a full out scandal if anybody found out how he had you panting in the backseat, begging him to go further while he tried his best to resist you gently.

That didn’t last long either and it was only a few weeks of the sneaking off late at night before things were escalating.

Sammy was sure at some point Tammi would notice the nights he didn’t come home at all, maybe even check his credit cards and see the random charges to hotels downtown. She never once seemed to bat an eye when he was a bit more frazzled then normal after she’d return from the bathroom, your skirt pushed up on your thighs and a hungry smile plastered on your pretty face.

He liked you best when you were alone in the hotels, wrapped in a robe and kissing down his neck like you were his wife instead. You could be so sweet when you weren’t desperate and pleading, learning to take it slow the more he insisted.

He wasn’t sure who in your life made you feel like you needed to be so rushed with it all the time, so quick to jump to quick meaningless sex. You seemed almost emotional whenever he kissed you gently and whispered how good you were doing, how patient you were being for him.

He’d asked a few times, demanded during others.

You wouldn’t give him any names but you would nuzzle in his neck and curl up against him in the large beds that somehow felt more comfortable than the one he shared with his wife at home.

Sammy liked you like that but he liked the darker side you brought out of him too. When you’d get really needy and slide down onto your knees, rubbing your hands up and down his thighs like you were self soothing and bumping your nose and mouth against his boxer covered hard on.

You’d beg him so desperately, voice high pitched and sometimes on the verge of tears when you thought he was going to deny you.

It was your favorite place to be, something you’d told him countless times when he tried to tell you that you didn’t always need to do that for him. You’d say how much you liked it and then prove it but how eagerly you took him in your mouth each time.

He even got to use the handcuffs like he had been daydreaming about those months ago.

The favor was always returned because Sammy just short of worshipped you, your body left his head spinning everytime he got you undressed and he’d lose himself in the taste of you. You’d been surprisingly shy the first time he parted your legs and got between them, tugging on his hair and trying to close them around his head.

He liked you in the shower too, sometimes quiet and in a floaty headspace after an intense night. You’d cling to him as he lathered soap all over your body, paying special selfish attention to your ass and using the tender moment as an excuse to grope at your chest.

You never would mind, panting softly and often times bending over so he could slip right back inside. You made him feel insatiable, like a new man.

You gave him purpose all over again, something he had lost a long time ago when he accepted his role as the silent and forgiving husband. He couldn’t react to Tammi’s outburst because she’d get more upset and he couldn’t speak his mind because she’d take it as a direct insult.

That was never a problem with you and it was bad how much he loved being around you, being with you in every sense of the word.

He found that he liked taking care of you in any way he could and you were always so appreciative, even if it was as simple as getting you a coffee or giving you money for lunch.

Things felt so easy despite how impossible the situation was.

He’s currently got you pressed into the mattress after a hard day at work, a rough fight with Tammi leading him to book a room and call you immediately. He would always feels so guilty about using you until you would beg for it, pleading for him to take his stress and anger out on your body instead of anything else.

And it’s clear that you mean it, genuinely want it. You’re nearly sobbing as he fucks into you and he knows it’s not because of the brutal pace, it’s because you absolutely love the feeling of him ramming into you like he doesn’t care about you.

It’s something else he wants to unpack eventually but for now he’s just as lost in the sensation of it, how tight you are around him and the way your breast move when you’re panting for air in between sobs.

“There we go baby, you’re so pretty.” He’s grunting as his hips move, his hand sitting around your throat but not applying any real pressure. The other one is holding you down by your stomach after you’d tried to squirm away from the rough thrust on instinct. “So slutty for me. Look at you letting me use your hole like this.”

You nearly scream out a sob at that and nod your head, hair a complete mess and nearly drooling. You’d told him before how much you loved it when he held you down, how you liked to fight back against his strength and find out just how useless it was to try.

“Fuck Sammy.” You can’t say much else, clearly so dazed and out of it.

It drives him crazy, makes him feel capable in a way he didn’t even realize he was lacking. It’s like he’s stepping back into manhood after years of it being so dormant just because of a band around his finger, a band you had taken off with your teeth after sucking his finger down to the last knuckle.

You’d giggle while you did it and he’d smile almost boyishly the entire time he watched you, spitting it back out into your palm before placing it on the dresser.

You didn’t shy away from talking about Tammi, if anything it seemed like you liked the fact he was married. Like everytime he actively chose to see you instead was a win in your book, overriding any jealousy you might feel.

Sometimes you’d get upset with him if she kissed him when he got home from work or if you saw the two of them in a rare good mood together. He’d watch your face fall and have to try and make it up to you with soft kisses to your face while you ignored him with a pout.

More often than not though you were the one to bring her up, making him tell you how much better you were than her.

At first he hated doing it, feeling like he was somehow doing worse than cheating despite the fact he would be deep inside of you. It felt wrong to insult her so openly like that but you’d get so excited over it, eyes wide and pleased whenever he told you how much he preferred you.

And it was worse because it was the truth.

He preferred you in almost every way, not just when you were underneath him. Even though he couldn’t deny how much weight the soft high pitched sounds you’d make pulled in the one sided competition.

But he also liked the way you smelled in the morning and how you made his coffee on the rare times you got to spend a few hours together after waking up, your attentiveness to his schedule and the way you’d kiss him extra soft when he’d seen something hard to cope with on the job.

You were perfect in every way other than how morally criminal it was to feel like that.

He tried to forget about it like he always did, thrusting into you and kissing your mouth sloppily since you were too fucked out to even respond. You’d cried the first time you had sex and he had insisted on wearing a condom so he had stopped, not ever wanting to make you more upset than he had to.

He’d been telling Tammi he wasn’t in the mood for weeks and solely giving himself to you, barely thinking about it each time he filled you up and then cleaned you with his tongue after.

The same routine happening now as he finished deep inside of you, your legs twitching around his waist as you followed shortly after. He could feel your nails on his back when he slumped down against you, being careful to not lay too much weight on your small frame.

He wasn’t used to being so rough still despite how much you liked it, kissing your neck and chest softly and rubbing your sides like it was a silent apology.

“I love it when you get like that.” You’re whispering and he thinks it’s more for his sake than anything, knowing he sometimes beats himself up after getting particularly intense with you. “You make me feel so good Sammy.”

He hums in acknowledgment and picks his head up to kiss you, slow and bordering dangerously close to romantic.

He slips himself out of you at the same time and you immediately whimper at the loss, tightening your legs around him. He can see the look on your face and knows you’re about to beg for more even if that means he just keeps himself inside you without actually moving.

You frowned against his mouth when he kissed his teeth to scold you.

“You okay baby?” He said lowly back and now you were smiling at the sound of his voice. You were quick to nod and kiss the corner of his mouth in double reassurance. “Didn’t hurt you?”

“Not in any way I didn’t like.” Your face is beyond pretty coated in after glow and he almost has to look away. “You’d never hurt me Sammy, I know that.”

You’re kissing again and it’s all softness now, staying that way when he’s shifting your bodies so he can pick you up off the bed and bring you to the shower.

It’s full of wandering hands and the sounds of your giggles, his phone no doubt vibrating somewhere out in the main room and being ignored like it is every other night lately. You get out before him this time with the excuse that you want to get your robe ready, one of your self appointed favorite perks of the hotels he gets.

You’re gone for long enough that his chest starts to feel weird, the same ache it gets when he’s too busy to see you for days at a time.

He shuts off the water and halfway dries himself before he’s wrapping the towel around his waist and entering the room you’re standing in.

In your defense, you are wearing your robe but you have a guilty look on your face that makes his eyebrows furrow.

For some reason, maybe his detective instincts kicking in, his eyes automatically go to the dresser his ring had been abandoned on. He hates that he’s not surprised to find it barren, the metal band no where in sight.

Next he spots the phone in your hand, too big to be the one he’d bought you a month ago when yours started to slow down. Also noticeably lacking the cute case you insisted on at the store, a picture of the two of you with your faces slightly cropped out in the back of it.

“Sammy.” You whisper it as your face falls in premature devastation like you know how upset he’s going to be.

Your fingers are hovering over the end call button and he doesn’t know how he just knows what you’ve done.

“Tell me you didn’t pick it up.” His voice is lower than even he recognizes and you take a step back when he inches forward.

“I’m so sorry Sammy. I thought it was mine I swear to god.” Your eyes are wide and you place the phone down in favor of holding both of your hands up like you’re torn between reaching out for him and surrendering. “It wouldn’t stop ringing and I wanted us to have a nice time and..”

You trail off like you know how weak your defenses sound and he pinches the bridge of his nose to try and calm down.

“Who was it?” He asks slowly because he knows the answer and doesn’t really want to hear you say it.

The look on your face is very telling and he can’t even be bothered to remember to ask what you’ve done with his ring, to inform you of how much more damning that makes the accidental phone call seem.

You look so sad and he can’t escape the urge to make you feel better, to accept your touch when you finally step forward and rub his biceps soothingly. You kiss him gently like you’re scared he’ll reject you now and you let out a deep breath into it when he returns it.

“I’m so sorry I just love you so much.” You’re whispering into his mouth and he wants to tell you to stop but it’s too late, you’ve already said it. “I love you and didn’t want this to end like it always does.”

Sammy can’t even tell you that you’re wrong and you don’t know what love is because he’s positive you fully do believe that’s what you feel for him. You’re too young to fully understand the consequences of what you did and he’s not moral enough to try and teach you, a selfish warmth at how far you’d really go just to have him.

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."

“Dr. Abbot?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”

“Will it be a while before handoff?”

Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”

“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”

“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”

Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”

Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.

“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”

“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”

Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.

“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”

Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”

You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.

He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.

“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”

Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.

Then he scoffs.

“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.

“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”

“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.

“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”

Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”

“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”

“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”

Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”

“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”

Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”

—

A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.

You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.

The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.

“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.

“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.

“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.

“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.

“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”

“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.

“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.

He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.

“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”

Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”

Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.

You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.

“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.

“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.

“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”

Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.

“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”

“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”

“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.

You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.

“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.

“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.

“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”

You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”

“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.

But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.

“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.

“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.

A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.

Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.

Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.

“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”

“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”

A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.

“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”

“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.

“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.

“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”

“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”

The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.

“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”

“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”

June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”

“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”

Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.

“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.

“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”

But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.

Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.

“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”

“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”

“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”

“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.

“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.

“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”

“S’there a problem here?”

Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.

Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”

Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”

“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”

That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.

“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.

“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”

But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”

“I didn’t consent to that.”

“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”

Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.

Jack nods at you.

“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”

“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”

You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”

—

After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.

Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.

Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.

Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.

“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”

When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.

“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”

“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”

He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”

“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”

But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”

You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.

You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.

Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.

Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.

That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.

That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.

That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.

That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.

And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.

And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.

“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”

“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”

—

Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.

“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.

“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.

He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”

“Penny?”

“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”

“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”

Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”

You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.

“You handled that really well earlier.”

Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.

“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”

“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”

Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.

It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.

“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”

“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”

“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”

You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.

But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”

“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”

He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.

But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”

“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.

“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”

“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.

You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.

“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.

But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.

“Oh, that was painful to watch.”

Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.

Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.

“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”

—

The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.

“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”

“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.

Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”

Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.

“Jack,” Robby says.

“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?

“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.

Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.

Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.

Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”

Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.

“We don’t have any of those here.”

“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”

Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?

Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”

Robby shakes his head.

“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.

Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.

Not Pittsburgh at all.

“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.

“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”

Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”

As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.

But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.

His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.

Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”

“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.

The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.

“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”

Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.

“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”

Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.

“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”

“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”

Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.

Jack breathes.

“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”

Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.

He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.

“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.

“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.

When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.

He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.

“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”

—

“You’ll definitely get in.”

“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.

You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.

“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”

You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”

“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.

“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”

“So not peds, then?” he presses.

“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”

“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.

“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”

“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.

“I learned that from you.”

“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.

You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.

“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”

You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”

“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.

There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.

You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.

“I would miss this place, too,” you say.

“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.

You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.

“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”

He winks.

“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”

You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”

Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.

“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”

You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.

You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.

“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”

The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.

His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.

“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”

Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.

“What’d he say?” he asks.

“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.

“Yeah? How’s that going?”

“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”

“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”

“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.

“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.

Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”

“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”

You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.

It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.

“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”

If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”

Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.

—

Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.

He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.

“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.

Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”

“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.

“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”

Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”

Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.

“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”

“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”

“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”

Jack’s stomach sinks.

You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”

Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”

“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.

“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.

“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”

Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.

He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.

Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.

Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.

But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.

So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.

Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.

—

Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.

“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.

“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”

“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.

“Mhm.”

“Did it help?” you ask.

He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”

“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”

Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.

“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.

The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.

“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.

“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.

“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.

But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”

“How’d you know?”

“I have eyes.”

His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”

You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”

“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.

“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”

He nods seriously. “Got it.”

“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.

“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”

You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”

Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.

“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.

You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.

“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”

“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”

“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”

Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”

“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”

But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.

“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”

“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”

“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”

“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.

—

You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.

It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.

When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.

“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”

You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”

“Dr. Abbot—”

“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”

You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”

“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”

“But I—”

“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”

It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.

“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”

He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.

“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”

He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”

“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.

“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”

“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.

You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.

“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”

You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.

“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”

Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.

But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.

“Y/n,” he says slowly.

“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”

“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”

“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”

“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”

“What?”

“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”

“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”

He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.

“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”

His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.

“Please,” you say anyway.

Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.

And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.

“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”

“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”

—

“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”

Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.

“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.

He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”

“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.

“Talk me through it,” he says.

You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.

“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.

“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.

He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.

“What is that?”

“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“What? You said—”

“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”

He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”

“Go.”

You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”

“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”

“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”

“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.

“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”

“What’d he say?”

“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.

Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”

You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”

A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.

“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”

“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”

Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”

“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”

He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”

“You mean me?”

You nod.

“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”

“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.

“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.

“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.

He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.

“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.

“No?”

You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.

“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”

—

A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.

The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.

And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.

The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.

You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.

You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.

Both in Pittsburgh.

But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.

“Is that something I need to know about?”

Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.

Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.

“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.

He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.

He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.

You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.

Because it’s still coming home to him.

You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.