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SUMMARY: The ER is not a pleasant place to work when you’re six months pregnant. The constant check-ins from your coworkers and patients is one thing, but the attention from Jack Abbot? That’s another thing entirely, and it thrills and terrifies you all at once.
NOTES: Pregnancy, single mother reader, mentions of absent co-parent, canon-typical workplace stress + scenarios, mentions of Jack’s wife, vulnerability, Jack is so sappy and sweet in this.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You hated being treated differently. The frustrating thing was that everyone seemed to think they were being kind.
Ever since the pregnancy had become impossible to hide, people had started looking at you differently. Patients asked if you should really be working. Nurses tried to take things out of your hands. Residents hovered whenever you lifted anything heavier than a clipboard. Every conversation seemed to begin or end with somebody asking if you were alright.
You knew they meant well, and that somehow made it worse. You were twenty-six weeks pregnant, not made of glass.
Most days you could ignore it. Most days you smiled politely, accepted the concern for what it was, and carried on. You had chosen to keep working. You loved your job. The emergency department was exhausting and chaotic and occasionally heartbreaking, but it was yours. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have been swallowed whole by anxiety.
The anxiety was harder to admit, but nobody seemed concerned about that part. Nobody saw the moments you sat alone in your apartment after a shift with one hand resting over your stomach, wondering if you were making the right choices. Nobody saw the nights when you woke up terrified by the sheer scale of what was coming.
You were going to be somebody’s mother. The thought still knocked the breath out of you. You were going to do it alone, and that part was worse.
The baby’s father had left months ago, long before anyone at work knew about the pregnancy. There had been no screaming argument. No dramatic betrayal. Just a gradual retreat until one day you realised you were the only person still fighting for something that no longer existed.
You had survived it. You would continue surviving it. You didn’t have any other choice. Which was why you absolutely refused to become somebody else’s responsibility, especially Jack Abbot’s.
“Why have I got room fourteen?”
The question escaped before you could stop yourself. Dana looked up from the desk.
“What about room fourteen?”
You stared at the assignment sheet in your hand. Room fourteen contained the sweetest little old lady currently waiting for discharge paperwork. Room twelve contained a man with a minor fracture. Room nine needed routine medication.
That was it. No aggressive intoxication. No psychiatric hold. No combative family members. No complicated trauma patients. Nothing.
It was practically a holiday.
You narrowed your eyes. Across the department, Jack was discussing scans with one of the residents, words thorough and professional despite the toll the rare day shift was taking on him.
Your gaze lingered. Unfortunately, Jack’s eyes lifted almost immediately. Straight to you. The man possessed some supernatural ability to know when you were looking at him.
Your stomach performed an irritating little flip. That was becoming a problem. Actually, no. The crush was the problem. The stomach flipping was merely a symptom.
Jack’s expression remained perfectly neutral. You pointed at your assignment sheet. He looked away immediately, seemingly guilty.
You knew it.
Ten minutes later you cornered him near the medication room. “Stop it.”
His eyebrows rose. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You keep changing my assignments.”
“I don’t make assignments.”
“Jack.”
His mouth twitched. That tiny almost-smile somehow made him more infuriating.
“You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof.”
“Yes, honey, you do.”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Jack. You keep giving me easier patients.”
Jack folded his arms. The movement pulled at the sleeves of his scrub top. Your traitorous brain noticed entirely too much about him these days. The broad shoulders. The wedding ring he still wore. The permanent exhaustion around his eyes.
The gentleness he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm. “You think I have nothing better to do than secretly manipulate patient assignments?”
“Yes.”
That earned an actual laugh. A short one. Rare enough that it briefly distracted you. Jack shook his head.
“I think that’s insane. You’re being a bit… God, what did Javadi call it? Delulu?”
“Never say that again. I’m serious.”
“God forbid a guy try something new.”
You stared at each other. The familiar tension settled into place almost immediately. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Nobody else seemed to notice it either, which felt impossible.
You noticed everything when it came to him. The way his voice softened around frightened patients. The way he instinctively positioned himself between vulnerable people and whatever was upsetting them. The way he always appeared beside you whenever a shift became overwhelming.
That last one was definitely intentional.
The problem was that Jack never did anything obvious enough to challenge. Every act of care was disguised as practicality.
A patient would need transferring and somebody else would mysteriously volunteer before you could. You would arrive at the break room to find tea already waiting. A difficult relative would somehow end up redirected towards an attending physician instead of a pregnant nurse nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift.
None of it was dramatic. None of it could be called out without sounding ridiculous. Still, you knew.
“You don’t need to look after me.”
The words came out quieter than intended. Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the department seemed strangely distant.
“You know,” Jack said eventually, “it’s possible for people to help each other without it meaning something.”
The statement should have reassured you. Instead it hurt. You weren’t entirely sure why. Perhaps because you wanted it to mean something. That was the truth you kept trying not to examine too closely. You wanted his attention. You looked for him at the start of every shift. You noticed when he wasn’t there. You noticed when he looked tired. You noticed everything.
The feelings had arrived slowly and then all at once. Now they sat heavily in your chest, impossible to ignore.
You forced a smile. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“You still need to stop.”
His eyes held yours. For a second you thought he might argue. Instead he sighed.
“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
You laughed despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from you.”
A trauma alert sounded overhead. The moment vanished instantly. Jack pushed away from the wall. Professional mask sliding neatly back into place.
You hated how easily he could do that.
As though he could simply lock parts of himself away whenever necessary. You wondered what it would be like to be that controlled. To not feel everything so intensely all the time.
“Come on,” he said. “Work calls.”
You fell into step beside him. Close enough to hear his breathing, and to smell hospital soap and coffee. Close enough that the ache in your chest returned before you’d even reached the trauma bay.
You wished it would stop. You wished it would get worse. Neither option seemed particularly safe.
Especially not when Jack glanced at you as the doors opened and asked, quietly enough that nobody else could hear,
“You feeling alright today?”
The concern in his voice was genuine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Somehow that made it harder to answer than any question you’d faced all week.
The trauma ended up being far less dramatic than the alert had suggested. A motor vehicle collision. Two patients, both conscious. One broken wrist, one nasty laceration that looked significantly worse than it actually was. Nobody needed a miracle.
For once, the emergency department managed to survive a trauma call without the world ending. You should have felt relieved. Instead, the restlessness that had settled beneath your skin earlier refused to leave.
Jack’s question kept replaying in your head. ‘You feeling alright today?’. Such an ordinary thing to ask. People asked it all the time. The difference was that most people weren’t really asking. Most people wanted reassurance. A quick smile and a simple yes.
Jack always seemed to want the truth. That was what made him dangerous. He paid attention. It would have been easier if he didn’t. Easier if he were merely an attractive older guy with freckles and muscles and curls. A crush based on appearances would eventually burn itself out.
Unfortunately, every shift seemed determined to reveal another reason to fall for him. You hated that. Mostly because there was absolutely nothing sensible about it.
Jack was older than you. Widowed. Emotionally complicated in ways you suspected only a therapist fully understood.
You were carrying another man’s baby.
The timing couldn’t have been worse if someone had deliberately arranged it.
Yet every time he looked at you, some foolish part of your heart seemed convinced there was still something worth hoping for.
By three, your lower back felt like it had been replaced with concrete. The baby had apparently decided sleep was for cowards and had spent the last hour enthusiastically rearranging your internal organs.
You were updating notes at the nurses’ station when a sharp kick landed beneath your ribs. The involuntary wince escaped before you could stop it.
Unfortunately, somebody noticed. Of course somebody noticed. “Everything alright?”
You looked up. Jack. Again. The man appeared with the consistency of a haunting. You straightened immediately.
“Fine.”
“You know I was literally standing here when that happened, sweetheart.”
“I’m still fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I make faces all the time.”
“You looked like somebody stabbed you.”
“That’s slightly dramatic.”
His expression remained unconvinced. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t hovering. Not really. He wasn’t fussing or ordering you to sit down. He was simply standing there looking concerned. Which somehow made it impossible to dismiss.
The baby kicked again. Your hand moved automatically towards your stomach. A subconscious gesture. One you’d barely realised you’d started doing.
Something softened in Jack’s face. The sight of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No awkwardness. No discomfort. Just warmth.
Your pulse stumbled. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
“You should take ten.”
“No.”
“Five.”
“No.”
“Two and a half?”
A laugh escaped despite yourself.
“You negotiate with trauma surgeons like this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They aren’t as terrifying as you.”
You rolled your eyes. Jack looked suspiciously pleased with himself. The sight made something warm spread through your chest. You hated how often that happened around him. The feeling had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Particularly during the quieter moments.
Those moments were always the worst. Those were the moments when you remembered how easy it felt to talk to him. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had started. At some point he’d stopped feeling like an attending physician and started feeling like Jack. The distinction mattered more than it should have.
“You know,” he said eventually, leaning against the counter beside you, “it’s alright to admit that you’re tired.”
You stared at the computer screen. The blinking cursor suddenly seemed fascinating.
“Who says I’m tired?”
“You’ve had three cups of coffee in ninety minutes.”
“Maybe I like coffee.”
“You hate coffee.”
Your head dropped backwards. “Oh, come on.”
His smile widened. “You told me.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
You looked at him. Actually looked. The man remembered entirely too much. The realisation struck with uncomfortable force.
Six months ago.
You couldn’t remember half the conversations you’d had yesterday. Jack remembered an offhand comment from six months ago.
Your chest tightened. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Part of you wanted to bask in it. The rest wanted to run. Nobody had paid attention to you like this in a very long time. Not before the pregnancy. Certainly not after.
The baby’s father had forgotten things constantly. Appointments. Plans. Conversations. You had spent months shrinking your expectations just to avoid disappointment.
Now here was Jack remembering your coffee preferences. The comparison felt unfair. Your emotions didn’t seem particularly concerned with fairness.
His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just waiting. You wondered whether he knew how difficult that made things. Most people demanded explanations.
Jack simply offered space. The urge to step into it was becoming overwhelming.
A sudden rush of emotion caught you completely off guard. Exhaustion. Fear. Hormones. Loneliness.
Whatever combination was responsible, it hit hard enough to sting behind your eyes. You looked away immediately. Embarrassing. The last thing you needed was to start crying at the nurses’ station.
Jack didn’t comment. Another kindness. He simply moved slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him. Not touching. Never assuming. Just there. Ready if needed. The gesture nearly hurt.
“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes.”
The words were quiet. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying them.
You laughed softly. A humourless sound. “That’s easy for you to say.”
His expression shifted. Something sad flickering briefly across his face. “You’d be surprised.”
The answer lodged somewhere deep. You knew enough about Jack to understand what wasn’t being said. The grief he carried everywhere despite pretending otherwise. Perhaps that was why being around him felt so different.
He never treated pain like weakness. He understood it too well.
A call light sounded down the corridor. The interruption should have felt annoying. Instead it came as a relief. The conversation had wandered dangerously close to honesty. Neither of you seemed entirely prepared for that.
You pushed away from the desk. Professional instincts taking over. Work was easier. Work always had been. People made sense when they were patients. Charts and medications and treatment plans were infinitely simpler than feelings.
Jack watched you stand. Something unreadable lingered in his eyes. Then it disappeared, locked away behind professionalism once again.
You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that he would let you see what lived underneath it. The frightening thing was that you suspected he wished exactly the same thing about you.
The shift should have ended an hour ago. That was the thought repeating itself through your head as you stared at a computer screen that no longer seemed capable of forming coherent words.
Every part of you ached. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. Your shoulders felt impossibly tight. Even the baby seemed exhausted, the constant movement from earlier reduced to occasional sleepy stretches beneath your ribs.
The emergency department had entered that strange period between night and morning. The chaos was winding down. Exhaustion was settling over everyone like a heavy blanket.
Those were always the dangerous hours. The hours when emotions started slipping through cracks you’d spent all shift holding together.
You rubbed a hand across your face and tried to focus on the discharge paperwork in front of you. The words blurred. For a moment you simply sat there staring at them.
Then, completely without warning, your eyes filled.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” You muttered it to yourself.
Nobody else heard. At least, that was what you thought. You blinked rapidly and forced yourself to take a breath. You were not going to cry.
Not here. Not now.
The ridiculous thing was that nothing had actually happened. It was just exhaustion. Pure, relentless exhaustion. The kind that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.
You loved your baby already. Loved them with a fierceness that still startled you.
That didn’t mean you weren’t frightened.
Every day seemed to bring a new thing to worry about. The nursery. Money. Childcare. Labour. The future. The endless responsibility waiting just around the corner.
Most of the time you managed to carry it.
Tonight it suddenly felt very heavy.
“You missed a spot.”
You jumped.
Jack was standing beside the desk, a takeaway cup rested in one hand.
You stared. Then frowned. “What?”
“The discharge summary.” He pointed towards the screen. “There.”
Sure enough, you’d missed an entire section. Your shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
Jack studied you for a second. Long enough that you knew he’d noticed. The tears. The exhaustion. All of it.
You looked away first. Humiliation immediately flooding your chest.
“You should go home.”
You laughed quietly. “I was planning to.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I mean now.”
The concern in it almost made things worse.
You swallowed hard. “I’m nearly finished.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“Then go home, sweetheart.”
Something inside you cracked. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that holding everything together suddenly became impossible.
You looked down at your hands, at the hospital ID badge hanging from your neck, at anything except him.
The words came out before you could stop them. “I don’t get to stop.”
Silence.
Your throat tightened. You hated this. Hated feeling exposed. Hated feeling weak. Most of all, hated how desperately you wanted somebody to understand.
“I don’t get to fall apart,” you continued quietly. “Everybody keeps telling me to rest and take breaks and ask for help, but at the end of the day it’s still just me.”
The confession hung between you. Entirely honest. You hadn’t meant to say any of it. Months of fear seemed to have slipped free without permission.
“I go home and it’s just me.”
Your voice wavered. You pressed your lips together immediately.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. The department carried on around you, life continuing exactly as normal. Meanwhile your entire chest felt like it had been turned inside out.
Then Jack set the coffee cup down. Carefully. As though sudden movements might break something. And, maybe they would.
His gaze never left yours. “You know what’s been driving me insane for the last few months?”
The question caught you completely off guard. You frowned. “What?”
“You.” Jack huffed out a short laugh. Not amused. Nervous. The sound alone was shocking. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him nervous before. “You refuse help from everybody.”
Your mouth opened.
He continued before you could interrupt. “You carry everything yourself. Every shift. Every appointment. Every problem.”
“Jack—”
“You never let anybody look after you.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Emotion immediately tightened your throat again. You looked away. He wasn’t finished. You could tell. The realisation sent your pulse racing.
“I keep telling myself to stop.” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher. “I keep telling myself you’re perfectly capable and none of this is my business.”
You slowly looked back at him. Neither of you seemed capable of looking away anymore. The space between you felt impossibly small, despite the fact neither of you had moved.
“I know you don’t need me.” The confession sat heavily between you. “I know that.”
His jaw tightened briefly, the way it always did when he was forcing himself to continue.
“But every time you walk into a shift looking exhausted, I want to help.”
Your heart stumbled, then stopped entirely.
“I want to take the difficult patients.” His eyes never left yours. “I want to make things easier.”
Another breath. Another heartbeat.
“I want to be the person who carries some of it when it gets too heavy.”
The world seemed strangely quiet. Every sound fading into the background. Your eyes burned again. This time you didn’t care. You’d spent months convincing yourself you were imagining it. Misreading kindness. Projecting your own feelings onto harmless gestures.
Now Jack was standing in front of you looking like he’d rather face another mass casualty event than this conversation.
The sight nearly broke your heart.
“You know why that’s a problem?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. The answer came anyway.
“Because somewhere along the way I stopped doing it just because I care about my staff.”
The breath left your lungs. “Oh.”
Brilliant response. Truly. Jack laughed quietly, a little helplessly. The sound made your chest ache.
“Oh,” he echoed.
For one terrifying second neither of you spoke. Then something shifted. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or relief, or simply the fact you’d both spent too long pretending.
Whatever it was, it finally pushed you forward.
“You make me feel safe.”
The words escaped before you could second-guess them. Jack froze. You continued anyway.
“If that’s a horrible thing to admit, then fine.”
A shaky laugh slipped out. Your eyes filled again.
“You make me feel looked after. I keep trying not to need that.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”
The sentence hit harder than everything else combined. Nobody had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not as though they genuinely believed it. A tear escaped, and then another, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.
Jack stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn’t. His hand settled against your arm. The simple contact nearly undid you.
For months you’d been carrying everything alone.
Not because you wanted to, but because you thought you had to. The difference suddenly felt enormous.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
There wasn’t much left to say. The truth was already sitting between you. Visible at last. Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. A tiny movement so careful that it made your chest ache.
The man looked at you as though you were something precious. The realisation was terrifying. It was also wonderful.
For the first time in a very long while, the future didn’t seem quite so frightening.
Nothing had magically been fixed. You were still pregnant. Still scared. Still facing a thousand uncertainties.
Jack was still carrying grief of his own. Life remained complicated. Messy. Difficult.
Yet standing there beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with exhaustion pulling at both of you and dawn beginning to creep through distant windows, something fundamental had changed.
The loneliness wasn’t quite so sharp anymore.
For months you’d been trying to convince yourself that strength meant carrying everything alone. Looking at Jack now, you finally understood how wrong you’d been. Sometimes strength looked a lot more like letting somebody stay.
summary — loving jack always had a price. you just assumed you’d seen the worst of it.
warnings — 4.7k words. ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortion (it’s both a genuine deliberation but it can be read as reader using it as a weapon in the argument), vague flashbacks to the divorce (not detailed), emotional cruelty from reader, referenced emotionally painful marriage. reader can be read as too mean plz bear with her
author’s note — yayyyyy part two i hope you guys are enjoying it
There was a certain dichotomy you’d realized was present in you when you presented Jack divorce papers eighteen months ago, yet were now incapable of denying his touch. You had been the one to end it. You were also the woman who’d left her door unlocked at two in the morning for months because if you had locked it, it would’ve said you wanted to keep the person on the other side out. Both things lived in you at once and never fought, there was no war in it. You’d divorced him cleanly and you wanted him constantly; the two facts just sat side by side in you like organs, each doing its quiet work, neither aware of the other.
“You’ve got work,” you said, and you knew that was far from refusing him.
Jack heard that, and it took him slow seconds to fold into the gurney beside you. “I’ve got time to spare.”
He didn’t, and both of you knew that.
It was a gurney built for one, and he was not a small man. You watched him fail to make it work and do it anyway; he got an arm behind you, easing you forward off the rail so he could fit himself into the few inches of mattress. He arranged his own bulk around you with none of the certainty his hands often had. He bumped the line in your arm and went still, careful of it, then moved aside.
He folded himself beside you like the eighteen months hadn’t happened. He settled you off your left hip without a word, the way he'd done it for years, the way his hands knew to do before the rest of him had weighed in. You let him. You hated that you let him. You were too emptied out to do anything but let him, and some part of you that you'd stopped trying to govern wanted the weight of him more than it wanted to win.
The dog tags swung forward when he leaned to get comfortable, and then they were against you; they settled cold at first, against the side of your throat, then went warm as they sat. Your felt your body do the obscene traitor thing of recognizing it as the sound that meant you were allowed to stop being awake.
“This doesn’t fit,” you said. Your voice came out wrecked and small, nothing like you usually used.
He only hummed.
The curtains opened again, then.
Robby came through the gap with his eyes already half-down on the tablet, mouth open on whatever he’d rehearsed walking over, then it stopped. The room wasn’t the same one he’d left, for this one had Jack folded onto a single-width gurney with his arm behind you and his whole body curved around yours like he’d grown there.
Jack stayed exactly where he was; there was no startle or guilty peel-back, nothing that would’ve held onto the cover. He turned his head, slow, and met Robby over the top of yours, and his arm stayed exactly where it was. If anything, it settled with a small claiming pressure against your hip.
You watched Robby’s whole earlier misread come apart behind his face, all of it landing wrong now against the actual picture in front of him. He'd come for something else and he visibly decided to stay on task, because the task was the only safe thing in the room.
“Jack,” he said. “It’s six. The board’s yours.”
You felt the small tension go through Jack as his body registered the pull of the thing that had always, always won. Six o’clock; the department on the other side that was indifferent to what had just detonated in here, the one that needed its attending the same as every night, that had been needing him the entire time he’d been folded around you pretending the clock wasn’t running.
The job, the oldest competitor you’d ever had for him that used to take him out of bed at the worst hours, out of arguments mid-sentence, and out of the marriage by degrees, reasserting itself now, on schedule.
“Give it to Shen for an hour,” he said, almost flatly.
“Shen’s not on till eleven.”
Jack breathed in sharply. “Then give it to yourself for an hour,” he said, and there was an uptick at the end of his sentence.
Robby’s brows went up a fraction, because Jack didn’t hand-off. Jack had built an entire reputation on being the one who never had to make anyone else’s Friday night worse, the one who stayed past his own shift so the next attending walked into a clean board, the one who'd missed two of your anniversaries and a Christmas because someone had to be the one who didn't go home and Jack had decided, permanently, that the someone was him.
Robby had worked beside him for years. Robby had probably never once heard the words come out of his mouth.
You felt it land in you, too, and you hated the place it landed. That had been the thing about Jack and the job; it’d never been about the laziness or ambition or even the easy excuse of patients needing him, though God knew he’d hidden behind that for years. The floor was the one place he was allowed to be needed without being known. Down here, he could pour himself out completely, give everything, be the steady voice and unflinching hands and the man who stayed without it costing him the things staying did with you.
The department took everything he had and never once asked him to say a word about himself. It was the perfect marriage, one he could survive, and he’d chosen it over the one he couldn’t—every single time—until you stopped making him choose.
You wanted to tell him not to bother, that you knew exactly what an hour was worth from a man who’d spent your whole marriage proving the floor came first, and that one borrowed hour eighteen months too late didn’t undo a single missed Christmas. You wanted to be cruel about it the clean way.
“Yeah, alright. I’ve got the hour,” Robby said finally, still watching him with almost curiosity. He paused and looked at Jack a moment longer, something unsurprised in it, like he’d suspected for years Jack had a far side and just had it confirmed. “Take your time.”
He pulled the curtain halfway behind him, then stopped and looked at you. “He gives you any trouble,” he said, nodding at Jack, “tell me. I’ll have him removed.”
The rings dragged shut behind him before Jack could say anything, and it was just the two of you and the drip and the impossible four inches of mattress, and Jack let out a breath you felt move all the way through him, the held-rigid thing in him easing by a fraction now that the door had stopped calling his name out loud.
“Go,” you said into his chest, voice coming out hollow. “I don’t need you here.”
You felt him take the words—he absorbed them instead of returning them—and decided, against every reflex in his body, to stay anyway.
“Of course you don’t,” he said into your hair. “I need to be here, though.”
You sucked in a sharp breath. “One hour.”
You should have pushed him off. You had all the right words for it. But his heart was going too fast against your cheek, scared still, and you were so emptied out; the crying and the floor and the thing growing six weeks inside you. The traitor warmth was rising again underneath the grief, and you were just too tired to clamp it down this time.
You stopped holding yourself up. Your weight went all into him all at once, the same surrender and failure of the legs. You felt the breath go out of him as his arm came all the way around. He gathered the dead weight of you in against his chest like it was the thing he’d been waiting to hold.
You thought, distantly, you should be cataloguing this so you could be appropriately disgusted with yourself later. You should hold onto this fact of his fear, the fact that none of it was free, that a man could hold you like this and still have been the one who had completely torn you apart.
“There,” he murmured, a broken relief. “Okay, I’ve got you.”
There was a part of you, quietly insistent at the back of your head, that this was the first time you were letting yourself fall asleep near Jack since the divorce. No, before that. Long before the papers, since the last year of the marriage had become two countries with a cold strip of sheet for a border and you’d both lain on your sides pretending to sleep.
You hadn't slept like this in two years. Maybe longer. You couldn't pin the last time because you hadn't known to mark it, the way you never knew to mark the last time anything good happened until you were standing a long way past it.
You were going under, the room pulling far and soft the way it had before you hit the floor. The last thing you felt before you lost it was his heart slamming and his body rigid and wide awake beneath you, holding himself together by main force so you could come apart, and you let yourself go anyway, because you couldn't not, because his chest was the only place the floor had ever held and you were too tired tonight to pretend it wasn't.
This was far from safe. You knew that. He was the least safe place left in the world.
You woke to a ceiling you didn’t immediately recognize in a dark room with the lights dialed to their lowest setting, not off, never off in this building, but dimmed to the brown-amber of a monitor on standby. A family room, you placed after a second. The one off the back hall with a couch that folded out. Jack had moved you there, probably carried or walked or wheeled you to a room where you could sleep without the overheads cooking you awake. The knowing of that—that he’d thought it all through—sat in your chest like a swallowed stone.
There was a blanket over you that was heavier than the cotton waffle-weave they kept in the warmer. It had a cedar scent, faint, the same one that had lived in his locker for years because he sometimes ran cold and refused to admit it.
The line was gone from your arm; someone had pulled it and taped a cotton ball into the crook of your elbow, the tape overlapped carefully. It was in Jack’s way, only his. Your shoes were by the couch, set together, toes to the wall. Your badge was on the side table, clipped to nothing. He’d unclipped your badge so it wouldn’t dig into anything while you slept.
He’d done all of it without waking you. A man could take his ex-wife down a hall and do a dozen tending things with his hands, and never have once met her eyes while he did them. You’d been unconscious for the only version of Jack that knew how to take care of you.
The space beside you was cold. Your hand went looking before you’d decided to send it, flat across the vinyl where his heat should have been, and there was nothing. Your fingers drifted up to the side of your throat next, the hollow under your jaw where the tags settled their weight when he leaned over you, and you found your pulse instead.
What came up first—before the grief—was relief.
It was cowardly and it filled you to the back of the teeth. He was gone, and his being gone meant you wouldn’t have to do the other part. You wouldn’t have to sit up and find his face going blank. You wouldn’t have to acknowledge you’d sobbed yourself empty into his shirt then accounted for it over the top of a paper cup of bad coffee.
He’d left, and that handed you the one thing you were good at holding: the version that none of it happened.
You sat up, and the room slid bright then dim at the edges. Underneath the dizziness was the other fact, the six-weeks-old one, riding quiet under your ribs through every gray-out, and you breathed around it and stood anyway. You got down to your shoes where he’d left them and worked them on.
You folded his blanket over the arm of the couch and you didn’t let yourself hold it to your face first, though the wanting was right there, quick and humiliating. You clipped your badge back to your waistband and left the family room. The hall caught you in its fluorescence all at once, that flat ER light that made everyone look a little dead, and you kept your eyes down and aimed for the ambulance bay doors because the lot was through them and the car was in the lot and the car was the whole plan.
You made it past the supply alcove and the second set of doors before you heard your name.
“Oh, good. You’re vertical.” Ellis, coffee in hand, fell into step beside you. “Park had to finish your consult, by the way.”
“Yeah.” You didn’t have anything for it. “I’ll find him.”
“You don’t look like you’re finding anyone,” she said, the words coming out easy but still slowing to match your pace, which told you what she actually thought. “You’re off home?”
“Unless someone’s found me a second job to faint at, yeah.”
“Smart.” She was already peeling off the way she came. “Drink water. Drive safely.”
You let out a laugh devoid of humor. “No promises.”
She lifted the coffee at you and turned to go. Her eyes caught on something past your shoulder, and you felt it before you heard it, the way the air in a hallway shifted when he walked into it.
“You’re up,” Jack said from behind you.
Ellis took in the picture and quickly decided that she wanted to be anywhere but here. “I’ll leave you to it.”
You stopped because your body stopped before you'd ruled on whether to, and you turned and there he was at the mouth of the corridor with a chart in his hand he was not looking at.
He came down the hall and toward you. “How’s the head?”
“Fine. I slept it off.” You hitched your bag higher on your shoulder, which was a small flag to say you were leaving, and he caught it.
“You don’t have to bolt.” He stopped a few careful feet off, close enough to lower his voice while being far enough to not corner you in. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll finish on a patient and I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t be behind the wheel after going down.”
“I’m okay to drive.”
“You went gray today,” he said, his voice even. He raised a brow at you, like he was trying to make you see his point. “Twenty minutes. I’ll get you a real meal first. Or I take you home and we get something on the way.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw when you went quiet. “Or I’ll call out. I’ll call out, I’ll come with you, you don’t have to—” He stopped himself when you started shaking your head in the middle of his words, recalibrating in real time, hearing how much of himself had spilled into the offers.
“Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’m helpless,” you said.
His thumb moved against the edge of the chart, finding the corner and working it. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then what is this?”
A tech rolled a cart past behind him and he shifted his weight to let it through without ever moving his eyes off you, still like he was making sure he wouldn’t flinch.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped out of the hallway and into the register that had no audience in it, the one aimed directly for you, and hearing it out here under the lights with his clothes on did something to the floor of your stomach.
“Can we talk about this.” It came out as anything but a question. His eyes dropped to your middle then back up, so fast you would’ve missed it had you not been trained in him.
Your brows narrowed as your hand went over your stomach. To shield it or simply try to erase it from his view, you weren’t sure.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said flatly. “Not for another seventeen weeks anyways.”
You watched him take the sentence and turn it over for the meaning, and you watched the number do its work behind his eyes—the number, the window he knew to the day because of course he knew it—and you watched the second it arrived.
“Are you actually considering that?” His voice had gone rough, like he was forcing the words out.
They’d set themselves into your orbit wrong, because there was no doctor left in him—nothing neutral—and there was only the bare thing underneath, the disbelief that you were going to close the door.
You let out a laugh that sounded more like a broken breath. “Bye, Jack.”
Three days later, Jack came to get Kevin.
He texted first—heading over for him, 20 min—with no question in it, because Kevin was the one thing the two of you could still do without negotiation. Wednesdays were his.
You buzzed him up without saying a single word back. You heard him on the stairs—you knew the weight of him on the staircase—and you’d already got the leash, the half-bag of food, and his joint chews lined up by the door so the handoff would be thirty seconds, so it could be nothing. You needed it to be an exchange where two reasonable adults move a dog between them and don’t bleed on each other doing it.
You opened the door before he knocked; he had his hand half-raised and lowered it slowly.
“Hey,” he said.
You handed him the leash. Kevin was already losing his mind at the sight of him, the whole back of the dog going, and Jack crouched to take the assault of it with one hand buried in the scruff, his eyes coming up to you over the dog’s head. You’d handed him the food and the leash and were holding the door like that said the rest of it.
He looked at the door, at you, and then you watched him decide to not take the easy exit you’d built for him.
He stood up, making Kevin get on his hind legs to scratch at Jack’s hip. “So, we’re not even gonna say hi now?” he said looking at the bag of food that had found its way into his hand.
“Hi, Jack,” you said, fingers tightening around the door. “There’s his food. He’s been scratching at the left ear again, so—”
“I am not asking you about the ear.”
“—so you might want to have someone look at it, or I will, on Friday.”
“Oh, my god—” He stopped, and his jaw worked. Kevin sat down between the two of you and looked up, ready, leash in his mouth now because he’d learned to carry it himself, oblivious. “You’ve been like this since you found out. You won’t—” He exhaled through his nose. “I texted you about a gyno—I sent you a name. A good one. You didn’t even—”
“I didn’t ask you for a name.”
“No. You don’t ask me for anything.” It came out before he could quiet it down, and you watched him hear it and land in the air with more weight than he’d meant to give it. “That’s sort of the problem.”
There it was, the door you’d held open so carefully, and he’d walked past it into the apartment anyway.
“Don’t,” you said.
“We both did this.” He held the bag of food in his fist, and he didn’t try to come past the doorway. “I keep—you keep looking at me like I did this to you. You were in that bed too. You let me in. You don’t get to—”
“We both did not do this.” Your hand came off the door and flat to your stomach before you’d told it to, and you saw his eyes track the motion and stick there, and you hated that you’d explicitly brought attention to where this lived. “You want to split the bar tab, fucking fine, Jack. Split it. But this part’s mine. And I’ll fix it. For both of us, since you’re so big on both.”
Something in his face went pale. “I don’t want you to,” he said, low and stripped. “I don’t want that.”
You should have let that be the last thing. You knew that the merciful move, the one a better-built woman would make, was to close the door on the both of you. But he’d carried his weight up the stairs and the meanness was already loaded somewhere under your tongue and you'd already decided, without deciding, to fire it.
“Why?”
He blinked as he moved around his mouth, a nervous tell. Kevin had given up on the both of you and flopped down across the threshold, half in the hall, his ribs going up and down, the leash still hooked in his teeth out of some loyalty to the idea of a walk.
“Why don’t you want me to do it?” You stepped in off the door, which was the wrong direction and toward him. “Go on. Say it. Tell me.”
“You know why.” His thumb found the rolled top of the bag and worried it, the same restless thing his hands did to a glass, to a pen, the tell he didn't know he had and you'd had years to learn.
You felt something behind your ribs knot at that. The pen sliding back across the table at you.
You say it. You’ve always been the one that says it. You do it better.
You’d said ‘I love you’ into the dark of a call room first, twenty-nine and stupid with it. You’d said ‘let’s just go to bed, we’ll talk tomorrow’ a hundred times into the back of his neck. You’d said the word ‘divorce’ first, out loud, because he’d stood across from you with it lodged behind his teeth and made you reach down your own throat to pull it out into the air where it became real. Five years of finishing Jack; a whole marriage being his interpreter, translating his silences into things he never had to put his name under.
“No.” Your voice gave at the seam and you let it go rather than fight it in front of him. “No. You don’t get to—not this time. You can’t get away with it this time.”
“Please.” His voice went low, lips moving like there were a million things behind them caged. “Just think about this. Let—” It died there, and he started over. “Don’t do anything yet. That’s all I’m—just don’t do it yet.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not—”
“If I keep it, it’s not for you,” you said, shaking your head slowly, and felt the words come out colder than the room, cold enough that some small lucid part of you flinched away from your own mouth even as the rest of you reached for the next one. “Don’t ever get that twisted.”
His thumb stopped on the bag.
“And you don’t get to ask me for anything. Not when you can’t even say why.” Your voice came out even, which took everything and cost more than crying would have. “You want it? Say one true thing.”
He didn’t. Down through the floor came the muffled bassline of the couple below you, the ordinary Wednesday of people whose lives didn’t face the same detonation every day. Kevin had given up on the walk entirely and was now turning to his side on the threshold, pawing at the ground.
“Right,” you said, nodding.
He stood in the frame of your door with the food against his hip, and that one muscle going in his jaw, and you wanted to take it off his face with your bare hands, wanted to get under the flat of him and find the thing it was sitting on top of, the way you used to be able to, the way only you ever could.
“That’s funny,” you said, teeth grinding slightly. “You had a lot to say once.”
You watched the color go out from under his stubble in that same downward draining, the blood leaving a face by degrees, and his hand came up off his hip an inch and hung in the air of your kitchen with nowhere it was allowed to come down.
Because there had been one time in five years Jack got a sentence out whole and clean on the first pass. The one time he’d looked at you across a living room of the house you no longer drove past and said the thing he meant, all of it, so evenly.
You’d asked for it; you’d stood in front of him with your hands shaking and begged him to tell you, and he had. Of every sentence caged in him, of everything he might have finally let out, he'd been articulate about that one. On his first try with no problem at all.
You’d asked for honesty and he’d handed you the single cruelest true thing he owned, and then he’d gone quiet again for the rest of it and made you do the housekeeping; the divorce, the paperwork, the saying-out-loud. Because apparently that was the deal, he’d said the unsurvivable thing and made you carry it the rest of the way.
“You know I didn’t mean that,” he said, voice hoarse.
“I don’t,” you said, heat building up behind your eyes. You’d go back down on the floor before you’d cry in front of him again. “I really, really don’t, Jack.”
Some part of you had wanted him to fight it. Some animal part that had been hoping for a wall to throw yourself against, and he’d given you what he always gave you instead, which was the absence of one, the open air where resistance should have been, so that you went through it and kept going and there was nothing on the other side but the cold.
“I’ll have him back before six on Friday,” he said to the bag. “If that’s—if that works.”
“It works.”
Kevin, hearing the word Friday, hauled himself up with a groan and pressed his skull into Jack’s knee. You watched Jack’s hand go down to the dog’s head without looking and he scratched the spot behind the left ear, the bad one, and Kevin leaned his whole stupid weight into it. For a second, the two of them just stood in the doorway, the man and the dog, the only easy thing left between the two of you.
You cleared your throat. “Get the ear looked at.”
“I will.”
He clipped the leash and straightened. There was a moment—you felt it coming—where he looked like he might try one more time, might reach back into himself for the sentence he'd left in halves on your kitchen tile.
“Alright,” he said finally, which was nothing. He got the dog to the door. The cedar of him moved past you in the chokepoint of the hall, close, close enough that your body did the unforgivable thing it always did and tipped a half-degree toward the warmth before you caught it and stood it back up straight.
At the top of the stairs he paused without turning around. You saw his shoulders rise with one of those breaths he took that bought him a second he didn't have, and you braced for whatever it was.
Then he let the breath go without anything riding out on it, and went down, the right side favored, the uneven weight you'd have known in the dark in any building in any life, the tags ticking, the dog’s nails on the stairs, the whole sound of him getting smaller by degrees until the street door went and took the last of it.
Pope Cody voice explaining why his wife don't work: a woman's supposed to have...daylight hours...
PLEASEEEE
"women should have... like... more sunlight and time to bathe in it... and shit. it's like scientifically proven and i love her so i want her healthy, obviously" getting defensive to craig when he starts assuming why pope's girl doesn't have to work <3
੭꣒ ˖ ❛ dbf!abbot who fucks you in his car after the family bonfire.
c.ws :: mdni , smut , slight degradation , car sex , hint size kink , overstimulation , dirty talk, creampie.
the car is still warm from the drive, leather seats rasing and sticking to the backs of your thighs where your skirt’s bunched around your waist. you all too giddily agreed to allowing jack to drive you back to campus after your dad gave a nod in shared agreement — but his true intentions were clear when he steered wordlessly into a vacant lot.
it was also clear you shared those said intentions with your thighs pressed together, manicured fingers fiddling restlessly with your skirt.
jack’s got the front seats pushed all the way forward so there’s barely enough room to breathe, just enough space for him to wedge himself between your openly spread legs in the back.
windows are already fogged thick due to the accumulation of body heat, streaks running down the glass from where your palm slipped earlier trying to brace yourself.
outside is pitch black, empty lot behind some closed warehouse, no lights, no cars, just the faint orange glow from a distant streetlamp bleeding through the misted panes.
he’s still mostly dressed as he was at the bonfire: flannel shirt unbuttoned halfway, leather belt undone, pants shoved down just enough to free his cock. thick, heavy, already slick from the way he dragged the head through your weeping folds before pushing in slow. you’re soaked, embarrassingly so, and every inch stretches you open until your breath hitches sharp against his palm.
his hand remains clamped over your mouth the second you start to moan — big, rough, calloused fingers pressing your lips shut. the same fingers you had to reprimand yourself each time you tried to subtly catch a glimpse at between buttered biscuits and shared beers.
his thumb hooks under your jaw, anchoring you back to reality, keeping your head tilted back against the seat. “quiet,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, breath hot against your ear.
“don’t want anyone knowing what a filthy little thing you are for me, mm?”
he rolls his hips forward, grinding deep instead of thrusting. there isn’t enough room for that. the base of his cock presses right against your clit, pubic bone dragging over it in slow, filthy circles. you feel every vein, every throb, the way he twitches inside you when your walls flutter helplessly around him. your thighs tremble around his clothed waist, heels digging into the small of his back through his pants.
you whine behind his hand — you can’t help yourself — high, desperate, and humiliatingly muffled.
he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “that’s it. keep making those pretty noises just for me. my dirty little secret, huh? letting your dad’s best friend fuck you raw in a parking lot like some needy thing?”
his free hand slides up your thigh in tow to his words, blunt fingernails digging into the soft flesh before hooking under your knee and pushing your leg higher, opening you wider. the new angle lets him sink even deeper — shifting you how he wants — tip kissing against that particular gummy spot deep inside you on every grind. you arch, back bowing off the seat, muffled cry vibrating against his palm.
sweat beads on his neck, drips onto your collarbone, collecting damply on the top of your cardigan. the car rocks gently with every roll of his hips — suspension creaking faintly, leather squeaking under you.
you can smell him: expensive cologne mixed with the usual medical antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of his skin. mixed with you — sunscreen you’d asked him to lather on, strawberry body spray, and the wet slick sounds every time he grinds in and drags back out just enough to tease.
“feel that?” he rasps as he does so, grinding harder, slower. “how deep i’m buried? gonna fill this tight cunt up and send you riigght back to your dorm dripping me. no panties. just my cum leaking down your thighs while you pretend you’re a good girl.”
your eyes roll back as he murmurs something about ‘nice an’ studious’. the pressure’s building fast in your belly — low, heavy, coiling tight in your abdomen. every drag of his cock against that spot inside makes your toes curl in your ballet flats. you’re clenching around him so hard he hisses through his teeth, pupils blown wide.
“come on,” he whispers, slightly weary, lips brushing your temple. “come for me, just be quiet now, yeah? don’t want the whole lot hearing how much you love getting used like this.”
one more deep grind, clit crushed against him, and you shatter.
your whole body tenses up — walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses, fluttering so hard he groans low in his throat. you bite the inside of his palm to keep from screaming, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity.
he keeps rocking you through it, slow and mean, milking every tremor out of you until your thighs are shaking and you’re boneless against the seat.
he doesn’t stop.
just keeps grinding, chasing his own release now. his hand slips from your mouth to grip your jaw instead, tilting your face so he can watch you — flushed, wrecked, lips swollen.
“good girl,” he breathes. “taking it so well. gonna give you what you earned.”
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the parking lot smelled like asphalt and cigarettes as the sun had started dipping in a low cascade of golden kisses bouncing off the windows of the station.
officers switched in and out for a change in shifts while sammy was sprawled against the cruiser. his uniform belt half undone. one hand rested on the hood while he listened to his partner— officer ben ramble about some disaster traffic stop the he heard about.
“i’m tellin’ you,” ben said, laughing to himself, “the guy tries to hand him a costco card instead of his license.”
sammy snorted tiredly. “maybe he thought the savings would get him out of the ticket.”
“you joke now, but one day some pretty girl’s gonna distract you and you’ll let a felon drive off.”
“yeah,” sammy rolled his eyes. “like that’s gonna happen.”
“sure.” ben pointed. “you get heart eyes too easy.” he added lazily.
“i do not, you fool.”
before ben could say anything else, movement near the sidewalk caught sammy’s attention.
his entire expression changed instantly.
there she was.
she was walking toward them suspiciously. she entirely sure that he’d still be there. she wore a pretty little outfit, hair moving in the evening breeze, nervous smile already tugging at her mouth the second their eyes met.
sammy straightened automatically. “what’re you doing here?”
her smile widened at the soft surprise in his voice. “hi to you too.”
ben looked between them once and immediately grinned. “well what do we have here?”
sammy ignored him, already walking toward her. the stressful shift melting off his stoic exterior the closer he got.
“you okay?” he asked first, hand instinctively finding her waist when he reached her. “everything alright?”
“everything’s fine.” she laughed softly. “i just wanted to surprise you.”
she held up her car keys with a tiny grin. ben and sammy looking at each other in astonishment.
“i’m stealing you for dinner.”
behind them, ben made the loudest fake gagging noise, hunching over like he was going to vomit.
“jesus christ!” he wailed.
sammy shot him a look over his shoulder. “don’t start.”
“nah, nah.” ben lifted his hands innocently. “this is sweet. officer bryant gettin’ picked up after work… like a tired hubby.”
she burst out laughing, her had covering her blushing ing cheeks while sammy groaned. “bro you are so annoying.”
ben leaned closer to her conspiratorially. “you shoulda seen him ten seconds ago. looked like somebody kicked his dog.”
“i did not.”
“man, your posture alone was cryin’ for help.”
sammy shook his head, trying and failing miserably ti not smile when he heard her giggle beside him.
“you really came just to take me to dinner?”
“yeah.” she shrugged shyly. “thought you deserved a nice night.”
that look hit him again.
that stupid unbearably fond look that always made ben want to throw something at him.
“oh my god,” ben complained. “there it is. there’s the heart eyes.”
“you jelly?” she giggled, swatting at ben playfully, “i have friends, you know. we can have a double date.” she mused as sammy flipped him off without even glancing away from her.
she laughed harder now, cheeks warm under sammys attention. his hand stayed steady against her waist like it belonged there.
“where we goin’?” he asked.
“it’s a surprise.”
“you have a plan and everything?”
“mhm.”
sammy swallowed hard. he hadn’t been taken care of like this in a long time. he didn’t know how to breath.
ben noticed too, expression softening for half a second before he ruined it immediately.
“don’t let him order mozzarella sticks,” he warned her. “he gets emotionally attached to appetizers.”
“ben.”
“i’m serious. man almost fought me over onion rings once.”
“that is not what happened!”
she was practically crying laughing now, leaning into sammy’s side while he shook his head in embarrassment. even then, while glaring at ben, sammy’s arm tightened around her automatically. protective.
ben pointed at them both. “yeah, yeah. get outta here. y’all are makin’ the parking lot look too romantic.”
sammy muttered another insult under his breath, but she caught the little smile pulling at his mouth as he guided her toward her car.
and before opening the passenger door, he leaned down close enough for only her to hear.
sammy loves calling you on your lunch break, much to the playful jeers of the station around him.
it's halfway through his shift, and sammy finds himself glancing at the clock on the stucco wall. sammy smiles to himself, sitting up and fishing his flip-phone from his suit jacket pocket with a little grunt and squeak from the desk chair. it's a hot spring day, and all sammy wants to do is talk to his sweet little wife on her break.
at the sound of sammy spinning around to grab his phone, moretta immediately pipes up, "here we go. loverboy's making his daily call" gesturing to sal with a laugh. sammy rolls his eyes as he brings the phone to his ear, sal turning to another detective and shooing them away "the man is whipped, leave him be." with a blush, sammy turns to his friends "yeah, yeah"
you answer on the second ring, cheery voice brightening up the line. sammy leans back in his chair, lifting his strong legs onto his desk with a sigh "hey sweetheart." his voice is warm honey, personalized just for his girl to hear.
in the back, his coworkers keep hurling comments "ask her what she packed you for lunch, sammy!" and "tell the missus we say hi!" and when you giggle in response, sammy's throwing a wad of paper at his buddies. "ignore them baby, just jealous... what're you doin? you on your break?"
sammy knows the answer, he just wants to keep you with him as long as he can. he's fully tuned into you as you speak, nodding along and asking questions about your work day. cooing motivation for you and letting you complain about your coworkers, "yeah i know the feeling" "ah c'mon loverboy" nate yells "y'know you love us! right sal?" sal grunts in response, unable to hide his own smile at the display of young love in front of him.
reluctantly sammy has to go, "alright, i'll see you at home, okay? be good, baby.” he smiles into the phone, hand running over his thigh soothingly. giggling, you respond with a loving “okay, i will, promise. love you sammy”
sammy tucks in his chin into his phone, trying to whisper to you. he’s not ashamed to tell you this, never could be, but he knows it’s going to get really loud if nate overhears. “i love you too” which is immediately interrupted by nate & his buddies loudly going “AWWW!” followed by sammy screaming distantly “shut the hell up!” before quickly hanging up.
I'm sorry for all of the updates. I can't stop writing about these two, they are just so perfect.
Comment to be added to the taglist.
The nursery smelled like paint.
Not strongly anymore.
The windows had been open all afternoon, letting in warm air and traffic noise and the distant sound of someone mowing a lawn two houses over. The sharpest edge of the smell had faded by sunset, leaving something softer behind.
Clean walls.
New beginnings.
A room becoming something.
You stood in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame and the other resting on the curve of your stomach.
Soft green.
Not soup green.
Not mint that looked too sweet under the light.
Not the gray-green that had made the room feel cold.
This one was right.
Soft. Warm. Quiet.
Like trees, Andrew had said.
You had rolled the first coat on yourself until your back started aching, then Craig had shown up with takeout, painter's tape, and an expression that said he was not going to argue about whether or not pregnant women should be climbing step stools.
He had not argued.
He had simply taken the roller out of your hand.
Deran had arrived an hour later, complained about the fumes, opened another window, and spent twenty minutes pretending he did not care about the tiny duck onesie folded on top of the dresser.
Then he had picked it up when he thought you were not looking.
You had looked.
Of course you had.
The room was not finished yet.
There was no crib assembled. The box leaned against one wall, still unopened, because the instructions looked like something designed to break the human spirit. There was a secondhand rocking chair near the window that you had found online and insisted was perfect even though the cushion needed recovering. A small stack of baby books sat on the floor beside it.
A lamp.
A folded blanket.
A few tiny clothes hung in the closet, spaced too far apart on hangers because there weren't enough of them yet.
Still, it was a room now.
Her room.
You stepped inside slowly.
Your daughter shifted beneath your palm.
A slow, firm roll, as if she was taking stock of the place too.
"What do you think?" you whispered.
The baby kicked.
You looked down at your stomach and smiled.
"Yeah. I think so too."
Behind you, the floorboards creaked.
You glanced over your shoulder.
Craig was standing in the hallway, one shoulder braced against the wall, a beer bottle loose in one hand. He had been quieter than usual all afternoon. Not uncomfortable exactly, but careful. Like the room had made him realize something he did not know what to do with.
"It looks good," he said.
You smiled. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He looked around, then nodded once. "Not soup."
You laughed. "High praise."
"That other green was bad."
"It was terrible."
"Looked like hospital pudding."
You wrinkled your nose. "That is worse than soup."
"Wasn't wrong."
You looked back at the walls.
Soft green in the last of the evening light.
Andrew's green.
Your throat tightened without warning.
Craig noticed.
He noticed more than people gave him credit for.
"You taking a picture?" he asked.
You blinked and glanced back at him. "What?"
"For him."
Your hand tightened slightly over your stomach.
You looked around the room again.
The green walls. The rocking chair. The tiny clothes. The dresser with the duck onesie laid on top like it had earned pride of place.
"I was going to take one of the room," you said.
Craig nodded. "You should be in it."
Your heart gave a strange little pull.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I look tired."
"You're pregnant."
"That is not the same thing as looking good."
He gave you a flat look.
You sighed. "Do not look at me like that."
"You're growing a whole person. I'm not gonna tell you what to do, but maybe stop being weird."
You stared at him.
Then you laughed.
It came out too soft, too touched.
Craig looked mildly embarrassed by himself and took a drink.
"You don't have to send it if you hate it," he said.
You looked down at yourself.
Andrew's black T-shirt stretched over your stomach. Leggings speckled faintly with paint near one knee. Bare feet. Hair coming loose from the clip at the back of your head.
You did look tired.
But you also looked pregnant.
Really pregnant.
Not like the visits, where bad lighting and the angle of the booth and the counter between you made everything feel half-hidden.
Here, in the soft green room, with your hand resting over the baby, there was no hiding anything.
You looked like someone's mother.
The thought hit so hard you had to breathe through it.
Craig softened. "You okay?"
You nodded quickly.
"Yeah," you said. "Yeah, I just..."
You stopped.
You did not know how to explain it.
How strange it was to become visibly changed in a house where the person you wanted most was only present in objects and phone calls and paper folded near your bed.
How your body had moved forward with the pregnancy whether your heart was ready or not.
How sometimes you caught sight of yourself in the mirror and startled because there she was.
A mother.
A woman waiting.
A woman carrying a daughter who kicked at her father's voice over prison phones and kept moving during every silence like she was determined to fill them.
Craig did not make you explain.
He just set his beer down on the hallway floor and pulled out his phone.
"Stand by the chair," he said.
You gave him a look. "You're very bossy."
"Runs in the family."
That made something in your chest ache.
You moved to stand beside the rocking chair.
The light from the window caught the side of your face and the roundness of your stomach. You rested one hand beneath the bump without thinking, the other above it, framing the place where your daughter lived.
Craig looked at you through the phone screen.
For a second, his expression shifted.
Grief maybe.
Or love.
Or both.
With the Codys, they often looked the same.
"You look..." He stopped.
You raised your eyebrows. "Careful."
He huffed. "I was gonna say nice."
"You looked like you were about to say something emotional."
"I don't do that."
"You absolutely almost did."
"Turn a little."
You laughed, but you turned.
The baby kicked.
You looked down.
Craig took the photo.
Then another.
And another.
"Did you just take a burst?" you asked.
"You blink weird."
"I do not blink weird."
"You do in pictures."
"I'm confiscating your beer."
"Worth it."
You walked over and took the phone from him.
The first picture was blurry.
The second was too bright.
The third made you go still.
You were standing in the green room, looking down at your stomach with one hand curved over the baby. Your hair was loose around your face. Andrew's shirt hung soft over your body. Behind you, the rocking chair sat by the window, and on the dresser the little duck onesie was just visible.
"He will," he added, like he needed you to believe it.
You nodded, because you did.
Andrew would like it.
No.
That was not right.
Andrew would keep it.
There was a difference.
You sent the photo to be printed the next morning.
Two copies.
One for Andrew.
One for you.
The one for you went on the fridge beside the scan photo, tucked under a magnet shaped like a sun.
The one for Andrew went into an envelope with a short note.
You rewrote the note six times.
The first version sounded too cheerful.
The second sounded too sad.
The third mentioned the paint too much.
The fourth made you cry.
In the end, you wrote:
Her room is green now.
Your green.
Craig took this after we finished painting. Deran pretended he didn't care about the duck onesie and then touched it like it was made of glass.
She kicked when I stood by the chair.
I think she likes it.
I hope you do too.
You signed your name.
Then, after a moment, you added:
I miss you in this room, but it still has you in it.
You folded the note before you could change your mind.
Andrew got the envelope on a Thursday.
He knew it was yours before he saw the handwriting.
He always did.
There were things he had learned to recognize in here because there were so few good things allowed through the walls. Your handwriting was one of them. The way the letters leaned slightly. The way you pressed too hard on the downstrokes. The small curve of your name on the return address.
He took the envelope back to his bunk instead of opening it in the common area.
He did that with your letters now.
At first, he had told himself it was because he did not want anyone looking. Because things got taken in here. Used. Mocked. Ruined.
But that was not all of it.
Some things were too soft to open under fluorescent lights with other men shouting at the television.
Some things deserved quiet.
He sat on the edge of the bunk and opened the envelope carefully.
Not tearing.
Never tearing.
Inside was the note.
And a photo.
The photo slid out first.
Andrew caught it against his palm.
For a second, he did not understand what he was looking at.
Then he did.
The room.
Green walls.
The chair by the window.
The little dresser.
The duck onesie.
And you.
Standing in the middle of it all.
Pregnant.
Visibly, unmistakably pregnant.
His hand tightened around the edge of the photo.
The sound in the room faded.
Men talking outside the cell. Someone laughing in the corridor. A door closing somewhere down the tier.
Gone.
All of it gone.
There was only the picture.
You were wearing his shirt.
That was the first thing that hit him.
His black T-shirt, stretched over the round of your stomach, soft from years of washing and sleeping and him leaving it on the floor even though you hated when he did that.
You had one hand under the baby and one above, looking down at her with this expression he had never seen on your face before.
Or maybe he had.
Maybe it had been there in pieces.
At the first scan.
During calls.
In the visiting room when the baby kicked.
But here it was whole.
You looked tired.
You looked soft.
You looked like home.
Andrew's chest tightened so sharply he had to lean forward, elbows on his knees.
His eyes moved over every inch of the photo.
The green.
The chair.
The paint on your leggings.
The curve of your stomach.
The way your hand rested there like you were already holding her.
His daughter was in that picture.
Not as a scan.
Not as a tiny grainy shape he had to squint at.
There.
Beneath your hands.
Inside you.
Growing in a room he had only imagined.
He lifted his thumb to the edge of the photo, stopping before touching your face.
He did not want to smear it.
He read the note next.
Once.
Twice.
The line about Deran made him huff softly through his nose.
He could picture it too clearly. Deran pretending not to care. Craig pretending he had not noticed. You noticing everything, because of course you did.
Then Andrew reached the last line.
I miss you in this room, but it still has you in it.
He stopped.
His throat worked.
He read it again.
The room still has you in it.
His green.
His shirt.
His daughter.
You had done that.
You had taken a room he could not stand in and left space for him anyway.
Not empty space.
Not a wound.
A place.
Andrew pressed the note against his mouth.
His eyes burned.
He hated crying in here.
Not because crying was weak.
He had stopped believing that, at least with you.
He hated it because this place made everything private feel like contraband.
But the tears came anyway.
Quiet.
Hot.
Unavoidable.
He looked back at the photo.
You looked like a mother.
The thought hit him so hard he almost could not breathe.
Not because he had not known.
He knew.
He knew every time you told him about nausea and cravings and the baby kicking. He knew every time you sent scan photos and wrote appointment notes and described the way your body was changing.
But knowing and seeing were different.
You looked like a mother.
His wife.
His baby's mother.
The woman wearing his shirt in their daughter's green room.
Andrew bowed his head, holding the photo in both hands.
For a long time, he just sat there.
Not spiraling.
Not punishing himself.
Just feeling it.
Letting the good thing hurt because it was good.
Letting himself want.
After a while, he tucked the note beneath the folded blanket on his bunk and kept the photo in his hand.
He should put it somewhere safe.
He knew that.
He did not.
He carried it folded carefully inside his shirt pocket for the rest of the day.
The phone rang at 8:11 that night.
You were in the nursery again.
Not doing anything useful.
Just sitting in the rocking chair with one foot tucked under you and the other on the floor, moving gently back and forth because the chair creaked in a way that was almost soothing if you did not think too hard about how it needed oil.
Your hand rested over your stomach.
The baby had been quiet for most of the evening, then dramatically active the second you decided to sit down.
Naturally.
The phone rang again.
You grabbed it from the dresser.
"Hello?"
The automated voice began.
You pressed one before it finished.
The line clicked.
Static.
Then Andrew.
"Hey."
Something about his voice made you sit up a little.
"Hey."
"You in the room?"
You looked around, surprised. "Yeah."
"How'd you know?"
"Chair creaks."
You glanced down at the rocking chair.
"You can hear that?"
"Yeah."
"It needs oil."
"Mm."
"What does mm mean?"
"It means don't let Craig fix it."
You laughed. "Craig can fix a chair."
"Not quietly."
"That's true."
There was a pause.
A different kind of pause.
Not the usual one, where Andrew was collecting his thoughts or swallowing down something sharp. This one felt full already.
"You got the picture," you said softly.
"Yeah."
Your hand tightened around the phone.
"And?"
He did not answer right away.
In the background, you could hear the hard little sounds of his world. Voices. Movement. A guard speaking to someone too sharply.
Then Andrew said, "You look like a mom."
Your breath stopped.
You looked down at your stomach.
The words slid into you gently and then opened everywhere.
"Oh."
He was quiet.
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
No one had said it like that.
People had said you looked good. Glowing, even, which was a lie and also rude considering you had thrown up three times in one morning during week eleven. People had said you were showing. Getting big. Carrying well. Looking tired. Looking beautiful.
But Andrew said it like he was seeing you.
Not the pregnancy.
Not the bump.
You.
A mother.
You pressed a hand over your mouth.
Andrew's voice changed immediately. "Bad?"
You laughed wetly. "No."
"You're crying?"
"Yes."
"Bad?"
"No."
He was silent for a beat.
Then, suspicious, "Good crying?"
You smiled through tears. "Good crying."
"You always say that."
"Because you keep doing things."
"What things?"
"Saying things that wreck me."
"I said you look like a mom."
"I know."
"That was bad?"
"No, Andrew." Your voice shook. "It was perfect."
He went quiet again.
You could almost see him looking down, embarrassed, not knowing what to do with praise.
So you helped him.
"I didn't realize I needed to hear that."
His breathing softened.
"You do," he said.
"I do?"
"You look like her mom."
Your eyes closed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The baby kicked beneath your palm.
You laughed softly.
"She agrees."
"She moving?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Put me on."
You smiled and moved the phone to your stomach.
"He's here," you whispered.
Andrew was quiet for a second.
Then, softer than the prison around him deserved, he said, "Hey, baby girl."
The baby shifted.
You looked down, tears still wet on your cheeks.
"I saw your room," he said.
Your throat tightened.
"It's good. Your mom did good."
You pressed your lips together.
"The green's right," he said. "Not soup."
A laugh slipped out of you.
Andrew paused, hearing it, then continued.
"And the chair's loud. I can hear it. We'll fix it."
We.
You closed your eyes.
We would fix it.
Someday. Somehow. Maybe not soon enough. Maybe not in any way that matched the picture you used to have of how this would go.
But we.
Your daughter kicked the phone.
You gasped.
Andrew stopped. "What?"
"She kicked you."
Silence.
Then his voice came back smaller. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Because of the chair?"
"Probably because you insulted the chair."
"I said we'd fix it."
"You called it loud."
"It is loud."
You laughed again and brought the phone back to your ear.
Andrew was quiet.
You could feel him trying to hold the moment without crushing it.
"You really like it?" you asked.
"The room?"
"The picture."
He breathed out.
"Yeah."
Just one word.
But it carried so much weight you had to lean back against the chair.
"Yeah?" you asked again, softer.
"I kept it with me."
Your lips parted.
"What?"
"The picture."
"All day?"
"Yeah."
Your chest ached.
"Andrew."
"Didn't want to put it down."
You closed your eyes.
The room blurred green around you.
"You don't have to say anything," he said.
That made you laugh and cry at once. "I wasn't going to say anything useful."
"That's okay."
"I'm just..." You swallowed. "I'm glad you have it."
His voice went quieter. "Me too."
You looked at the dresser, where the second copy of the photo sat propped against a small lamp.
It looked different now that he had seen it.
Like the room had changed again.
Like the photograph had somehow built a bridge and left one end in his pocket.
"Craig took it," you said.
"I know."
"You read the note."
"Yeah."
"He was weirdly gentle about it."
"Craig?"
"Yeah."
Andrew made a small sound. "He can be."
"I know."
"He say anything stupid?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"He said I blink weird."
Andrew was silent.
Then, "You do."
Your mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
"In pictures."
"I do not."
"You do."
"I am carrying your child."
"That doesn't change how you blink."
You laughed so suddenly the baby moved.
"You two are horrible."
"Two?"
"You and Craig."
Andrew's voice softened. "Not the baby?"
"Never the baby."
"She's innocent?"
"For now."
"For now," he echoed.
The smile in his voice nearly undid you.
You rocked gently in the chair, letting the creak settle beneath the conversation.
"Deran really did touch the onesie like it was made of glass," you said.
"I can see that."
"He thought I didn't notice."
"You notice everything."
"So do you."
"Not everything."
"Enough."
There was a pause.
Then he asked, "What else is in the room?"
You looked around, smiling softly.
"You saw most of it."
"Tell me anyway."
So you did.
You told him about the dresser, which stuck on the second drawer unless you pulled it from the left side. The little stack of books near the chair. The blanket folded over the arm, pale yellow and soft enough that you had pressed it to your face in the store like a lunatic.
You told him about the crib box still leaning unopened against the wall.
Andrew made a low sound at that.
"What?"
"I don't like that it's not done."
"You hate instructions."
"I can still build a crib."
"I know."
"Craig shouldn't do it."
"Craig can build a crib."
"He can build it wrong."
"You are very hard on your brother."
"He doesn't read instructions."
"Neither do you."
"I look at them."
"You glare at them."
"That counts."
You laughed again, and he went quiet to hear it.
The chair creaked.
The baby shifted.
Outside, night pressed against the windows.
Inside, the green room held his voice.
For a few minutes, it was almost enough.
"What else?" he asked.
"There's a little lamp."
"What kind?"
"Cream shade. Wooden base."
"Good."
"You have lamp opinions now?"
"For her room, yeah."
Your smile softened.
"Okay. Lamp has been approved."
"What else?"
"Closet has a few clothes."
"The ducks?"
"On the dresser."
"Good."
"You really love the ducks."
"I don't love the ducks."
"You ask about them a lot."
"They're there."
"So is the crib box."
"The crib box is a problem."
"The ducks are beloved."
"They're ducks."
"You are such a liar."
He huffed softly.
Then, after a moment, "They looked small in the picture."
"The onesie?"
"Yeah."
"It is small."
"How small?"
You looked at it on the dresser, folded carefully.
"Tiny."
He breathed out.
"Like..." You reached over and picked it up, holding it against your stomach. "Like I don't understand how a person fits in it."
Andrew said nothing.
You could hear his breath.
"Too much?" you asked gently.
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
He swallowed audibly.
Then, quieter, "Tell me."
Your throat tightened.
So you did.
You told him how the sleeves were barely longer than your hand. How the ducks were stitched in soft yellow thread, not printed. How there were tiny snaps down the front and one of them was shaped slightly wrong, which for some reason had made you love it more.
Andrew listened like you were giving him instructions for something sacred.
When you finished, he said, "Send a picture of that too."
"The onesie?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"And the chair."
"You already saw the chair."
"I want another."
You smiled. "Okay."
"And the books."
"The books?"
"I want to know what she has."
Your eyes burned.
"Okay."
"And you."
You stopped.
The chair rocked once beneath you.
"What?"
His voice was quiet.
"Send more of you."
You looked down.
"Andrew."
"Not for..." He stopped, frustrated by the words. "Not like that."
"I know."
"I just want to see."
Your hand moved over your stomach.
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Pregnant me?"
"All of you."
Your breath caught.
Andrew went quiet like he regretted saying too much.
You did not let him take it back.
"Okay," you whispered.
"Only if you want."
"I do."
He exhaled softly.
"I miss seeing you change," he admitted.
It could have become that old ache.
The one both of you knew too well.
But he did not make it into blame.
He did not make it into punishment.
He just said it as a truth.
So you answered with one.
"I miss being seen by you."
The line went quiet.
Your fingers tightened around the phone.
Then Andrew said, "I see you."
Your eyes closed.
"I know."
"In the picture. In the visits. Even when you think you look tired."
You smiled through tears. "I am tired."
"I know."
"Very tired."
"I know."
"But?"
"But you're still you."
You had to press your lips together.
The baby moved slowly beneath your hand, as if she was settling into the sound of him.
"You say these things like they're small," you whispered.
"They are small."
"They're not."
He did not argue.
That was how you knew he heard you.
The call timer beeped in the background.
Your stomach sank.
"How long?" you asked.
"Five."
You leaned your head back against the chair cushion and looked around the room.
Five minutes.
Five minutes to hold a whole life together over a prison phone.
You had become good at it.
You hated that you had become good at it.
"What are you doing with the picture?" you asked.
"Keeping it."
"I know that."
"With the others."
"By your bunk?"
"Yeah."
You pictured it.
The scan photos.
The gender note.
The letters.
Now the picture of you in the nursery.
A little wall of proof.
Your heart twisted.
"Is that allowed?"
"So far."
"Andrew."
"It's fine."
"That is not an answer."
"I'll keep it safe."
You believed that.
With him, that meant something almost frightening.
He would keep it safe.
From men, from guards, from damp corners, from his own hands if he thought touching it too much might wear it away.
"I have my copy on the fridge," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Beside the scan."
He was quiet for a second.
"Good."
"The sun magnet is holding it up."
"The weird yellow one?"
"It is not weird."
"It has a face."
"All suns have faces in magnet form."
"No."
"You are anti-whimsy."
"I married you."
"That means you married into whimsy."
He made that almost-laugh again.
You smiled.
Then the baby gave one hard kick under your ribs.
You winced.
Andrew heard it.
"What?"
"She kicked hard."
"She okay?"
"Yes. She's just violent."
"She gets that from you."
"From me?"
"You throw pillows."
"At you."
"Still counts."
"You deserved those pillows."
"Probably."
You laughed softly, rubbing circles over your stomach.
"She's very awake now."
"Because of me?"
"Probably."
There was a pause.
Then he asked, "Can I tell her goodnight?"
Your face softened.
"Yeah."
You moved the phone back to your stomach.
"Okay," you whispered. "She's listening."
Andrew's voice came through low and careful.
"Hey, baby girl."
The baby shifted.
Your throat tightened.
"I saw your picture today," he said.
You closed your eyes.
"You look like your mom right now. I can tell."
Your face crumpled.
"And your room's green. She got it right."
You pressed your free hand over your mouth.
"I'm gonna need you to be nicer to her ribs," he said. "She says you're being violent. I believe her."
A wet laugh slipped out of you.
Andrew paused, then continued, voice softer.
"She misses me in that room."
Your laughter faded.
"But she said I'm still in it."
You could barely breathe.
"So I'm there too, okay?" he said. "In the green. In the shirt. In the ducks, apparently."
You laughed again through tears.
"And every time she sits in that loud chair, I'm gonna hear it."
The baby kicked.
You gasped softly.
Andrew stopped. "Was that her?"
"Yes."
You brought the phone back to your ear.
"She kicked again."
His breath caught.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"For the chair?"
"Maybe for the ducks."
"Not the ducks."
"Definitely the ducks."
He huffed, but his voice was warm.
The timer beeped again.
"One minute," he said.
You closed your eyes.
"Okay."
You hated how small the word sounded.
Andrew was quiet.
Then he said, "Send another picture."
"I will."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Of you?"
"Yes."
"And the room."
"Yes."
"And the duck thing."
You smiled. "Yes."
He breathed out.
"Okay."
You rocked gently.
The chair creaked.
Andrew went still on the other end.
You knew because the silence changed.
"You hear it?" you asked.
"Yeah."
You smiled through tears.
"Good."
For the last few seconds, neither of you spoke.
You just rocked slowly in the green room, letting the creak of the chair travel through the phone line to wherever he was standing.
A small sound.
An ordinary sound.
A home sound.
Then Andrew said, "I love you."
"I love you too."
"And her."
"And her."
The line clicked.
Silence.
You lowered the phone from your ear and kept rocking.
The room stayed green around you.
The baby shifted beneath your palm.
On the dresser, the duck onesie waited.
On the fridge downstairs, your copy of the photo sat beneath the smiling sun magnet.
And somewhere behind concrete and wire, Andrew Cody had the other one.
Proof.
Not that everything was okay.
Not that it didn't hurt.
Not that the empty side of the bed was any less empty.
But proof that the life you were building had not left him behind.
Proof that his daughter had a room.
Proof that you were becoming her mother.
Proof that home could still reach him, even there.
You rested your head against the chair cushion and looked out at the dark window.
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Doppel-banger: a double of a living person who you wouldn't hesitate to tap
summary: five times you think you stumbled upon jack abbot vs. the one time it's actually him
tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, terry mccandless, titus dandforth, jack abbot, terry is lowkey creepy, titus mentions sacrificing somone, brett sammy and pope are all nice, canon pope staring, second hand embarrassment, younger fem!reader but age is not specified
notes: okay, so I had this idea of making a full oneshot about a reader mistaking pope for a concussed jack for an entire day, but the I thought it'd be really funny to make a collection of all the major shawn characters. i haven't seen any of the tv shows, but i read so much fan fiction, I am sorry if some of them are ooc, if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!
word count: 9.6k
By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other.
A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field.
Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye.
You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you.
The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes.
You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders.
No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd.
Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone.
But more importantly, mentioning it to you.
Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire.
A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him.
“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?”
The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach.
“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.”
By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still.
That should have been your first warning.
But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—”
Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.
Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot.
In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance.
But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist.
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?”
Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.”
Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle.
You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.”
“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said.
Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.”
“I’m starting to gather that.”
“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.”
He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.”
You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.”
The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?”
“Only when he does something stupid.”
“I’m starting to think I should meet him.”
You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.”
He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.
Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body.
You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.”
Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.”
You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again.
Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.”
Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?”
“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.”
“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.”
“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.”
“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.”
“Seemed important to you.”
“I’ve been publicly humiliated!”
“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.”
“What?”
“The tone you’re doing right now.”
Brett blinked. “What tone?”
“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sound exactly like him too.”
Now he looked offended. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.”
The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.”
Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?”
“Definitely not yours.”
You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message.
Jack:
Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid.
“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him.
He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.”
You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.”
“Feels like your problem already.”
“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.”
Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!”
You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.”
Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.”
_______________________
The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled.
Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights.
You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly.
Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately.
Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too?
Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights.
You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway.
“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.”
Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face.
“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.”
A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?”
“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly.
You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them.
Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb.
And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired.
You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.”
He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?”
“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself.
“Again?”
You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.”
“Well, that sound concerning.”
“I’m very concerned for my mental status.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it.
You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.”
“Nope.”
“Perfect.”
“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him.
You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.”
“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?”
“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.”
That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.”
You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.”
Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Late shift?”
You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.”
His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?”
“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.”
A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable.
You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night.
Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?”
A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.”
“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.”
He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.”
You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them.
“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed.
“Twelve years.”
“Explains your expression.”
At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?”
“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.”
He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.”
A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.”
Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?”
“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.”
“What does Jack do?”
“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”
Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.”
“You say that like you know him.”
“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.”
For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got.
Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?”
His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago.
Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.”
It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.”
“You’re tired,” he said simply.
“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.”
“You’re human.”
You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.”
“Me and Jack?”
“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.”
Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.”
“Maybe I need therapy.”
“That too.”
You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal.
As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs.
Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.”
“That’s still up for debate.”
“But you still like him.”
You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further.
You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.”
“Dangerous trait to have.”
And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.”
“Real terrible guy.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.”
Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser.
“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.”
His eyebrows rose. “Probably.”
“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.”
“Likewise.”
As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell.
“And hey,” he called out after a few steps.
You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow.
“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!”
Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot.
_______________________
By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real.
Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in.
You’d be done in four hours.
That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult.
The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare.
You drank it down anyway.
Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently.
That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows.
Your steps slowed automatically.
Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.
Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack.
But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him.
“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?”
Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again.
Three and oh.
You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet.
In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad.
Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether.
You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.”
The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.”
Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you.
You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.”
He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?”
His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth.
A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.”
Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself).
You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”
He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?”
“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?”
Another pause.
“You can sit.”
You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt.
Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you.
“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently.
His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure.
“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.”
Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?”
He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.”
His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway.
You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”
A small almost-smile curled his lip.
You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.”
His eyes looked down at the cup.
“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him.
He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?”
You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I feel the same way.”
A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings.
Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read.
Lonely, your brain supplied.
You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?”
He pursed his lips. “Andrew.”
No nickname.
Not even a last name.
Just Andrew.
You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.”
“The last two?”
“Long story.”
He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully.
“Do you need to go help people?”
“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.”
“You’re tired.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.”
He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.”
“You sound like Jack.”
Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?”
“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband.
“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically.
Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.”
You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have.
You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.”
His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt.
_______________________
By now, you should have known better.
Key words: should have.
Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning.
Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment.
Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in.
All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise.
Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes.
The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car.
You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door.
At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket.
The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore.
Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first.
Et tu, Brute?
“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased.
“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.”
You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes.
The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine).
However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.”
A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.”
You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Finding men who all have the same face.”
“That so?”
“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.”
The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.”
“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.”
You paused. “That was before you spoke.”
His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?”
“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.”
He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”
The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion.
Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.”
He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke.
Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all.
This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?”
You sneered. “That’s none of your business.”
“Mhm.”
“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”
“Only the pretty little ones.”
You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.”
Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?”
“You’re definitely something.”
Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest.
“You got a name?” he asked.
Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest.
“Smart girl,” he murmured.
Your spine stiffened.
The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.”
You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.”
“Before tellin’ me yours?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.”
You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest.
“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.”
You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.”
“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person.
You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.”
He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.”
You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.
_______________________
You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events.
The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities.
The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking.
Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served.
“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief.
Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”
“Well now I’m interested.”
Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly.
At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role.
The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane.
Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice.
But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint.
He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?”
You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”
“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.”
“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.”
Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him.
“Oh, I already like you,” he announced.
You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.”
“I get that a lot.”
You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”
He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?”
“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.”
“Do you seek his face out often?”
“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.”
“Ah. One of those situations.”
Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.”
“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.”
Oh.
Oh no.
For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally.
You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.”
His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.”
“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.”
“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
“It mostly entertains me.”
You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that.
“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.”
A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?”
He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.”
You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”
Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.”
A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh.
“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh.
“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.”
Oh, absolutely not.
Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best.
“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.”
“How will you ever recover?”
“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.”
Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?”
“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.”
“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous.
“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.”
The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will.
You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.”
His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?”
“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.”
“Is it a sin to be attentive?”
“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.”
Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.”
Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you.
“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side.
You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight.
Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.”
His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket.
Double oh no.
He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.”
You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot.
“Titus—”
“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.”
“That is way too much money.”
“Probably.”
“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.”
“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.”
You hesitated before slowly taking in.
Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.”
Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.”
You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”
“How did you know that was next on my list?”
“It seemed very on brand.”
Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other.
Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.”
You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.”
_______________________
At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks.
One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well).
You were simply done.
Officially. Completely. Done.
Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance.
The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes.
And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes.
Unbelievable.
You didn’t even break stride this time.
“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.”
The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice.
You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.”
A long silence followed before he said one word.
“What?”
You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.
Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot.
Your Jack.
For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious.
You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?”
Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?”
“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.”
Jack stared at you in complete silence.
“. . . You met a rich version of me?”
“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.”
“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?”
The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that.
Brett had looked entertained.
Sammy had looked understanding.
Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely.
Terry had looked scheming.
Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing.
But Jack?
Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once.
“Oh.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?”
“You’re actually him.”
“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?”
A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting.
Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?”
His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?”
“You happened,” you informed him weakly.
“That really didn’t explain anything.”
“It does in my head.”
“Which is terrifying.”
You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art.
But above all, Jack felt safe.
Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment.
You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty.
“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly.
Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.”
“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.”
He stayed quiet.
“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.”
Jack looked caught off guard.
“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.”
He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.
Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.”
A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.”
Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.”
The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days.
That was another difference too.
None of the others had ever felt like home.
You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.”
Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?”
“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.”
A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.”
You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”
Jack stared down at you for one long second.
“Did any of them kiss you?”
A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?”
“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?”
“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.”
His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady.
When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly.
“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.”
Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?”
You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.”
He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss.
Being Jack abbots little young girlfriend and he just gives you his phone. Obviously because you know more about it!!!
He’s driving and his phone dings loudly over the speakers, he nods his head towards it to you in the passenger seat. “Can you see who that is for me?”
When you grab it and open it up (because of course you memorized his password) you groan seeing the text. “Robby says he will be thirty minutes late.”
Jack hums. He’s already switching on the blinker and making a turn. “Well in that case let’s go pick out some ice cream for my girl huh?”
Also!!! Whenever you walk anyplace he just hands it to you. Like the responsibility of putting the phone in his pocket is too much so he whispers out an: “hold on to this for me honey.”
Whenever he gets a call you pull it out and he answers. Always mumbling a “thank you baby.” Like you’re keeping him on track.
And not to mention he comes to you on the weekends showing you his email and asking. “I’ve been trying for fifteen minutes. How do I find the receipt for the airbnb we booked.”
“Jack you told me to book it.”
“How do I find the receipt to the air bnb you booked.”
n’Jack is so deathly scared of someone taking his phone and seeing the nudes you send him in little panties, he’s this close to putting all those photos on a USB. Until you show him the little private folder.
Old man with his phone is what I’m trying to get at.
about: the day of your first hunt was the day titus decided you’d become mrs. danforth
warnings: 18+, violence, murder, wedding night smut, pinv, reader is a tease, spicy polaroids, use of good girl, lingerie, slight overstimulation, breeding kink
word count: 1977
a/n: titus deserves a wife who’s just as messed up as him
Titus had never believed in love.
He knew he’d have to marry eventually, produce an heir to carry on the family legacy. He’d find some advantageous match. Maybe he’d even be lucky and she’d entertain him enough. It wouldn’t be a marriage of love. Love had never been in the cards for a man like him, who’d had blood on his hands since the moment he was born.
But the moment he truly saw you, his mind had changed.
It had been a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of hunt where all the families had been invited. One sacrifice had been picked by Chester Danforth, who held the high seat. Each family had picked a representative for their family (or two, in the case of the twins).
This hunt was the first time your parents had allowed you to be the representative for your family. You’d been preparing for it your whole life. And you were eager to prove yourself.
Titus was eager for blood.
He’d split off from Ursula to cover more ground. And he’d thought it was his lucky night when he’d seen the trail of blood leading into the greenhouse. But instead of finding his prey, wounded and hiding, he found you, knife embedded in the man’s neck.
You didn’t even flinch as you pulled the blade out, blood spraying from the wound, across your face. There was only a proud glint in your eyes as the man crumpled to the ground.
Titus wanted to be angry. He’d wanted the kill for himself. But seeing you there, that look in your eye matching his own when he took a life, stole the very breath from his lungs. You were beautiful even with blood spattered across your cheek.
You finally looked up, meeting Titus’s eye.
You’d really only heard stories about him. While you socialized in the same circles, you’d had little interaction beyond a polite greeting at events you both were required to be at.
You shifted your weight from foot to foot. There was something heavy in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite decipher. But it made you nervous. And it made your stomach twist, heat curling between your legs.
He looked down at the body in between the two of you. He nudged his leg with a heavy boot, looking for any sign of life. When there was none, he grunted in approval. “Two hours,” he said. It had only taken you two hours to find and kill him. “Impressive.”
And from that moment forward, he knew he had to have you.
Two years later, you were only minutes away from truly being his forever – from becoming Mrs. Danforth.
You stood in front of the full length mirror, adjusting the lace of your veil. You’d kicked all of your bridesmaids out along with your mother. All you wanted was a moment of peace and quiet before the ceremony to calm your nerves.
You weren’t having second thoughts. Of course not. You were in love with Titus, desperately so. He completed you in a way you never thought was possible. Wedding planning had simply been taxing. And now that the day was finally here, it was catching up to you.
The sound of floorboards creaking pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced back, expecting it to be your mother telling you it was time. But it wasn’t. It was your groom.
“Titus, you know you aren’t supposed to see me beforehand,” you chided despite the smile tugging at your lips. It was like he’d known exactly what you needed before you even knew – him. His presence seemed to shut your brain up.
He shrugged. “That is a stupid tradition,” he said, stepping further into the room. His eyes roved over your dress, taking in the lace and beadwork with an appreciative hum.
“Tradition is important.” Once he was close enough your hands found their way to his chest, trailing upwards to adjust his bowtie. You pressed a chaste kiss against his lips. “Now you need to go before my mother realizes you’ve been in here and blows a gasket.”
“I’ll see you at the altar, Mrs. Danforth,” he whispered before finally pulling away.
Mrs. Danforth. The sound of that echoed through your brain as your father walked you down the aisle. There were a thousand eyes on you but the only pair you cared about were those hazel ones waiting for you.
“We are gathered here today,” the officiant started the ceremony.
You were practically buzzing with energy as you went through your vows. You were eager to be his wife, to be Mrs. Danforth. And soon enough he slipped the ring on your finger and you repeated the action on him. Your ‘I do’s’ were said.
“You may kiss the bride.”
And Titus did.
His hands cradled your face, holding you like you were something precious, before he kissed you hard. He didn’t care who was watching as he devoured you.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. But he didn’t go far. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes falling shut for just a moment.
“Mrs. Danforth,” he whispered, breath ghosting against your skin.
“Mr. Danforth.” You grinned. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
The reception was perfect – just how you’d envisioned it.
The night was finally winding down. The first of the guests had begun to leave. The rest were scattered around the gardens, a few still on the dance floor, the rest mingling in groups.
Titus was sitting at your table, sipping on a glass of champagne. He looked around, searching for you. Every moment you’d been apart he’d spent looking at you. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He watched intently as you conspired with your bridesmaids. You were clearly plotting something, all huddled together with hushed voices.
It was even more evident that you had something up your sleeve as you peeled off from the group, a little grin on your lips. You made a beeline for your now-husband.
“Hi,” you hummed as you sat next to him.
“What are you up to?” he asked, straight to the point as always.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“Yep,” you said, popping the ‘p’. “A surprise.”
“Hm.”
He eyed you, tracking your movements as you slid a polaroid, face down, towards him. He picked it up.
It was a photo of you, wearing white, lacy lingerie and the veil you currently had on. You were laying on his bed, ass up, back arched, with one hand stretched in front of you to show off your wedding ring.
Titus inhaled sharply at the sight, his pants suddenly feeling tight.
“D’you like it?” you asked.
“Of course I like it,” he gritted out. It took every ounce of his self control not to pull you out of that chair and haul you inside. “Now, be a good girl and say goodbye to your guests, then we’re going inside.”
You nodded eagerly, scrambling to your feet. He didn’t leave your side as the two of you made rounds, thanking your guests for coming. And the moment you were done? He was practically dragging you to the bedroom.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he muttered, coming up behind you after locking the door. He toyed with the neckline of your dress. “You have that set on under here?”
“Yes,” you replied breathlessly.
“Let’s get you out of this, yeah?”
His hands meticulously undid the laces and buttons. If it were any other article of clothing, he wouldn’t bother. He’d have already ripped it off of you. But this was your wedding dress – the one you’d spent months grueling over. You’d probably suffocate him in his sleep if he ruined it.
You stepped out of the dress as it pooled around your ankles. Titus picked it up, draping it across one of the chairs.
“Get on the bed.”
The silk comforter was cool against your back as you laid down. Titus approached slowly, like a predator sizing up his prey. He nudged your thighs apart. His eyes locked onto the wet spot on those lacy white panties of yours. They were practically see through now that you’d soaked them thoroughly.
“Got yourself all worked up, huh?” He pulled your panties to the side. “Fuck, she’s dripping for me.”
Your hips shifted unconsciously, seeking friction from those thick fingers of his. He rolled his eyes at the impatience but he decided to be nice. It was your wedding night after all. So he dragged a finger through your slick.
He pulled a breathless noise from your lips as he finally sunk one finger into your aching hole. He pumped it slowly. In and out.
He pushed a second finger in, moving them in a ‘come-hither’ motion. Your head fell back against the pillows, his fingers curling against the spot that always had you seeing stars. He moved his fingers languidly, enjoying the feeling of your silky walls wrapped around him.
“Titus,” you whined his name, hips bucking into his hand. “Please!”
“Please, what?” he asked, voice dripping with condescension. “Gotta tell me what you want, honey.”
“Want more.” He clicked his tongue. “Want your cock, please.”
“That’s better,” he crooned.
He pulled his fingers from your cunt, bringing them up to your mouth. You opened up, licking your own arousal off his hand. With his free hand he worked open his pants, pushing them down far enough to free his aching cock. He hissed as your hand wrapped around him.
You stroked him a few times, before lining his tip up with your entrance. His hips finally met your own. He pulled one of your legs over his shoulder, letting him slip even further in. The other he hooked around his waist.
Each roll of his hips punched the air from your lungs. Nails dug into his broad shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself.
“Fuck,” he groaned. The sound of skin against skin and moans filled the room. “So fuckin’ perfect. Such a good wife.”
His hand slipped between your thighs, thumb landing on your engorged clit. He rubbed slow circles against the bundle of nerves. He could feel you clench around his length with every pass of his finger.
“‘m gonna cum,” you said.
“Cum for me, honey. Wanna feel you milk my cock.” His hips moved faster, trying to push you over the edge. And with a few more well angled thrusts he had the knot in your tummy snapping. But he didn’t stop, even as you began to squirm from the overstimulation.
“Titus–” With his name on your lips, it didn’t take long for him to follow you over the edge, spilling inside of you.
He stayed there, savoring the warmth of your cunt around his cock for a moment longer, before finally pulling out. You cringed as his cum spilled out of you, dirtying the sheets beneath you.
Once you’d caught your breath, you started to move, but he clamped his hands down on your hips, keeping you still.
“Titus,” you drawled. “‘m all sticky.”
“You can’t move yet. Gotta let it take.”
You raised an eyebrow. But he wasn’t even looking at you. He was completely transfixed, eyes on your weeping cunt. He lifted your hips slightly, putting a pillow under you to stop his cum from leaking out.
He finally looked back up at you. “Don’t you want t’give me a baby, honey?”
Oh. Heat crept through your body at his words.
Finally, you managed to nod.
“Then we gotta start trying now.” You shifted slightly, already getting worked up all over again at the thought. Titus grinned at the movement. “Does my wife like that? Y’want me to fill you up again? Make certain you get pregnant, honey?”
Jack hears about your disaster of a date that you had last night when he’s passing by the nurses stations. You’re not talking loudly but enough that he can catch the gist of what your night was like.
“I’m telling you, he started out ok, but he turned out to be too handsy.” You’re telling a nurse. “His hand would always end up on my thigh or my back. I had to fake an emergency to get out.”
Later on in the shift, Jack finds you in the break room. You’re eating a granola bar as you scroll on your phone, adding things to your Amazon cart, not paying attention to what’s going on around you. He leans over your shoulder and looks at your phone. “That’s a nice dress.”
You startle, almost dropping your phone. “Dr. Abbot. Hi.”
“May I?” Jack nods towards your phone asking to see it.
“Oh. Um. Okay.” You hand your phone over to Jack.
Jack takes the phone and spends a moment scrolling and tapping. Someone pops their head in the room asking for you, and you automatically go to help not thinking to grab your phone.
Before the shift ends a couple hours later, Jack finds you leaning against the counter. He holds out your phone. “Here’s your phone back.”
“Oh. Thank you. I didn’t realize that I left it with you.”
Jack leans a little closer to you. “You’ll be getting a package tomorrow.”
“I will? Why?”
“I bought the things in your cart.” He pauses before saying, “I also may have added some things as well.”
You stare at Jack, not really sure what the response should be in this situation. “I… um… what? Why are you buying me things?”
“You deserve nice things. Plus, when I take you out I wanted to make sure you have options to pick from.”
You feel the beginning of a blush spread across your cheeks. “I was unaware that we were going out.”
Jack steps closer and whispers, “We are. The next shift we both have off, I’m taking you to dinner. You good with that plan, sweetheart?”
You nod. “I. Yes. That plan is good.”
Jack takes a step back. “Good. I look forward to seeing what you wear. I think I added some items you’ll like.” His voice gets a little lower. “I know I’ll like it.”
After Jack turns to head out, you unlock your phone and go to your recent orders from Amazon. Not only had he bought the couple of items that were in your cart, Jack also added a handful of dresses and some lingerie.
summary: its a hot day at the pool and criag doesn't know how to act around pope's girl (idk man)
pairing: andrew 'pope' cody x fem!reader
wc: 1.1k
warnings: reader wears a bikini and craig is perving on his brother's gf, slight violence, not proofed soz </3
deran can sense craig’s train of thought before he even begins speaking. he’s looking at where you sit on the edge of the pool, pretty polka dot bikini showing off your body that’s glistening from the oily sunscreen pope had rubbed you down with earlier, feet dangling into to crystal blue water. your boyfriend had just stepped away to grab you another drink, a sweet smile showing your pretty teeth as you murmured a thank you andy to his brother as he stepped away.
there’s an impromptu swim party going on at the cody house, inspired by the sweltering triple-digit heat wave blanketing california and smurf being out of town. deran watches craig watch you as pope walks further and further away, a mischievous look in craig’s eyes that deran is sure will only spell trouble.
“dude, whatever you’re thinking—forget it,” deran warns. craig whips his head towards his younger brother, incredulous.
“what? i’m not doing anything,” craig defends causing deran to roll his eyes.
“whatever man, you mess with pope’s girl it’s your funeral,” deran says as he brings his bottle to his lips.
“i’m just gonna see if she’s up for a friendly game,” craig says innocently as he begins to swim through the water towards you.
you’re pulled from your own thoughts as you sway slightly to whatever rock song was playing through the speakers as craig appears below you in the water. you smile down at him, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses as you greet him kindly.
“hi craig!” you chirp.
“hey y/n,” he says, “why’re you not in the water?” he says splashing you slightly making you giggle.
“oh, pope doesn’t feel like swimming,” you say simply, but not unhappily.
“well don’t you want to swim?” he asks you imploringly. you hesitate, the water does look nice, and it is so hot outside, but you’d been content to sit beside pope at the edge, watching the festivities as he dotes on you. when you don’t answer, he speaks again, “c’mon” he coaxes, “i need a partner and you’d be perfect,”
you glance back at the house where pope went to refill your glass before looking back at craig, “partner for what?” you cave, sliding into the water beside him. one quick dip won’t hurt, you’ll be out by the time pope gets back, you decide.
criag thinks this is the best idea he’s ever had. he’s got you, a total babe, sat atop his shoulders, his hands grasping at your legs to keep you in place, just above your knees. you laugh as he surges forward, your arms pushing at the girl across from you who sat on her own partners shoulders. you shove and shove, craig below you trying to trip his own opponent across from him.
your squeal reaches pope’s ears as he steps outside, returning with your drink in hand. he walks up to the edge of the pool where you were sitting when he left and his eyes find you just as your opponent knocks you down, you and craig falling sideways into the water with a big splash.
you pop out of the water, a bright smile on your face as you graciously congratulate the winners. you take the steps out of the pool, water cascading down your form and reflecting the sun like jewels—craig hot on your heels.
he’s talking to you animatedly, looking like a little kid chasing an icecream cone as you walk around the pool. you’re smiling at him sweetly, but that’s all it is to you—sometimes you’re too kind for your own good, unaware of the ulterior motives pope’s brother might be harboring. which is why pope isn’t mad at you.
pope clenches his jaw hard at the scene, bending down to set the drink on the concrete before grabbing your towel from your bag on a nearby lounger with stiff and controlled movements. he meets you halfway, opening the towel for you to step into and he wraps it around you securely.
you beam at him as his arms encircle you, pushing up onto your toes to press a damp kiss to his cheek. his gaze remains locked on craig, whose steps beside you faltered only slightly when he noticed pope’s return.
“thank you, andy!” you gush with your saccharine tone.
“you’re welcome, sweetheart,” he responds in his usual even tone, never looking away from craig. “you have fun?” he asks you.
“yeah!” you gush, “craig needed a partner and he’d said i’d be perfect, but we lost anyway,” you pout slightly at your defeat, unaware of how you’d practically taddled on his brother.
craig shifts awkwardly in place, his good idea crumbling around him as pope continues to stare at him with his murderous glare.
“i’m sure you were perfect, sweetheart,” he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, “why don’t you go get changed and we’ll head to that diner you like for dinner,” he says, squeezing your waist.
you depart with an excited “okay!” grabbing your bag from the chair and shouting a quick “bye craig!” over your shoulder as you head inside, unaware of the tension you were leaving behind.
craig offers a meek “bye,” in response, cause even his coked out brain is realizing deran was right and he messed around and took things too far again. pope just looks at him with raised brows, listening for the sliding glass door to click shut behind you.
“look man, i—“ craig starts, but the moment pope’s sure you’re well into the house, his fist is coming up and connecting with craig’s jaw with a thick crack!
standing at the edge of the pool, the force of the punch sends craig stumbling into the water, the crowd of partygoers whooping obnoxiously at the splash.
craig emerges from the water floundering, deran appearing at his side. they watch pope stalk back inside to you, derans hand clapping his older brother on the shoulder. craig twists his jaw from side to side, wincing at the pain that’s sure to leave a bruise and the tang of iron that coats his tongue.
“told you it was a bad idea man,” is all the blonde says, no sympathy lacing his voice.
craig just turns to his brother, a shit eating grin already growing on his face—blood staining his teeth—that had deran rolling his eyes hard and said “it was so worth it, man,” already thinking longingly about the soft flesh of your supple thighs squeezing his head and the feel of them under his hands. “no way pope can handle all of that,” he says dopily, which earns him a smack upside the head from deran, “ow! what the hell man!”
“dipshit,” deran says, shaking his head unbelievably at his brother who never learns not to poke the bear.
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blah blah i know sammy bryant is just a total and utter sweetheart baby but i want to see him manhandle reader.
i was scrolling through twitter or x (whateva you wanna call it) saw this tweet about wives asking their cop husbands to try to take them down in 30 seconds and now just imagining asking husband!sammy to do it.
he doesn't want to hurt his sweet girl but they way you're looking at him doe eyed, pleading and tugging at his arm has him chubbing up in his jeans. he had come home, still in uniform when you blocked his way to the shower, shoving your phone to show him the video. "sammy, c'mon please? just once, i wanna what all these bad guys get when my husband is takin em down" your chin on his chest as your looking up at him.
"let me just go shower first and then–" "no, baby you gotta do it uniform! how am i gonna take you serious when you're trying to pin me down in some sweats huh?"
now standing in the living room giggling like a school girl as he tries to size you up, trying to play serious cop now. "you know how fast you were going?" "mmm nope!" "i don't like your attitude, little lady. c'mon gonna take you down to the station for some more questions." sammy's reaching to grab your wrist but you're pulling away giggling, it's cute but now he's too into it. he's got you by the waist hoisting you up and taking you down onto the carpet. the sudden force has you gasping, squealing when he's managed to get both your wrist behind your back, his foot already hooked around your knee as he's pinned you down.
your giggling and squealing like a mad woman but he's rock hard now as he presses himself into. your giggling is cut short when you finally feel his hard length pressed against you through his uniform. his work belt was laid out on the couch beside you so there was no mistaking this for his gun. he's panting and pressing his lips into his ear, one hand is holding both wrists and his other hand has snaked between your legs toying with your slick panties.
"and here i thought my pretty little wife was a good girl... no, good girls don't get this soaked from having an officer man handle em like this. so what are we gonna do about that huh?" he's taunting you as you hear his pants begin to unzip, already pulling out his cock to rub his leaking tip over the wet mess between your legs.
hey! i don’t know if you’ve seen this trend on tiktok where girls tell their bf’s they’ve found someone in tinder but i’d love to see how it would go with reader telling Jack she found Robby on tinder
it was a slow day at the pitt but the day was soon coming to an end. Robby had just given a handoff to Jack, your boyfriend of 2 years. You could’ve gone home but you decided to linger and take your time.
“Girl” Trinity slides up beside you at the hub “have you seen that trend on tiktok where you make a comment about seeing someone you know on tinder and wait to see how long it takes your significant other to notice?”
You furrow your eyebrows as you think and then your eyes widen.
“Oh my god yes, that shit is funny as hell” you giggle, leaning your head on Trinity’s shoulder .
She shoves your arm playfully.
“Imagine how Abbot would react if you did that.”
“You mean my silently possessive, military conditioned, volunteer SWAT member boyfriend? Yes I guarantee he won’t have a cow about it at allllll.” the sarcasm is obvious through your laugh.
“Pssh c’monnn girl, does he even know what Tinder is?” she questions shaking your arm.
Your smile grows bigger “Maybe? Robby’s probably talked about it with him at some point.”
Trinity claps her hands loudly making you jump.
“That’s it! Say you saw Robby’s profile. It’s perfect!”
You shake your head in amusement.
“Okay but if he gets upset, I'm not making lasagna this weekend.”
“WHAT? Okay okay trust me it wont even come to that. Don’t threaten my favorite meal!” she begs.
You roll your eyes as you both wait for Jack to seek you out.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Not even an hour later and Jack makes his way to the nurses station in search of you. You see him come around the hall corner and scan the room until his eyes land on you.
He smiles wide as he walks over.
“Hey honey,” he kisses the side of your head “thought I missed ya leaving.”
You smile up at him from where you’re sitting.
“As if I would leave without saying goodbye.”
He chuckles as he pulls a chart and leans on the front of the desk and starts writing.
You look up and see Trinity make eye contact with you from the other end of the hub. She throws two thumbs up at you.
You grin a little before pulling out your phone.
“Oh my god that’s crazy.”
“What is?” Trinity asks to aid in the joke.
You look to her
“It’s Robby”
The name causes Jack to look up from the chart and at you.
“What? What about Robby, baby?”
You shake your head and raise your eyebrows.
“He’s on tinder. Didn’t know he was serious when he said he was looking for someone to break the seven week thing he has going on.”
“Oh yeah,” Jack says and looks back at the chart “said he was ‘serious’ this time. Love him but I don’t think he’ll stick with it right now.”
You furrow your eyebrows and look at Trinity. She shrugs, just as surprised as you.
She stands up and walks over to your side.
“Have you seen Mateo’s account yet?”
You shake your head playing along.
“No but if I do, I'm swiping left so fast. He’s like a brother to me.”
Jack doesn’t join in, clearly engrossed in the current chart he has.
You let out a dramatic huff.
“Hmm?” He looks towards you.
“Nothing baby” you sigh as you lean your head back against the chair.
Prank: failed.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Jack leaves you and Trinity at the hub to find Robby for clarification on a chart.
He finds him in an exam room with Mateo as they clean up and restock.
Robby quickly helps him with the chart so it’s correct.
Jack leans against the doorway.
“My girl told me you’re finally on Tinder. Proud of you for putting yourself out there brother.”
Robby and Mateo look up.
“Thanks man, I'm hoping it goes well. Not sure what will happen.”
Mateo still looks at Jack with raised eyebrows.
Jack stares back with a confused expression.
“Spit it out Diaz, what’s wrong?”
“You said your girlfriend saw Robby on Tinder?”
“Yeah?” Jack nods slowly.
Mateo laughs a bit.
“So, your girlfriend saw Robby’s Tinder account. A dating app where you have to have an account to see anyone else’s account.”
Jack stares at him and they notice the moment it clicks for him.
“Oh fuck no.”
He then takes off at a jog in search of you.
“Some social media prank I’m assuming?” Robby asks with a smirk as he continues restocking.
“Oh you know it.” Mateo laughs.
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You’re sitting in the break room getting ready to leave in a few minutes when quick footsteps grab your attention.
Looking up you see Jack walk in.
“Give me your phone.”
You scrunch your eyebrows.
“Uh why?”
He gets closer and tries grabbing it from you but you move it out of his reach.
“Nuh uh, what are you doing J?”
He huffs and leans all in your space to grab the phone.
“You have a tinder.”
Then it clicks.
He finally got it.
You try and hold back a smile.
“Now who said I did?”
He crowds you against the table, chest pressed to yours.
“Mateo said you can only see Tinder accounts if you have one.”
You try and hold in your laugh but fail as your body shakes from the giggles.
“Oh my g-god. I-I can’t” you laugh with a massive smile.
He looks at you confused.
“What’s funny?”
“It’s just a prank baby” you lay a hand on his bicep.
His hand goes to your hip.
“So, no Tinder account?”
You shake your head “No Tinder account baby. Pinky promise.”
He leans his forehead against yours and lets out a quiet laugh.
“Thank god. You can’t leave me sweetheart.”
You bring your other hand to his face and pull back to look him in the eyes.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He kisses you briefly.
“HA YOU FELL FOR THAT. PRANK WAS A SUCCESS” a voice yells from the hallway.
He looks towards the doorway and then back to you.
