Library 🌷✨

michael ' robby ' robinavitch

⭑.ᐟ sharing (ft. jack abbot)

⭑.ᐟ making you ride his thigh after a long work day

jack abbot

⭑.ᐟ fingering and overstim because you don't deserve to ride him yet

⭑.ᐟ waking you up and making you ride him when he gets home

frank langdon

⭑.ᐟ with his ring on

⭑.ᐟ eating you out before bed

dennis whitaker

⭑.ᐟ helping him out

"This is the alarm code-”

"Jesus, what neighbourhood do you live in again?"

"You don't have to use it, but a young woman staying alone? I want you to feel safe."

He handed you the note. That felt sweet.

You weren't entirely sure how you'd ended up being the one house-sitting for Robby while he disappeared on a three month sabbatical. You were the newest resident, barely eight months into your time at PTMC, but for whatever reason he seemed to trust you. He liked the way you taught, how patient you were with the med students, how you somehow managed to balance nurturing them without letting them walk all over you.

You'd been a little intimidated by him when you first arrived. Robby didn't take mistakes lightly. If you fucked up, you fucked up. There was no sugar coating it.

But he'd turned out to be a better teacher than you'd expected, taking you under his wing and dragging you into procedures most residents would have had to fight to get near. Sometimes you wanted to call it favouritism but it was probably just him doing his job. Probably.

"Anything else I need to know?" you asked. "Weird neighbours, paranormal activity, stalker exes?"

You tried to keep a straight face, only for the corners of your mouth to betray you.

He shook his head, laughing. "You sure you're okay doing this?"

"Are you kidding? This is gonna be like a vacation for me."

Robby nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and dropped the keys into your palm.

"Good. Call me if you need anything."

He started backing away towards the chaos of the ER. "Hey, remember. No parties, no pets, no boyfriends. Yours or anybody else's."

You scoffed, not quite loud enough for him to hear. Party? Required more than three friends. Pets? Required energy. And boyfriend? Don't even go there.

You didn't see Robby again before he left. Maybe the apartment handover had counted as a goodbye, or maybe the ER had simply done what it always did and swallowed every spare second before anyone got the chance to wave him off into the sunset.

Either way, all you could really focus on right now was three whole months without roommates and a bed bigger than a single. Happy days.

-

You managed to slip off shift without attracting any attention from the nurses or the night shift. Robby had said the only person he'd told about the house-sitting arrangement was Abbot. If you wanted to tell people, you could, but he didn't particularly care either way.

You decided to keep it quiet.

Work wasn't really where you made friends. You had three good ones on the outside but that was mostly it. Everyone was nice enough in the ER, and there had been the occasional invitation for drinks after a shift, but by seven o'clock you were usually too exhausted to be anything but horizontal.

Your circle stayed small, mainly Mckay and Ellis within the hospital.

You worked with Cassie every day and had become close over the months, and Parker had been your person during those brutal night shift rotations when you first arrived in Pittsburgh.

Either way, you made it to Robby's building without interception. Silver key for the lobby and brass for the apartment. Just like he'd said.

The building itself was nice. Clean hallways, warm lighting, planters hanging in the windows. The kind of place that felt looked after without trying too hard about it. The apartment was even nicer. Or maybe it just felt huge compared to the place you shared with four other girls.

"Well, fuck." The words slipped out before you could stop them as you flicked on the light switch.

The front door opened into a small hallway that led into a spacious living room, all exposed brick and worn hardwood floors. A brown leather sofa sat opposite a huge TV, surrounded by shelves packed with books and an almost concerning number of CDs.

You drifted towards them automatically, scanning album titles as you went. Pearl Jam, R.E.M., Jeff Buckley. A laugh escaped you.

"Checks out."

Your finger brushed across the collection before you moved on, abandoning your investigation in favour of something far more important.

Bed.

The guest room had already been made up for you, fresh sheets stretched neatly across the mattress and extra towels folded at the end like you were checking into a hotel instead of crashing in your attending's spare room. It made you smile.

Maybe your standards for grand gestures were embarrassingly low, but between that and the hundred dollars waiting on the kitchen counter with a note that read for anything you need, you couldn't help it.

There was still plenty left to explore. The contents of his fridge, the bookshelves, photo albums (or lack thereof) and most definitely the bedside drawers. But not tonight.

You peeled off your scrubs, barely managing to change before exhaustion caught up with you. Within minutes you were under the covers, eyes heavy, asleep before your head had properly settled into the pillow.

-

Turns out this house-sitting gig was absolute heaven.

Two days in and it was already starting to feel less like a favour and more like a reward.

Today was your day off. You'd actually eaten breakfast instead of inhaling a protein bar, spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive and met up with a couple of friends for drinks that evening. The friends who weren't doctors, nurses or in any way connected to the hospital.

Then you'd come home, changed into something comfortable and settled onto Robby's sofa with your book.

Life was good.

So far, the hundred dollars he'd left behind had contributed to a half-full fridge and a bottle of wine, which felt perfectly reasonable considering Robby had specifically said it was for anything you needed. It was somewhere around chapter twenty-three of your hot romance fantasy novel (not one of Robby's) when your phone buzzed beside you.

Robby:

Hey, hope you're good. Just checking in to make sure everything's okay?

You smiled before you could stop yourself. He was so proper. So formal. Even his texts somehow read like work emails. Still, you appreciated him checking since you honestly hadn't expected to hear from him at all.

The whole point of this trip was supposed to be getting away. You'd heard him say more than once that he wanted to leave Pittsburgh and everyone in it behind for a while. No calls. No emails. As close to no contact as he could realistically get. According to Robby, that was the only way to properly clear your head.

The one exception had always been Abbot, maybe even Dana. Apparently now it was the three of you.

You:

all good! your apartment is insane by the way

and thank u for the money, u didn't have to!

You took a sip of wine as you hit send. A reply came almost immediately.

Robby:

You're doing me a huge favour!

Spend wisely…

A laugh escaped you. You were a little tipsy by now. Not drunk, just pleasantly warm from the two glasses of pinot you'd had at the bar combined with the one currently sitting beside you. Which, admittedly, was a lot considering you barely drank.

Without thinking too hard about it, you snapped a picture of the glass balanced on the coffee table. Then you zoomed in slightly. Mostly to crop out the fact you weren't using a coaster.

You:

wise you say???

The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. You frowned at the screen.

For some reason, a flicker of self-consciousness crept in. Maybe the photo was weird. Maybe the lipstick mark on the rim was weird. Maybe it was weird to be sitting in your attending's apartment drinking wine and texting him on a Friday night.

Before you could overthink it further, another message appeared.

Robby:

Naughty!

Your stomach flipped. It was ridiculous. The word itself wasn't even remotely suggestive. If anything, it was probably about the coaster.

But between the wine and the book currently sitting open beside you, the message seemed to land somewhere deep in your belly. You stared at it for a second longer than necessary.

"Time for bed." You said it out loud, as though hearing it might make it true.

Leaving the glass on the coffee table with a single sip left, you gathered your book and headed for the guest room.

-

Robby stared at the photo for longer than he meant to. Not at the wine or the coffee table and certainly not at the missing coaster.

His attention had landed on the faint lipstick mark circling the rim of the glass and stayed there for a second too long before he caught himself. He sat back against the headboard of the hotel bed, somewhere around Chicago, after a long day on the road.

The room was forgettable. Beige walls. Generic artwork. The low hum of an air conditioner fighting for its life in the corner. Exactly the kind of place he'd expected to find himself in.

He'd only been checking in. That was all.

You were doing him a favour and it seemed polite to make sure everything was going smoothly.

Except now he found himself picturing you in his apartment. Curled up on the couch, feet tucked beneath you. A glass of wine in one hand and whatever book had managed to distract you from answering his text in the other.

His apartment. His couch. His glass.

He exhaled through his nose. It was ridiculous. Of course you were there, that was the entire point. For the next three months you were going to be using his mugs, watching his TV, standing under his shower and sleeping in the guest room.

None of that should have felt strange. And it didn't. Not really. It had just been that split second when the photograph appeared on his screen and his brain had connected the image to a real person rather than the vague idea of someone looking after his place.

Someone he'd see almost every day at work. Someone currently sitting exactly where he usually sat. Robby shook his head once, more at himself than anything else.

Then he typed out the reply.

Naughty!

The second it was sent, he dropped the phone onto the bedside table and turned off the lamp. Tomorrow he'd have another few hours of driving ahead of him. That was what he should be thinking about.

Not a lipstick stain on a wine glass.

-

It was strange how different work felt when you had somewhere peaceful to come home to.

The shifts were still long and the patients exhausting. None of that changed. But when there were no roommate arguments waiting for you at the end of the day, no mountain of dishes that didn't belong to you and no obnoxiously loud sex through the wall at midnight, everything felt a little more manageable.

You had energy again. Energy to come home and shower. Energy to cook. Energy to actually enjoy your evenings instead of collapsing face-first into bed.

You'd always been a good cook. Your mom had made sure of that. While other kids were watching TV, you'd been standing beside her in the kitchen learning how to chop onions without crying and season food without measuring every ingredient.

Your family tree contained exactly zero Italians, but your signature dish was carbonara. Real carbonara. The proper kind. The kind that required ingredients expensive enough to make you wince in the grocery aisle.

Which was exactly why you rarely made it. But with Robby's hundred dollars quietly subsidising your lifestyle, you figured you deserved a treat.

The plan was going perfectly until you tried to turn on the hob.

"Come on."

You twisted the dial until it clicked. Nothing. You tried again.

Another click. Still nothing.

By the fourth attempt, you were staring at the appliance like it had personally offended you.

"Am I losing my mind?"

Getting a burner lit should not have been this difficult. You glanced at your phone sitting on the counter.

No. Absolutely not.

You were not texting Robby because you couldn't operate a stove. You were a doctor, a functioning adult. You could figure this out.

Another click. Nothing. "For fuck's sake." The curse echoed around the kitchen. A few seconds later, you picked up your phone.

You:

i don't want you to think i'm completely incompetent but i cannot work your hob…

Three states away, Robby's phone lit up. He'd spent most of the day hiking through some forest outside Rockford before ending the evening under a shower hot enough to steam up the entire bathroom.

He walked over to the phone, towel slung low around his waist, hair still damp. The text made him laugh.

Robby:

You have to turn and press. It's more of a button than a switch!

Also don't worry, I couldn't work it for the first six months I lived there because of that…

It was strangely comforting to know a physician widely regarded as one of the smartest people in Pittsburgh had also been defeated by a kitchen appliance.

Following his instructions, you pushed the dial inward and a blue flame immediately burst to life.

"Oh thank god."

You set a pot of water on one burner and poured oil into a pan on the other before reaching for your phone again.

You:

life saver. i was about to starve

and the great robby also not knowing how to operate a stove makes me feel better so thank u

Back in his hotel room, Robby laughed quietly at the screen. A small smile lingered as he reread your message.

He'd answered your question, technically the conversation could end there and it probably should. Instead, his thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a second.

Robby:

What are you cooking anyway?

You saw the message while stirring egg and cheese into freshly drained pasta. Not now. Carbonara required concentration and you weren't risking scrambled eggs for anybody.

Five minutes later, when the sauce was silky and clinging perfectly to the noodles, you twisted a generous serving onto a plate and admired your handiwork.

Then you grabbed your phone.

You:

carbonara!

You attached the picture before hitting send.

The photo sat open on his screen for a moment. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected, certainly not that. It looked better than anything he'd eaten in the last week.

After a moment he tapped the heart reaction and tossed the phone onto the mattress beside him. He ignored the part of himself that wanted to ask for the recipe.

-

The next two days brought two hellish shifts.

First a mass casualty then a stomach bug that seemed determined to take down half the ER.

Dana did her best to pull people in for extra coverage, Abbot came in early and somehow ended up working a double, but even that barely kept things afloat. It was chaos. The kind that left you running entirely on adrenaline until your body remembered it was human.

You finally made it home just before eleven: a personal record. The worst part was that when you dragged yourself up the stairs, peeled off your scrubs and collapsed into bed, you couldn't sleep.

You were trapped in that miserable state of overtiredness where your body was begging for rest while your brain stubbornly refused to switch off.

You hadn't looked at your phone once during the shift. Not during the mass casualty or the endless stream of patients. Not even while inhaling a granola bar somewhere around hour twelve. It stayed buried in your pocket until you stepped through the apartment door.

It wasn't until you were under the covers that you finally saw the notification waiting for you.

Robby:

I had diner food for the third night in a row tonight, your carbonara is making me look bad…

He'd given you a rough outline of his route before he left and, if you remembered correctly, he should be somewhere near Minneapolis by now. An hour behind. Not too late.

You:

trust me, my carbonara is the least impressive thing about my week

i just survived a mass casualty and half the department trying to die from a stomach bug

diner food sounds peaceful honestly

Robby:

Mass casualty?

You:

three car pile up

and before you ask everyone survived

mostly because abbot worked about seventeen hours straight

Robby:

I leave for one week…

You:

i was waiting for someone to blame

Robby:

Blame Dana…

You:

do you think i have a death wish???

that's not the attending wisdom i was hoping for

Robby:

🤷🏻‍♂️ ️

You stare at the screen. He's using emojis now? Something about that feels strangely significant.

The conversation probably should have ended three messages ago. Instead, another text appears a few seconds later.

Robby:

You okay?

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's particularly personal, just because he seems to actually mean it. You stare at the message for a moment before replying.

You:

yeah

just tired

too tired to sleep which is apparently a thing

Robby:

Been there. Your body's exhausted but the brain's stress response overrides it

Makes for a very restless night

You:

oh good

thought i was dying

Robby:

You're a doctor..

You always think you're dying

A quiet laugh escapes you. You weren't entirely sure why any of this felt comforting.

After one of the worst shifts you'd worked in months, you were lying awake in your attending's apartment, texting your boss from beneath the covers.

On paper, it sounded ridiculous but the knot that had been sitting between your shoulders since this morning was slowly beginning to loosen.

Your eyes felt heavier, your body sank deeper into the mattress and the first time all night, sleep actually seemed possible.

You:

night robby x

You hit send before thinking too hard about it. A second passed. Then two. Then your phone lit up.

Robby:

Sleep well!

You smiled at the screen. By the time you set your phone on the bedside table, your eyes were already closing.

Robby didn't go to sleep straight away.

Instead he sat against the headboard, phone still in his hand, staring at the open conversation. The room was quiet. Outside, somewhere beyond the hotel curtains, a truck rumbled along the interstate.

His thumb drifted across the screen and paused, hovering over the last message.

night robby x

Just one stupid little letter. It probably meant absolutely nothing. For all he knew, you signed every text that way. You were exhausted when you'd sent it, practically half asleep and already drifting off. He knew that. So why was he still looking at it?

With a quiet huff of amusement at himself, Robby locked the screen.

Tomorrow he'd drive another few hundred miles, stay at another hotel, eat another mediocre meal. Continue doing exactly what he'd left Pittsburgh to do.

And yet, as he finally switched off the lamp and settled back against the pillows, he found himself wondering whether you'd text him tomorrow.

The thought stayed with him longer than it should have. Long enough that sleep didn't come quite as quickly as usual.

-

The next few days settled into something that almost resembled normality (or at least as normal as life in the ER ever got).

The stomach bug finally burned its way through the department, leaving a trail of exhaustion and empty electrolyte bottles in its wake. Everyone looked tired and complained constantly. You included.

It was nearing the end of another shift when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You ignored it only for it to buzz again.

And because every doctor secretly believed they were the most important person in the building, your brain immediately convinced itself it could be an emergency.

You pulled it out while waiting for the elevator.

Robby:

Rode twenty minutes off route for this

You opened it. Then frowned. Then laughed.

You:

what the fuck is that

Robby:

The world's largest prairie chicken

You:

of course it is

you rode twenty minutes out of your way to see a giant chicken?

Robby:

Yes.

You:

no further questions your honour

The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside, still smiling at your phone. Another message appeared.

Robby:

Thought you'd appreciate it!

Your lips curled at the suggestion he had taken the picture with you in mind.

You:

i'm genuinely concerned about how you're spending this sabbatical

Robby:

That's fair

For the record I did also spend six hours riding through some very beautiful countryside today

You:

and yet it was the giant chicken you sent

Robby:

Correct.

You laughed, probably too loud for the setting as others in the lift glanced over before you quickly looked away.

You:

well i'm glad my attending is making good use of his time

Robby:

You laughed didn't you?

You:

immediately

The elevator dinged and people shuffled out around you while you lingered behind, looking down at the conversation. At the completely pointless exchange.

The kind of conversation that served no purpose whatsoever and yet somehow it had made the end of a miserable shift feel lighter.

Robby:

Worth the detour then

You shook your head but the smile wouldn't disappear. It stayed with you all the way to the parking lot.

Across the county, Robby sat on the edge of his hotel bed with the television murmuring quietly in the background.

The hotels he was staying in were nice, he had the money to stay in much nicer but there wasn't much point when only passing through.

The final destination was a cabin in Alberta. That's where he'd spend the rest of the sabbatical when he got there, that he had spared no expense on.

But he didn't find himself thinking of his trip. The conversation still sat open on his phone. Nothing important, just the giant chicken staring back at him amongst a handful of messages and a stupid amount of amusement considering the subject matter.

After a minute, he locked the screen and set the phone aside. Then despite himself, he found his gaze drifting back towards it as though another message might somehow appear.

He'd be crossing into North Dakota soon and if he happened to see anything ridiculous along the way…

Well he knew exactly who he'd send it to.

-

The next few days followed suit. You and Robby started speaking like it was part of your routines without ever actually agreeing to it.

Nothing constant or heavy, just small check-ins threaded through the day. Snapshots from the road. Snapshots from the ER.

Things you'd caught out of the corner of your eye like the giant pigeon on a fire escape outside the hospital that made you stop mid-conversation just to take a picture.

Food also became a kind of currency between you. The home-cooked meals you'd send, still steaming on the plate whilst he'd drop his roadside breakfasts, gas station coffee, or whatever local specialty he'd found himself staring at that day.

You started waiting for the messages without really meaning to. Both of you did.

Robby:

This morning's view

You:

versus my morning's view

—

You:

i'm going old school and listening to your CDs

you have good taste old man

Robby:

I'll ignore those last two words and take it as a compliment...

—

Robby:

Got caught in a thunderstorm on the road today

You:

😭😭😭 😭 😭 omg

just know i'd be laughing if i were there

—

You:

robby

a guy came in today with an action figure up his ass

and dana made whitaker deal with it

Robby:

Nothing says good evening quite like a HIPAA violation

You:

i know you won't tell x

—

Somewhere between shifts and miles, the apartment stopped being the reason you spoke. It just became something that existed in the background, as if you'd both forgotten the house-sitting gig and this was all normal.

An excuse that had quietly turned into a habit. You didn't really notice the shift until one night you didn't text him at all.

Not on purpose, because of pure exhaustion. A shift that ran too long, a body too tired to think in sentences.

And on his end, Robby found himself checking his phone more than he liked to admit. Each time with a little more irritation than the last.

"Stupid." He muttered under his breath, tossing the phone face-down on the bed.

It didn't stay there long since he picked it back up a minute later.

His trip was still everything it was supposed to be. Long stretches of highway and peaceful mornings. Mountains, towns, weather that changed without warning.

It was all the kind of distance he'd been looking for and for the most part, the noise in his head had settled. It wasn't gone, he needed more than a solo road trip to fix that but it was quieter.

It was at its quietest when you text. Or when he took a picture and thought, without really meaning to, that you'd probably laugh at it.

Then his phone buzzed.

You:

sorry

today's been awful

The irritation disappeared immediately and he sat down properly on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, he stared at the message longer than he needed to. His first instinct was practical, to ask what happened and if you were okay. But it was nearly midnight your time and he knew, instinctively, that whatever you needed wasn't a barrage of questions.

Robby:

Do you want to talk about it?

You:

think i just need bed

speak tomorrow

He stared at the screen a moment longer than he meant to, leaving the chat open, your name sitting at the top of it. He didn't reply.

There wasn't anything else to say that wouldn't feel like too much.

-

The next day didn't actually bring a text. Or the day after that.

Shift patterns blurred together in the ER anyway, time measured in admissions and discharge paperwork rather than hours. You were exhausted, that was your excuse for not texting Robby. But by the second night, you were wondering what his excuse was.

It wasn't anything dramatic, just… absent.

No photos from the road or pointless updates about whatever strange thing he'd stopped to look at. There'd been no diner food commentary that made you roll your eyes while smiling at your phone.

You told yourself it made sense. Robby was on a bike somewhere between states and you were drowning in back-to-back shifts. There wasn't always going to be time.

Still, your phone felt heavier in your pocket than usual.

On his end, Robby told himself the same thing.

He'd spent most of the day on the road, miles of open highway stretching out ahead of him, the kind of silence he'd gone looking for. It should have felt good and it did, mostly. But every time he stopped for fuel, or pulled off to check a map, his hand drifted to his phone out of habit.

There he would find no new messages and he told himself that was normal.

It was normal. Until it wasn't.

-

It happened on a night that started like any other.

You'd left the hospital later than you meant to, fatigue settling into your bones in that familiar way that made everything feel slightly delayed.

The apartment was quiet when you got back.

You climbed the stairs and only realised something was wrong when your keys didn't turn properly in the lock. You tried it once, twice, three times and nothing. You paused then tried again but the lock didn't budge.

"Oh come on," you muttered under your breath.

You stared at the door for a second, exhaustion making it harder to think than it should have.

Of course this was happening now.

You pulled your phone out, looking who to burden with your troubles and force to come to your rescue. For a second, you considered calling Mckay but her shift had been just as rough as yours and Ellis' night was only just starting in the ER, suddenly you were out of options.

Your thumb hovered. Then moved.

In some hotel in one of the Dakotas, Robby's phone lit up on the bedside. His brow furrowed slightly, not expecting to see your name across the screen.

"Hello?"

Your voice came through slightly breathless and oh so tired.

"Hi," you said. "I have a problem."

He sat up a little straighter without thinking. "Are you okay?"

You let out a short laugh that didn't quite sound amused. "Your lock hates me." There was a pause.

Then, quieter, "Which one?"

"Front door."

"Right," he said. "Stay there."

"I am there."

"No," he corrected. "I mean don't try anything else. Just- stay."

You leaned back against the wall, sliding down slightly until you were sitting on the floor outside his apartment door.

"Robby," you said, "I am physically incapable of breaking your door at this point. I'm too tired to commit crimes."

That earned a small exhale of something that might have been a laugh.

"Good," he said. "I prefer it that way."

There was movement on his end. Fabric shifting, something being set down.

"Okay," he added. "Walk me through what happened."

-

The locksmith said he'd be there in twenty minutes which, judging by his tone, probably meant thirty. You thanked him anyway before ending the call and letting your head fall back against the apartment door.

"Well," you sighed, stretching your legs out in front of you. "Guess I live here now."

The laugh that came through the speaker was soft. You'd heard Robby laugh a hundred times at work, usually in passing conversations or when Dana pulled it out of him, but hearing it through the phone felt strangely personal.

"Could be worse."

"How?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"I'll let you know when I think of something."

You smiled. For a while, neither of you said anything.

The silence wasn't awkward, which surprised you. You could hear faint traffic somewhere on his end of the line, the distant sound of a television through a hotel wall perhaps.

"Where are you?" you asked eventually.

“Just outside Sioux Falls."

"Fancy..." You shifted against the wall, tucking one knee up towards your chest. "How's the trip?"

There was a pause. Not because he wasn't going to answer, but because he seemed to actually think about it.

"Good." You waited. "Actually, really good."

"Wow."

"What?"

"I don't think I've ever heard you sound that enthusiastic about anything."

"That's not true."

"Robby, I've worked with you for eight months."

"And?"

"The highlight of your emotional range is usually a nod."

That earned a proper laugh. The kind that made you grin before you'd even realised you were doing it. Why were your cheeks getting hot at the idea of making him laugh?

"That's harsh."

"I think you mean accurate."

"I'll have you know I've been having a great time."

“The giant chicken gave it away."

"Don't mock the chicken."

"I'll mock the chicken all I want."

He sighed dramatically. "This is exactly why I send you things."

Your smile lingered, you weren't entirely sure why. Like even if you wanted to get rid of it you couldn't. Maybe because it was nice knowing someone saw something during their day and thought to share it with you. Or maybe because lately, you'd been doing the same thing.

"Seriously though," you said. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

The teasing slipped away a little and you could hear it in his voice when he answered.

"Yeah. I think I needed it more than I realised."

You looked down at the floor. You'd thought that yourself. The difference in him was obvious, even through a screen. The texts were lighter. There was an ease to him that hadn't existed back in Pittsburgh.

"You sound happier."

He didn't answer immediately.

"Maybe."

It wasn't much of a response. Coming from Robby, it felt like a confession.

The conversation drifted after that. Work came up eventually, because it always did. You told him about the latest departmental disaster and he laughed harder than he probably should have at Whitaker's expense. Then somehow you ended up talking about music, and when you admitted you'd been making your way through his CD collection, he spent five minutes defending an album you'd called objectively terrible.

Before either of you realised it, headlights swept across the apartment parking lot. You glanced through the stairwell window to see a white van pulling in.

"Oh."

"What?"

"That's him." You pushed yourself to your feet, brushing imaginary dust from your scrubs. "The locksmith."

"Right."

You checked the time. Nearly forty minutes since you'd spoken to him on the phone.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then you laughed softly.

"I don't think we've ever actually spoken like this before."

"Spoken like what?"

"Just…" You searched for the right words. "Talked."

He huffed a laugh. "We talk all the time."

"About work."

"Hmm. True."

You shook your head. "I know more about a giant prairie chicken than I do about you."

"Now that's probably not true."

"It definitely is."

The locksmith was already making his way towards the building entrance. You tightened your grip on the phone.

"Thanks for staying on the phone with me."

The words slipped out before you could think too hard about them and for a second, there was only the sound of his breathing on the other end.

"Of course." Robby said it with such ease, as if there'd never been any question about it. Something in your chest warmed at that.

"I should go."

"Yeah. You should."

Neither of you hung up immediately. You smiled even though he couldn't see.

"Night, Robby."

"Night."

-

Robby eventually made it to Alberta, trading motels and roadside diners for a cabin tucked between trees and more open sky than you'd ever seen in one place. The photos changed after that. It was less giant roadside attractions and more mountains, lakes so still they looked painted. Sunrises taken from a porch with a mug of coffee balanced somewhere just out of frame.

Your own contributions remained considerably less scenic.

You:

this mornings view

Robby:

Stunning!

You:

i know

thinking of getting it framed

Robby:

You should. Really ties a room together

The conversations drifted in and out of your days. Sometimes twenty messages. Sometimes two.

But there was rarely a day that passed without hearing from him. It had become your normal and that probably should have concerned you more than it did.

One afternoon you were halfway through a grocery shop when your phone buzzed.

Robby:

What's for dinner?

You snorted. Most days he was interested in what you were cooking, never quite getting over how good that carbonara looked weeks ago.

You:

demanding aren't we?

Robby:

I've been living off campfire food

Let me live vicariously

You balanced the basket awkwardly on your hip. Typing with one hand was becoming increasingly impossible so after a moment you sighed and held down the microphone button.

"Okay, so technically I haven't decided yet," you said, navigating around a woman studying avocados with suspicious intensity. "But I was thinking maybe chicken, potatoes, something easy because I had a twelve hour shift and Mckay spent most of it arguing with a guy who was convinced Red Bull counts as water."

You stopped recording and sent it, immediately forgetting about it as you continued to shop.

Robby was sitting on the cabin porch when the notification appeared. A voice note.

For a second he just looked at it before pressing play. Your voice spilled through the speaker, lighter than he was used to hearing at work, less hurried.

He could hear the wheels of a shopping cart somewhere in the background, people talking. The automatic doors opening and closing. It felt strangely intimate. Like being invited into a moment he wasn't supposed to be part of.

Before he knew it, the recording had ended and he found himself smiling Then replaying the first few seconds just to hear it again.

Robby:

Red bull absolutely counts as water

You:

you're part of the problem

-

A few days later you sent him a photo of a coffee shop you'd stumbled into before work. The picture was supposed to be of the ridiculous chalkboard menu, pretentious and completely overpriced.

Unfortunately, the reflection in the window caught most of your face and you didn't even notice before pressing send.

But Robby did.

He was halfway through replying when he stopped and stared at the photo. Then stared a little longer.

It wasn't as though he'd forgotten what you looked like, he'd worked beside you for months, seen you almost every day and yet somehow seeing your face appear unexpectedly on his screen felt different. Like it was more personal than bumping into you across an ER.

He zoomed in without meaning to then immediately felt ridiculous.

Robby:

That coffee costs more than my first apartment

You:

i knew you'd focus on the important issue

He didn't mention the photo but it stayed open on his screen longer than necessary.

The next Saturday night, you went out with friends.

The three you socialised with maybe once a month, the ones you'd gone out with on your first week at Robby's.

The evening disappeared beneath cocktails, bad music and stories that got funnier with every retelling. By the time you got home, your shoes were in one hand and your keys were in the other.

Your phone buzzed before you'd even made it upstairs.

Robby:

Survived?

You:

barely

my feet are filing formal complaints

Robby:

Worth it?

You:

yeah

free drinks always help

There was a pause before the typing bubbles appeared then they seemed to disappear before appearing once more.

Robby:

Free drinks?

You:

some guy at the bar bought them

either he was being nice or I looked desperately in need of a margarita

Robby stared at the screen. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he found himself reading the message twice.

Some guy.

An entirely normal sentence since people bought drinks for each other every day. It meant absolutely nothing. Yet his thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Robby:

Which was it?

The message sent before he could overthink it and he immediately regretted it. Not because it was inappropriate, just because he sounded interested.

And he wasn't sure why he was interested.

You:

definitely the margarita

he started talking about crypto ten minutes in

That pulled a laugh out of him. An actual laugh.

Robby:

My condolences

You:

thank you

it was a difficult time

The conversation moved on after that. But later, after you'd gone to sleep and the cabin had settled into silence around him, Robby found himself thinking about the message again.

Not the drinks. Not the guy. But the fact that he'd wanted to know. And the fact he still wasn't entirely sure why.

-

You hadn't really talked about the house sitting arrangement to anyone at work.

It never seemed relevant and, if you were honest, you quite liked having something that belonged entirely to you. That was until Abbot casually asked how it was going in front of Parker and Shen. Both of them had turned so quickly you would have thought they'd rehearsed it.

John loudly slurped through his straw.

You immediately regretted coming into work.

You'd spent the next five minutes trying to explain that, yes, you were staying at Robby's apartment and no, it wasn't a big deal. At the same time, you were reassuring Abbot that everything was fine and that the place was still standing.

Parker wasn't convinced. She waited until the handover was done and everyone had started drifting away before falling into step beside you as you gathered your things from your locker.

You'd only just pulled your phone out when it buzzed. The smile arrived before you could stop it and Parker saw immediately.

"Message from your boyfriend?"

"Just Robby-”

You stopped and looked up to see her already grinning.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

"Haha. Very funny."

"I'm just saying," she replied, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "That man hasn't been here for nearly two months and I've heard his name more than I have some of the attendings who actually work here."

You rolled your eyes. Except the comment lingered because you didn't talk about him that much. Did you?

Sure, you texted most days, you snapped pictures when something made you laugh. You answered when he called and never made a secret of it because, in your mind, there was nothing to hide.

But maybe Parker had a point.

You were always quick to tell people where he was, what he'd been up to, what ridiculous thing he'd sent you that morning. You were also one of maybe three people who actually knew how his sabbatical was going and that felt strangely significant when you stopped to think about it.

Which was exactly why you decided not to think about it. Instead, you bumped your shoulder into Parker's arm.

"Leave me alone."

"Never."

You laughed despite yourself, waved goodbye to everyone and headed out through the main doors.

-

Even without a department full of doctors reminding him, Robby found himself thinking about you more often than he probably should.

Alberta was beautiful, exactly what he'd imagined.

The mountains seemed endless, the lakes impossibly clear and every evening the sky stretched so wide it barely looked real.

He'd come here to breathe. To remember what it felt like to wake up without immediately carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

For the first time in years, it was working and yet every time he stumbled across a view that took his breath away, he caught himself reaching for his phone.

The bear he'd spotted at the edge of a trail or the river he'd nearly slipped into while trying to take a photo. The sunset that turned the entire lake gold. All of it was filed away somewhere in the back of his mind. Something to show you, to tell you later.

He enjoyed those moments for himself, he really did, but there was always a second thought afterwards. A quiet one of she'd like this.

And that was dangerous territory for a man who had left Pittsburgh specifically to be alone.

-

Today had been a bad day for absolutely no reason. Work hadn't been worse than usual. There was no mass casualty or outbreak, no disaster waiting for you.

You'd left almost on time and the handover had been unusually smooth yet, somehow, by the time you found yourself curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine balanced on your knee, you felt like you might burst into tears.

You probably wouldn't but it was comforting to know you could if you wanted to.

The apartment was quiet. A CD hummed softly in the background while the evening light spilled through the windows. You'd been enjoying the solitude for weeks now.

Your phone lit up. A text from Robby. It was just a small update about his day, a picture of a lake with a note underneath telling you there was a viewpoint about a mile from the cabin that you would absolutely love.

You stared at it for a second and then pressed call without thinking.

The phone rang twice.

"Hey, you okay?" He'd answered immediately.

Not because he'd been expecting the call but quite the opposite.

You almost smiled at the concern in his voice.

"Hey. Yeah, I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." A pause. "Can you talk?"

On the other side of the continent, Robby was sitting on the cabin porch with a beer bottle in hand, watching the sky darken over the mountains.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I can talk."

You exhaled. You weren't entirely sure why. Just hearing his voice had already made something feel lighter.

"Bad day?" he asked gently.

"A little."

"Want to talk about it?"

You considered it.

"Not really."

He laughed quietly. "Fair enough."

You took a sip of wine.

"Does it sound stupid if I say I just wanted to hear your voice?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

For a moment, all you could hear was the wind moving through the trees on his end of the line. Then Robby shifted in his chair.

"Well," he said, amusement colouring his voice, "I sure feel special."

You groaned. "Don't make it weird.”

"I'm not making it weird."

"You absolutely are."

His laugh settled something warm in your chest.

"I can tell you about the bear I saw today if you need a distraction."

You smiled. "Yes please."

And he did. He told you about the trail, about spotting movement through the trees and realising it was considerably larger than he'd first thought. Halfway through the story your phone buzzed with a picture he'd sent while still talking.

You put him on speaker to zoom in, immediately informing him that he was insane for getting that close. He disagreed.

You told him he was objectively wrong then somehow you were refilling your wine while he wandered into the kitchen for another beer and the conversation simply kept going.

Hours slipped past unnoticed. The topics changed every few minutes. Canadian wildlife became grocery shopping.

Grocery shopping became work which became Dana. Dana became the night you'd gone out with your friends. It felt effortless.

Like no matter what either of you said, the other would find it interesting, as if there were no rush to end the conversation.

Eventually, somewhere between your third glass and his third beer, Robby circled back to something you'd almost forgotten.

"So," he said casually. "Any more plans to go out and let random men buy you drinks?"

You scoffed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sounds suspiciously like jealousy, Michael."

Using his first name felt deliberate. The kind of thing you couldn't take back once it left your mouth.

For a moment he didn't answer and you could almost hear him thinking.

"I think I'm just curious."

"Curious?"

"You mentioned him." His voice was careful now. "And then I spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering whether you actually liked him."

Your stomach flipped unexpectedly.

"And did you come to a conclusion?"

He laughed quietly. "Yeah."

"Which was?"

"That anyone who talks about crypto for ten minutes straight probably doesn't stand a chance."

The warmth that spread through you had nothing to do with the wine. You sank further into the sofa, smiling into your glass.

"Good answer."

For a second neither of you spoke. The silence felt different now, like an awareness blooming.

On the other end of the line, Robby stared out across the darkening lake, suddenly very conscious of the weight in his chest and the dryness in his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure when the conversation had become the best part of his day.

He was even less sure what that meant.

On your end, the wine bottle was looking considerably emptier than when the call had started.

"How much longer have you got out there anyway?" you asked eventually.

He leaned back in his chair.

"Couple more weeks."

You hummed. "A couple?"

"Three."

You did the maths automatically. Three weeks. For some reason that felt shorter than it should have.

"That's weird."

"What is?"

"You coming back."

Robby laughed softly. “I haven't left forever."

"I know."

You picked absentmindedly at the label on your wine bottle.

"Still weird though."

He understood exactly what you meant. The cabin had become normal, so had the mountains. Waking up and sending you a picture of whatever he'd found that day had become normal too.

The thought settled uncomfortably somewhere in his chest.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "It is."

For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't awkward, if anything, it felt too honest.

"You'll probably be sick of Pittsburgh again within forty-eight hours."

He laughed.

"Probably."

"And I'll have to move back into my shoebox apartment."

He laughed again.

"You laugh, but I've become accustomed to luxury."

"My apartment is not luxury."

"It has an en-suite."

"It does."

You smiled into your glass.

"I'm gonna miss it."

The words came out before you really thought about them and then, after a beat, you added, "The apartment, I mean."

Robby looked out across the lake. The moonlight stretched across the water in silver streaks. He wasn't entirely sure why that qualifier felt necessary.

"Yeah."

Because he was going to miss something too, he just wasn't sure it was the apartment.

"I'm glad I gave you the keys."

The words slipped out naturally.

"Because I've been such an excellent tenant?"

"Questionable."

You laughed. "Rude."

"You locked yourself out and you don't use coasters."

"That happened one time. And yes I do."

"One time that I know about. And, no you don't."

You shook your head, laughing. "So why are you glad?"

The question hung there. For the first time that evening, Robby didn't answer immediately. He could have made a joke and he probably should have but instead he found himself telling the truth.

"Because otherwise…" He trailed off and you waited. "Otherwise I don't think we'd have ever talked like this."

Something in your chest tightened, just enough to make you still. The sounds around you seemed to disappear for a second. The music, hum of the refrigerator, everything.

"Yeah."

It came out quieter than you'd intended. Because he was right.

Without the apartment, he would've stayed your attending, you his resident. You would've chatted during shifts and maybe grabbed a beer with a group after work once or twice.

But this? The hours spent on the phone, the daily messages, knowing what the other person had for dinner. Sharing parts of yourselves that had nothing to do with medicine.

None of that would've happened.

"I guess not."

Robby stared down at the bottle in his hand. His pulse felt oddly loud.

"Would've been a shame."

The words were barely above a murmur. Honest enough that neither of you quite knew what to do with them. You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of the warmth spreading through your stomach.

And not because of the wine.

Another silence settled between you but this one felt different. It felt full. Like there was something sitting quietly between the two of you that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had and neither of you had looked directly at it until now.

"Yeah," you said softly. "It would've."

For a second, neither of you spoke, neither of you hung up either.

Somewhere between Alberta and Pittsburgh, with a lake outside one window and city lights outside the other, it felt like the conversation had shifted onto unfamiliar ground.

Not enough to turn back yet not enough to move forward. Just enough that both of you knew something had changed.

-

The next morning arrived with a headache.

Not a catastrophic one, just enough of one to remind you that two glasses of wine had somehow become four and how you clearly couldn't handle your booze anymore.

Thank god it was your day off. You'd spent most of the morning moving slowly, making a trip to the store for supplies before returning to the apartment with a bag full of groceries, painkillers and absolutely no intention of leaving the house again.

After a shower, you pulled on an oversized t-shirt, climbed into bed and put something mindless on the TV. You weren't really watching it. Your attention kept drifting back to your phone. In between doom scrolling TikTok, you kept flipping to your messages.

Nothing from Robby.

You told yourself it was normal since he was a couple of hours behind. He could still be asleep or hiking, he could be doing literally anything.

Still, your thumb hovered over the conversation and you found yourself thinking through parts of last night's call. Especially the end.

Would've been a shame.

You groaned and tossed the phone onto the bed beside you. "Get a grip."

The phone buzzed almost immediately.

You grabbed it so fast it was actually embarrassing.

Robby:

Morning

You:

afternoon actually

Robby:

Right

How's the hangover?

You:

presumptuous much?

Robby:

I'll take that as confirmation

You:

i’ve survived worse

Robby:

Doctor approved medical assessment

You:

exactly

The conversation stayed comfortably familiar at first. Small things, nothing important. What he'd done that morning and what you were doing now. The weather in Canada versus Pittsburgh. The coffee he'd burnt.

You laughed quietly at something he'd sent and snapped a quick picture in response.

Mostly intending to show him the disaster of snacks you'd surrounded yourself with on the bed.

You hit send before really looking at it.

A few moments passed, longer than usual. You frowned.

You:

???

The typing bubbles appeared.

Robby:

You know you're in that photo right?

You opened the image again. Your stomach immediately dropped.

Between the blankets and the snacks was a very obvious stretch of bare leg disappearing beneath the hem of your t-shirt. If you zoomed you could definitely see the edge of lace from your panties.

Heat crept into your cheeks.

You:

well

too late now

His reply took a little longer this time.

Robby:

Suppose it is

Something about the message felt different though you couldn't have explained why.

The conversation slowed. Not because either of you wanted it to end but because both of you seemed suddenly aware of it. Aware of each other.

You:

you're being weird

Robby:

I am not

You:

you absolutely are

Robby:

And what if I'm just thinking?

You:

dangerous

Robby:

That's rich coming from you

You laughed and the tension eased for a moment then returned just as quickly. The phone sat warm in your hand. Neither of you quite saying what was on your mind.

Both of you hovering suspiciously close to it.

Then-

A knock sounded at the apartment door. You sat upright.

"Oh for god's sake."

You:

one sec

Robby:

What?

You:

someones here

terrible timing honestly

Robby:

That sounds ominous

You:

don't go anywhere

Robby:

Wasn't planning on it

You tossed the phone onto the bed and headed for the door.

When you pulled it open, Abbot stood on the other side with two coffees in hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Jack?"

"Good afternoon."

You stared. He stared back.

"Why are you here?"

"Robby asked me to check the place hadn't burned down."

You folded your arms.

"And?"

Jack looked past you.

"Still standing."

By the time Abbot eventually left, the afternoon had slipped away with him. He'd actually brought you coffee because he was passing by, knew Robby cared about you and wanted to check in. Sweet actually.

Your conversation with Robby had fizzled into a couple of harmless messages before disappearing entirely which somehow felt worse. Because now you were thinking about it and judging by the phone call that arrived later that evening, so was he.

You answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"I can't believe you left me hanging like that."

You laughed immediately. "Excuse me?"

"We were having a conversation."

"Jack showed up at your apartment."

"And somehow that's my fault?"

"Everything's your fault."

His laugh crackled through the speaker.

"You know," he said, quieter this time, "I did actually spend the next few hours wondering what happened."

Your heart stumbled slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause. Comfortable but dangerous.

"Well," you said, settling deeper into the sofa. "Lucky for you, I'm free now."

The silence on the other end lasted just long enough to make your stomach flip. Then Robby laughed softly.

"Good."

The word settled somewhere low and God you hated that it did. Or maybe you loved it. Either way, you found yourself smiling into the darkness of the apartment.

"You sound very pleased with yourself."

"I am."

You laughed softly.

"Because I answered the phone?"

"Because I was beginning to think Abbot had kidnapped you."

"Trust me, if he'd kidnapped me, you'd know about it."

You eased into conversation again, tucking yourself deeper beneath the blanket, listening to him talk about a trail he'd found that morning. He was halfway through describing some impossible view over a lake when he suddenly stopped.

"Can I ask you something?"

You frowned. "Depends."

"That picture earlier."

Your pulse immediately betrayed you. "What about it?"

There was a pause. "Nothing."

You laughed. "That's not how questions work."

"I know."

"So?"

Another pause. You could practically hear him weighing his words.

"I just didn't realise you'd sent it like that."

Heat crept up your neck.

"Like what?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

Unfortunately, you did.

The worst part was how carefully he was speaking. How neither of you was actually saying anything and yet somehow both of you knew exactly what the other was talking about.

"It was an accident."

"I figured."

"You sound disappointed at that."

The silence that followed lasted a fraction too long. Your breath caught, just slightly. Then Robby laughed low and quiet.

"That's a dangerous thing to accuse me of."

You stared at the ceiling. Very aware of the oversized t-shirt you were still wearing and how your nipples were suddenly hard beneath it.

"I think you've become a lot more confident since Alberta."

"Oh yeah? Is that a bad thing?" he asked.

"No, it's kinda sexy actually." You laughed, so did he. Then a second passed and you felt the boldness creep in, so much so it decided your next move. "Do you want me to send another?"

You could practically hear Robby choke on his own breath and in the time he tried to get on top of his words, you'd pulled the blanket away, your phone up high with the front camera on, snapping a pic that showed a lot more than the last.

This time it was the bottom of your face, lips plump and pouty, your t-shirt tugged 'innocently' higher to give way to the band of your panties flashed across your hip. Your legs were crossed, not for the picture but to try and ease the now insatiable ache between them. As for your nipples? There was no denying they were the star of the show.

You sent it before thinking twice.

"Fuck." Robby breathed and you knew he was looking right at you.

"Is that better?"

You heard him take a deep breath and could imagine the blush on his cheeks. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You couldn't help but smile. His voice had gotten lower, a little huskier, almost like he was out of breath.

"Robby?"

"Yeah?" He breathed.

"What are we doing?"

He took a minute to answer. Not sure of what he should say, what he wanted to say. "I don't know." You couldn't see but he rubbed his face over his hand, coming to rest at the base of his neck. "I don't fucking know."

He was sat on the sofa at the cabin. The fire was going, lights dim and warm. Ever since you'd sent that first picture he'd been tight against his jeans but then you sent another and fuck, his hand came to adjust himself over the denim.

"But I'm not sure I can pretend I'm thinking of anything other than that picture right now."

You felt a little smug. That was, after all, why you sent it. It was so nice to feel sexy, for someone to be looking at you the way he was, someone you wanted to see you this way.

"Yeah? What you thinking about?" You knew what you were doing. Knew how it would draw the last breath out of him but you also knew you'd crossed a line and there was no going back. Not that you wanted to.

Your hands trailed over yourself, light touches over the cotton of your t-shirt. Your body jolted when finger tips ghosted the outline of a nipple, trailing left to pay the other as much attention. Fuck, it felt good.

Robby knew the pair of you were in dangerous territory but god, he wanted to be there. His head fell back in disbelief, as if he were mad at himself for what he was about to tell you over the phone.

His resident.

"You touching yourself in my apartment." He paused, waiting to see if he'd taken it too far only to hear a quiet moan from you in response. "Playing with yourself in the guest bedroom..."

"I am." Your hand snaked from your tits slowly to your panties, cupping yourself over the lace and that's when you felt it. "Fuck Robby I'm really wet…”

Jesus Christ. He felt himself jolt against his own hand, the one that was palming the growing outline of his cock.

"Fuck, baby. You're really trying to kill me huh?" He huffed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief that this was happening. Almost three months of texts, phone calls, voice notes. A camera roll shared, bad days eased by mindless humour and companionship. A relationship built on all of that.

"You want me to go to your bed?" You almost panted down the line as you moved against your hand. "Fuck myself in your sheets?"

"Shit," He exhaled.

"You want that?"

"Yeah…" His reply was too fast and he cursed himself for it. But all he wanted was the image of you, two fingers deep, coming to his voice while soaking his bed spread. "Please baby, do it for me."

And with that, you got up. He heard rustling down the line as you made your way from the guest bed to Robby's. It wasn't a room you'd gone in much. You'd said you were going to snoop through his drawers, his closet just to be nosy but turns out you had too much respect for his privacy. That was months ago. Now you were crawling onto the bed, setting your phone on speaker next to you as you positioned yourself right in the middle.

Robby was waiting patiently. He'd done no more than rub himself a few times over his jeans, grinding a little into his hand but then knowing it'd be too much and he'd end up blowing his load like a teenager. Instead, he waited. For you. To enjoy you.

You laid your head back against his pillows, inhaling him as if he were right next to you. "Mmm, smells like you in here." You said quietly. "It's like you're here."

He wished he was there. You did too. Wished it was his fingers swiping through your wetness, dipping into your panties and feeling how worked up you'd got from sending him one (not even) dirty photo.

"Tell me what you're doing." It felt like an order even though it wasn't and your pussy jumped at the idea. "Wanna hear you."

"Fuck. 'M rubbing myself over my panties." You whispered lightly. "Wanna take them off."

"Take them off baby." He'd hoped you'd throw them to the side and forget, only for him to find them on his return. "Spread your legs, let me hear."

It'd be hard for him not to hear with how soaked you were.

It was amazing how one phone conversation and suddenly this is how you found yourself, legs open for Michael Robinavitch.

With your panties gone, you anchored your legs apart. Fingers sliding through your dripping slit, gathering your arousal to swirl it in tight circles around your clit. The slick sounds filled the room, they filled the cabin too.

Robby couldn't take it anymore. You heard the sound of metal, a belt unbuckling before a zip slid down in haste. He freed himself, pulling his cock from his boxers, thick and hard. He was leaking from the tip, all red and worked up just from listening to you. It felt so fucking good when he finally stroked himself.

"Oh fuck." He tried to bite it back, failing miserably.

That was music to your ears.

"You hard for me Robby?"

"You have no idea. Feels so fuckin good, thinking about you." He fucked his fist nice and slow, wanting this to last and despite his cock not being inside you, he wanted you to cum first.

You decide it wasn't enough. After all this time, the calls and the pictures, you needed to see him. And you wanted him to see you.

"Wanna see you." You picked up your phone, hand still working your pussy. "Can I face- face time you?" Your words faltered a little as your fingers sped up, rubbing your sensitive clit.

Robby froze for a second. He'd got this worked up just by thinking of you in such a state and now, you were actually going to show him?

"Mhmm, yeah."

And within a second you'd pressed the button the change this to a video call. When he accepted, he saw the dark room lit by a single bedside lamp. You'd slowed your motions for a second, to pick up the phone properly and see him for the first time in months.

"Hey." You smiled, like it didn't matter what the pair of you had been doing just seconds ago. You were so happy to see his face. The slight tan he'd caught, his greyed out beard and stubble around the neck.

"Hey." He couldn't help but smile too. Knowing your hands were down your pants but not being able to get past the heat in your cheeks, how your hair had fallen across the bed and despite stating you had a hangover, you were fucking glowing.

He pondered it for a second, how he might have not noticed this before. The way your eyes narrowed when you smiled, how you looked at him.

"You look beautiful."

That might have turned you on more than anything in the last fifteen minutes. You were breathless, a little wrecked, in disbelief at any of this.

Then you set the phone down on the bedside table to free up your hands. That's when you pulled off the t-shirt entirely, leaving your perfect tits in plain view for Robby to see.

His eyes grew wide as he surveyed every inch of your skin before you laid back into the cushions as you were before, shifting to your side facing the phone.

"Is this what you were thinking about?" You snaked your hand back down to your cunt, dipping in but not all the way, just enough for Robby to hear the slick mess.

"Even better." His hand slowly started to work on himself again, matching your rhythm as he held the phone in front of him.

Your mouth parted when you finally sank a finger inside, then another. Two digits curled deep in your pussy, rolling your hips against them and you never took your eyes off him.

"Fuck Robby." You sped your motions a little, so did he. "Wish it was your fingers, wish it was you inside me."

You weren't sure where it came from. The filthy tongue, the boldness. You weren't shy in bed but he was your boss. The boss you were innocently house sitting for until you decided to get attached.

"Christ." He bit back a moan at your obscenity. "Imagine it's me baby." He started fucking his fist faster, wishing it was your pussy. "Imagine it's my cock deep inside you, I'd fuck you so good, make you feel so fucking good."

It dropped from his tongue with little effort. He thought about how much he wanted to be buried inside you, how he'd wanted that for a while and was too scared to admit it.

"Mmmph Robbyyyy." You whined his name, breathing hard, riding your fingers as you felt the coil tighten in your belly. "Let me see you."

He did the same as you, positioning the phone on the side table that sat at the same height as the sofa. It left him in view from the waist up, free hand roaming his covered chest, the other pumping his cock hard.

You watched him intently. Heard the sounds of precum slickening his strokes as his hips drove up with every beat.

"Fuck I'm close-” You worked yourself with both hands, two buried to the knuckle and the other rubbing your clit with such ferocity. "Really fucking close Robby I think I'm gonna cum soon."

"Cum for me angel, let me see. Such a good girl."

Your hands worked even faster and suddenly, the coil snapped with words of praise and you were coming in Robby's bed.

"Oh my god oh my-” Then silence, your body went rigid as you clamped your hands hard, riding out the most intense orgasm you'd had in years.

You were a sight for sore eyes. Mouth wide open, tits bouncing with every movement and all it took was your guttoral moans for Robby to feel himself close to the edge too. He was fucking himself so hard and fast, it was almost a blur on screen until you heard him pant, a strangled "Uh uh uh" and then-

"I'm gonna cum baby oh fuck-”

You watched him spill his load all over his hand. Thick white ropes dripped down his knuckles, marking his jeans as he stroked himself through it, twitching at his now very sensitive cockhead.

You were both left breathless and sweaty, each reaching for your respective phones.

"You-” He was trying so hard to catch his breath. "-are something else."

You both laughed breathlessly. Fuck, this felt good.

You stayed on the phone for hours after until he ordered you to bed. Told you to sleep well, that he'd be thinking of you.

And that night was the best sleep of your life.

-

Everything felt different after that night except it also all stayed the same.

You spoke every day. Called most nights, FaceTimed, voice noted when you were cooking dinner or carrying groceries. But now it seemed like nothing was left unsaid, that you were both being honest with each other. It was amazing.

The only thing eating away at you right before you fell asleep was the idea this might end. When the three weeks crept closer, when the sabbatical would end. Would everything go back to how it was before?

"Hey can I ask you something?" You broke mid conversation.

"Anything."

"When this is over. Your sabbatical I mean. When you come back and I'm not here." You trailed off slightly. "...Will this all go away?"

There was silence on the line for a second.

"Not if I have anything to do with it."

Your smile reached your ears. Good because-” You inhaled deeply. "I don't think I can go back."

-

You worked like a dog over the next four days.

At one point you'd even picked up a double because Lena had practically begged for night shift cover, and despite every intention of saying no, somehow you'd found yourself agreeing anyway.

It meant you barely saw daylight all week and you didn't get to speak to Robby much either. Not in the way either of you would've liked.

You checked in between shifts, during breaks and whenever you made it home with enough energy to keep your eyes open. He'd send the occasional text during the day, but most of your conversations happened at night. Sometimes a quick call, sometimes longer if exhaustion didn't drag you under first.

It was a brutal four days. By the end of it you were running almost entirely on caffeine and stubbornness, convinced you'd briefly developed double vision somewhere around shift three.

When you finally crawled into bed at the end of it all, you slept hard.

Since your FaceTime call, you hadn't stepped foot in the guest room. Every night you ended up in Robby's bed instead, tangled in his sheets and surrounded by things that smelled faintly like him.

He loved knowing that.

Day five arrived with something close to actual rest. You woke around nine and, for the first time all week, didn't feel like death.

After a shower you made coffee, pulled on some loungewear that wasn't technically pyjamas and settled onto the sofa with every intention of finally finishing the book you'd started at the beginning of all this.

You'd texted Robby before getting in the shower. There was still no reply. You assumed he was asleep or hiking or somewhere without signal. Either way, you weren't worried.

Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock at the door. You sighed immediately.

It had to be Jack.

Apparently nobody trusted you to spend three months in an apartment unsupervised.

Already preparing your speech, you marched towards the door and pulled it open.

The words died in your throat.

"Robby."

For a second your brain simply stopped working. Because Robby was supposed to be in Canada. Robby was supposed to be another two thousand miles away. Robby was supposed to be a voice coming through your phone speaker. Not standing in front of you.

"Hey."

His smile spread slowly across his face, tired and genuine all at once. His cheeks were pink from the road and his eyes looked glassy around the edges, like he'd spent too many hours behind the handlebars and not nearly enough sleeping.

You stared. "What are you doing here?"

He laughed softly. "Good to see you too."

"No, seriously." You gestured vaguely at him and the doorway. What are you doing here? You were in Canada. That's like-" Your brain searched desperately for a number. "It's like five thousand miles."

"Not quite."

"Robby-”

He kissed you.

Just stepped across the threshold and kissed you.

His hands came up to cup your face as he guided you backwards into the apartment, the front door swinging shut somewhere behind him.

Every thought disappeared. All the questions and confusion, gone.

Because he was here, after months of messages and phone calls and hearing his voice through a screen, he was finally here. The last four days worked in his favour, you being so busy. He'd hit the road almost immediately, covering far too much mileage to be considered safe. All to make it back to you.

You kissed him back immediately, both hungry and relieved. Like you were making up for every mile that had sat between Alberta and Pittsburgh.

When he finally pulled away, it was only far enough to look at you, forehead resting against yours.

"Two and a half thousand miles," he corrected quietly.

You laughed.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

"You know," you murmured, fingers still wrapped around his wrists, "this is a very dramatic way to get your keys back."

Robby laughed, the sound warm and familiar.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His thumbs swept across your cheeks.

“Good thing I never came back for the keys”

Your heart squeezed.

“You made me lose it.”

The complaint is half-swallowed against the wet skin of Jack’s back and the dull crash of the waves.

You cling tighter as Jack wades through the surf, arms hooked around his neck, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades where the sea has left him slick and gold and gleaming.

Every step moves you against him, your body sliding closer, nipples flattening to the hard line of him, and when he laughs, the sound moves under your skin before it reaches your ears.

A small, private earthquake.

He turns his head just enough that water slides off the edge of his jaw. “I did not make you do anything. You did that all on your own to avoid my excellent points about tiger sharks.”

“That’s not a true recollection of the events and they only sounded excellent because you were saying them in your stupid doctor voice,” you grumble, chin now hooked over his shoulder while the waterline drops lower and lower around his legs, the drag of the tide giving up on both of you inch by inch. Near the shore he slows, more careful now, one hand firm beneath your thigh while his prosthetic sinks a little into the uneven sand before he shifts and steadies and steps again. “You were supposed to agree with me.”

Jack smiles. 

“I’ll try to remember that next time.” He steps out of the water, dragging both of you into the moonlit shallows. “Agree with you first. Correct the shark misinformation second. Recover the missing bikini top…never.”

He puts emphasis on the misinformation part.

You roll yours eyes and cinch your arms tighter around his neck.

The second you clear the waterline you seem to realize the ocean was doing more for you than you gave it credit for. In the water, at least, there had been plausible visual confusion. Distortion.

Out here there is only the moon, a waxing gibbous tonight, and your own bad luck.

Your bikini top had not come off in any glamorous way either.

A wave basically clotheslined you mid-argument, you went under still debating your point, and by the time you surfaced your top had been ripped clean off.

You had crossed both arms over your chest and stared at Jack with horror.

He, to his credit, or maybe to his deep private enjoyment, had just turned around so you could climb onto his back and use him as a human wall and shield.

“Convenient,” you murmur. “I’m starting to think you have a vested interest in the bikini top staying missing.”

“Trust me,” he says, voice dry, “if I had a vested interest in seeing you topless, I’d prefer it happen under circumstances that involved fewer opportunities for you to drown.” 

You glance toward the vacant stripe of shoreline, suddenly grateful for the hour. Almost midnight. No passing strangers, no coworkers smoking in little clusters on the sand, no one to witness you wrapped around your attending in wet bikini bottoms and not much else besides nerve. 

Lucky. Because this whole thing seemed like a very good idea twenty minutes ago and now feels a little less airtight.

You’re both tipsy, brined with salt and that strange vacation logic that makes every bad idea glow with intrigue. This was not among the more sensible things either of you had ever done.

But you had tilted your glass toward him, smiled over the rim, and said please in that sweetly loaded voice that seems to dissolve whatever remains of his better judgment on impact.

Cause and effect. Something you love to keep in your back pocket for emergencies.

You bite back a grin. “Jack, are you trying to tell me there are circumstances under which you’d find this whole situation acceptable?”

The beach house looms closer with each step. Most of it is dark now, but one light still burns upstairs. His room, you think.

Jack lets out a low, quiet laugh and hikes you a little higher on his back.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Ideally somewhere private. Dry. Preferably with you in my bed.”

A little startled giggle escapes you before you can stop it. You press your face at once in the curve of his neck. You’re not sure you can believe he’d say something like that so plainly.

As if that was the most ordinary thing in the world to tell you.

“Oh.”

Entire vocabulary gone. Reduced to a single syllable by one middle-aged man with a good mouth and a bad attitude. 

“That’s all you’ve got?” he asks, dry amusement curling through the words. “Interesting. You seemed a lot more talkative in the ocean.”

“I was talkative because we were discussing facts,” you mumble. “Tiger sharks are mostly found in tropical and subtropical water, yes, but sharks generally can end up in weird places sometimes, so I feel like I was making a broader point about ocean unpredictability, which was valid.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sound is mild, but dismissive enough to make it clear he is not entertaining your argument as anything but cute deflection. 

By then the porch is beneath him, old boards washed pale under a flickering lamp to the right of his shoulder. You worry about splinters on his bare foot. 

He lowers you carefully from his back, slowly enough that your hands trail over him in stages, shoulder to arm to chest, your palms smoothing there as though your body is reluctant to stop touching his. 

He doesn’t let it.

Instead of setting you down and stepping away, he catches you before your balance can settle, your feet coming to rest over his, your toes tucked against the tops of them so you never quite have to meet the porch at all. 

You stay suspended against him, your naked chest pressed to the front of him, every chilled inch of skin suddenly aware of where he is warm.

Your nipples tighten into points almost immediately.

“You get shy when I’m direct,” he says, eyes on your face like he’s studying something newly confirmed. “That’s useful information.”

“Why? Do you like making me nervous? I don’t know what that says about you.”Your fingers flex once against his chest.

He tilts his head. 

“I think I like knowing I can,” he says. “There’s a difference.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do with that information now that you have it?”

Jack’s eyes flick once to your mouth, then back up. 

“Depends. How cooperative are you feeling?”

It is a ridiculous question, considering your current position, considering the fact that you’re still practically draped over him, and maybe that’s why you don’t answer fast enough — because he takes the pause as permission and closes the distance himself. 

His mouth is warm and salt-touched and far too certain, and when he kisses you it feels less like a question than a decision, one he’s been circling for a while and has finally chosen to act on. 

For one strange second you forget every single thing you’ve ever known, including your own name, the year, and the fact that human beings typically continue breathing through moments like this.

Then the air comes back all at once and you pull in a startled breath against his lips.

When he draws back, his forehead stays close to yours.

You can still feel the shape of the kiss still in your lips, in your throat, in the pit of your stomach where everything has gone loose and sparkling. 

“Oh, that’s horrible,” you say.

Jack’s brow lifts in surprise. “Horrible?”

“Yes. Very manipulative.” His hands slide up and down your bare sides. “You lured me into a vulnerable conversational position and then took advantage of the pause.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s one interpretation.”

“It’s the correct interpretation.”

He laughs again, hand shifting higher on your back, feeling the goosebumps there.

“C’mon,” he says. “You can keep telling me how wrong I am inside.”

“Good,” you mutter, ignoring the impulse to reach up and kiss him again. “Because I was planning to.”

“I know.”

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

and now there was a puppy in your bathroom.

a very tiny puppy. a very dirty puppy. a very skinny puppy.

a puppy that had looked at you with huge brown eyes and immediately destroyed your ability to make rational decisions.

so now you’d spent the entire night cleaning him up, feeding him tiny portions of food left over in the fridge, googling what was safe for the pup to eat, and trying to convince yourself that jack wouldn’t be upset.

or at least not too upset.

the front door unlocked just after seven in the morning.

your stomach dropped. jack was home.

you were still sitting on the couch in yesterday’s clothes, running entirely on caffeine and poor decisions.

the second he walked inside, he frowned. “why are you awake?”

you immediately looked anywhere but at him. “couldn’t sleep.” you stuttered out quick.

jack narrowed his eyes. doctor eyes. the same eyes that caught every lie told in the emergency department. unfortunately for you, they worked at home too. “you look guilty.”

you scoffed. “i’m just tired.”

“you look guilty and tired.” he kicked off his shoes. “what happened?”

“nothing happened. what makes you think that?” you defenced back.

“something happened.”

you smiled weakly.

he sighed.

“how much trouble am i about to be in?”

“define trouble.”

jack groaned. “oh no.” he pointed at you. “what did you do?”

“i didn’t do anything.”

before he could respond—

woof!

both of you froze.

the tiny bark came from the bathroom. jack slowly turned his head. then looked back at you. then toward the bathroom again. then back at you.

“…what was that?”

you considered lying.

you lasted approximately one second. “…a dog.”

jack closed his eyes. “you found a dog.”

“well technically the dog found me.”

“that’s not how dogs work.”

another bark echoed through the apartment. followed by a tiny scratching sound against the bathroom door.

jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

you stood. “before you say anything—”

“that’s never a promising start.”

“—he was abandoned.”

jack immediately opened one eye.

you continued. “he was cold.”

the other eye opened. “and hungry.”

his expression softened despite himself.

you knew it would.

jack could pretend to be grumpy all he wanted, but he spent twelve hours a day saving people for a living. he had the softest heart of anyone you’d ever met.

you disappeared into the bathroom before he could argue further. a moment later, you emerged carrying the beagle puppy.

the puppy looked ridiculously small wrapped in a towel.

one floppy ear. oversized paws. sleepy brown eyes.

the second jack saw him, his face did something. not much. just enough.

that tiny shift that meant he was already losing the battle. “he’s cute,” he admitted.

victory. you grinned.

the puppy, however, had his own priorities. the second you crouched near the couch, the little beagle scrambled from your arms.

straight toward jack.

jack blinked. “oh.”

the puppy climbed directly into his lap. like he’d been doing it his entire life.

tiny tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled. you watched in delight as jack looked down at the puppy.

the puppy looked up at jack. and that was it. gone. completely smitten. jack was finished.

the puppy pressed his nose against jack’s hand. jack immediately scratched behind one floppy ear. the puppy practically melted.

“oh my god,” you whispered.

jack didn’t even hear you. “hey, buddy.”

the puppy licked his thumb. jack smiled. an actual smile. the soft one. the one that made you fall in love with him. the one that meant you were absolutely bringing this animal home forever.

you pointed accusingly. “there it is.”

“what?”

“that face.”

jack glanced up. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

the puppy promptly curled up against his chest and fell asleep.

you laughed. jack looked back down at the tiny sleeping beagle. then sighed. a long, defeated sigh.

“…we should probably schedule a vet appointment.”

your grin widened. “jack.”

“don’t.”

“jack.”

he rolled his eyes. “fine.”

you practically launched yourself at him.

the puppy remained asleep through the entire thing.

Jack hasn't been able to sleep all week - not that it's has ever come easily to him. But it's been particularly bad since that night in your doorway. He keeps checking his phone like a lovesick teenager, desperately hoping that you've reached out to him and ignoring the pang in his chest when his screen is empty.

He keeps replaying that moment in his head, the face you made when he spurned your advances. It wouldn't have been right, he keeps telling himself, you're pregnant and scared - he'd be taking advantage. But there is no comfort in knowing that he did the right thing when you've gone radio silent to his outreach attempts.

He gets the notification that your dryer is being delivered on Saturday morning. He's been debating whether or not showing up will make things worse. But, he hasn't survived as long as he has by running away when things get messy. So, he gets out of bed that day, and heads to your house.

He rings the doorbell once, knowing the camera has sent a notification to your phone. He can only assume you've checked it when you don't come to the door. After enough time has passed he tries again, and then a third time after a few more minutes.

Sure, Jack feels weird about using his key after you've deliberately been ignoring him. But what else is he supposed to do? He has a promise to keep.

You're in the kitchen, some sitcom he vaguely recognizes paying on the TV while you stand in front of the mixer. You meet his eyes briefly before focusing back on the batter in front of you.

"Most people would take the hint after ringing the doorbell 3 times and being ignored every time," you say, still not looking at him.

"I never was good at the whole 'reading signs' thing," Jack responds, standing in front of you.

"What do you want, Jack?"

"I just wanted to check on you. Make sure everything's okay with you and the little hedgehog. Your dryer's coming today - I said I'd be here, so I'm here."

"Oh, she's a hedgehog now?"

"15 weeks puts her at around 13 , which is about the size as a baby hedgehog - a Pygmy hedgehog, if you want to be specific. Also about the same size as a sugar glider."

You tilt your head at him, "Do you just have that all memorized?"

"I have a general idea about how big fetuses should be, but the specifics and the size comparisons, I've been looking up week to week because it's fun and I do care about you and the baby," he says with a small shrug, "And I have missed you this week. There's not much for me to do at home by myself when I'm not fixing your newest craving into a meal."

"What, you arrested all the axe murderers in the tri-state area with SWAT or something?"

Jack thinks about the last time he suited up for TEMS. He's been switching and declining a lot of shifts lately so that he could be with you when he's not at the hospital. It must have been over a month since he's last gone.

"Can't be catching axe murderers when you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad," you say, but Jack has never seen you use that much force on your kitchen aid to move the head on the mixer before, "I tried to kiss you, you rejected me. I'm just embarrassed."

"Are you sure? 'Cause I've seen you yell at Robby for 'manhandling' your mixer before and here you are slamming it around."

"Not at you," the head slams back down after you add more to the bowl, "I just feel…stupid. You're just being nice, but I've just been really fucking sad lately, and you've been so helpful and pretty much the only reason I haven't had a full on breakdown yet. And of course you weren't making a move because you're Robby's friend and I'm pregnant but these hormones are no joke so I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to apologize for."

"I basically harassed you."

The term harassment insinuates that I didn't want it, and trust me, if I were a weaker man, I would have kissed you back.

"You didn't harass me. It was late. We got caught up in the moment, the ultrasound room at an OBGYN's office is an emotionally charged place. It's water under the bridge, we don't have to speak about it ever again," he holds up the bag containing fresh farmers market fruit, "besides I brought you strawberries to sway your fetus's gender like in that game."

"You swear? Not even as a joke."

"Promise."

"Fine," you mutter, before throwing more ingredients into your mixer.

"So what are you making and how much am I allowed to snack on?"

"Cake pops, and you can have the burnt edges once it's finished cooking."

"My favorite," he bites back the quip about you knowing him so well after these past few months, "Need any help."

"Nope, I have a system and you will just get in my way," you say with a smile but Jack knows you are serious. One time when he was over Robby's bumped into you while you were doing last minute touches for an order. He shivers, remembering the glare on your face, "But if you want to make me some tea, you can help me with that."

"Your wish is my command," he says, heading back to your walk in pantry, "Am I making my people's tea or your people's tea?"

"What do you think the answer is white boy?" you shake your head with a small smile.

"It may shock you, but I don't know how to make that."

"If you can cut open people's chests then I'm sure you can make tea," you laugh, "Go get my pot. The medium one."

He follows your instructions, using cold water - cold, not hot because that's important for some reason (though hot water would be faster but who is Jack to argue with a centuries old practice) - waiting for your burner to light and then placing the pot on top. He's got three teabags and the jar of pre-ground spices waiting on the side.

"You sure it's 3?" Jack says holding them over the rolling water, "That seems excessive."

"You want good chai? Listen to me."

He drops them in, waiting the water turn a rich colour as the tea starts to diffuse into the pot. The doorbell rings, pulling his attention away from the stove.

"Are you ready to renter the 21st century with your soon to be new washer and dryer set?" he jokes as he starts towards the door.

"You have no idea. I feel like a 1850s house wife about to put up a damn clothesline. "

Except when he opens the door he immediately frowns, "That's the wrong one."

The man next to the incorrect model looks back at the washer, "It's what's on my list."

"Your list is wrong."

The kid shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. All of a sudden Jack is trying to tamp down the burst of anger in his chest from the look of sheer indifference on his face, "The order goes directly into our computer system and gets processed after purchase."

Jack takes his phone out from his pocket, shaking his head. He opens up his email before realized that it isn't his washer and he should use your phone instead.

"Give me a minute," he leaves the door open, walking at a brisk pace to you in the kitchen, "I need your phone."

"On the counter," you nod your head towards it, "Why?"

"Password?" He types it in, unlocking the phone with ease, "Need the confirmation email…aha!"

He all but shoves the phone in the delivery man's face, "This does not match that."

The delivery man squints at the phone and then nods apologetically. "I apologize sir. We can still give you this one and refund you the difference."

"I want the washer dryer set I paid for."

He nods, filing his dolley, "Someone will be in touch for a new delivery date."

When he gets back, you're staring at him.

"What?"

"Listen, if things are going to be completely platonic between us you can't be running around defending my honour like a caveman. That does something to a woman, especially when we're pregnant."

"A Caveman?" Jack laughs

"I want the washer dryer set I paid for," you mock, dropping your voice several pitches.

"I want the washer-dryer set I paid for," he repeats, exasperatedly, going back to to stand watch over his boiling pot, "Is that a crime?"

"You didn't pay for it, I did - well, I still have Robby's card info so he did."

"He didn't know that," Jack shrugs, "And he looked at me like I don't understand how computers work. I've been using them since the kid's been in diapers."

"Whatever you say, grandpa."

That night he's in his own bed at a respectable 9:30 pm.

"My blood pressure wasn't even high," you groan as Jack fastens the velcro cuff around your arm, "I thought you were joking about buying a cuff."

"I don't joke about your health - or the little hedgehog," he clicks the start button. "What were the numbers at your last check up?"

"I don't remember the numbers but Dr. Kaur didn't tell me anything so I assumed it was okay."

"You know what they say about assuming," he quips.

Several moments go by before the machine beeps and the pressure is released on your arm. The machine buffers before displaying your number on the screen.

"See 120 over 80," you point, "Tip top shape."

It really is easy to see how Robby fell for you. When Robby had told him, not too long after Lucille had passed, that he was seeing a just barely 30 year old Jack had rolled his eyes at him and told the older man that he didn't expect the mid life to crises to hit quite so soon. And then he'd met you and warmed up to you immediately - the pan of your world famous fudgey brownies certainly helped grease the wheels.

And now, standing in front of you watching the defiance etched onto your face after you've been proven right? He's really starting to regret getting into his truck that night.

He clears his throat, shaking his head. His mother would be utterly disappointed with the thoughts rolling around his head in this moment.

"I never said you weren't, I just said I needed to know the numbers for my own sanity," he grins, holding up the steaks he bought earlier, "Now we can have these. Lots of proteins and nutrients for little miss sugar glider in there."

The next morning he's nodding his good morning to Ellis as they bump into each other on their way into the hospital.

"So, how was your night?" Jack's confused by the suggestive grin on her face and the nudge to his ribs.

"Why do you look so," he makes a gesture with his hands at her general demeanour, "perky? It's 6 am."

"I told you, days suits me better but I liked your teaching style more," she nudges him again, "how was your date? Clearly not that good since you're not in yesterday's scrubs."

"I was not on a date, Ellis," Jack eyes her, "And if I was, I still wouldn't be discussing the intricacies of my dating life with my residents."

"I saw you yesterday, leaving here in with and get in a car that was not yours. I saw you try to argue and get in the drivers seat too."

Jack squints, "How long were you standing there?"

"Long enough to see you be all mooney eyed. Pretty sure Princess saw too so everyone will know by the end of the week - but it's okay. From what I witnessed, she was pretty, you could do way worse, boss," she slugs him in the arm.

Jack shakes his head, "No that was Robby's wife-"

"You're dating Robby's wife?" Parker stops, stunned, "That's messy. I mean hey- we can't control who we love but -"

"We are not dating."

"Women don't usually let men they're not dating touch their hair."

"I didn't touch her hair?"

"You took out her claw clip. That's intimate as hell."

"Did you have binoculars or something," Jack scoffs incredulously, "If you must know I only took out her hair thing because back in the 90s I picked my fair share of those prongs out of women's heads. Because I am a doctor so can we please focus on saving lives instead of whatever this is."

She puts her hands up in surrender, "No need to be so defensive boss man, I'm just making an observation."

"How about we go observe some patients then."

That night after dinner, Jack has his pant leg rolled all the way up his thigh as you hand him the CBD creme he left the last time he was here.

"Oh by the way," he says, dolling out the amount he needs and rubbing it onto his amputation scar, "There's a rumour that we're sleeping together running around PTMC."

"What?" you blink in surprise, "How did that even start?"

"Some of my lovely coworkers saw you picking me up last night," you tilt your head, watching him dig his fingers in his leg, "Apparently me taking your claw…thingy out of your hair to prevent it from lodging itself in your skull means that we're having a torrid love affair."

Never mind that his heart had skipped a beat when your lose curls framed your face after he'd reached past you and taken the clip out. Skipped another when you rolled your eyes and called him paranoid but made no move to stop him. And again when the smell of your shampoo rushed into his lungs as your curls had fallen free.

Maybe he's developed a murmur. His stethoscope is still in the car, he'll check it later.

"Who saw? And why were they spying on you."

"There was a group of them, I guess. They saw me getting into a car that wasn't mine and assumed it was a date."

"Did you tell them we're just friends?"

"Of course I did," he chuckles, "But you know how these things go. All you need is one little spark and all of a sudden you have a full blown wildfire on your hands."

"Maybe someone will tell Robby and he'll come home."

Jack grunts, "Still nothing?"

"Sent me a picture of some fuckass desert the other day so I spent the entirety of the money he sent me that day on a crib," Jack winces as his fingers dig into the sore flesh of his stump, "How bad does it hurt?"

He shrugs, "Some days are worse than others."

"And today?"

"Today is another day."

"Okay, Shakespeare," you shuffle on the couch to come sit next to him, your now much more noticeable baby bump making it a tad more difficult, "I can try and help you with that - if you want of course."

"You've been on your feet all day too."

"Well once I get farther along in this pregnancy you'll be rubbing my feet so I'll be cashing in later," Jack grunts and relents, settling back against the pillows.

He chuckles as your fingers prod at the soft skin at the end of his knee, "What ya looking at?'

"Sorry," you say sheepishly, "I didn't realize it would be squishy."

Another poke that makes Jack laugh, "They take the muscle and wrap it over the end of the bone so it's cushioned to bare the weight in my prosthetic."

"You learn something new every day," you smile.

This time your fingers are less tentative, working little circles into his sore muscles. It's tender, your fingers gently dig into the scarred skin, relieving the ache in his lower leg. It's strange, the last person to touch his amputation this way was Lucille. He fidgets with his ring, spinning the band on his ring finger as you rub his stump methodically, using the lotion to help guide your fingers along his body.

"Is that-does that feel okay? I don't want to hurt you."

"No," he says quickly, "Don't stop."

Jack has a wavering relationship with faith.

He was raised by a single Catholic mother, grew up going to church on Sundays. Over the years his faith has wavered, most notably when he lost his leg and again when he lost his wife. He knows the Lord only gives what you can handle, but that's not much comfort when you come home for the first time and realize that the bedsheets no longer smell like your dead wife, that her presence will slowly start to fade in your once-shared house. And,if he's being honest, his spiritual connection just hasn't quite been the same since she was taken from him - though when his mother calls he makes sure to mention Pastor Andrew every so often, even if he hasn't seen Pastor Andrew since the funeral.

He knows one thing for certain, though. If hell is real, he's just sealed his fate.

He grunts, thrusting up into his own hand, spreading the sticky mess leaking from his tip down his shaft. His hips come off the bed as he gasps, remembering the feel of your touch on his body. Your hands were soft, gliding across his skin, different from his own calloused palms.

He thinks about that night in your foyer. How close you were to him, how easy it would have been to lean forward and close the gap between you - how he should have closed the gap between you.

He would have reached behind you and loosened your hair from its confines, because maybe Ellis was right and undoing a woman's hair is "intimate as hell."

He'd get his hands in it, getting his fingers lost in your curls and tipping your head back as he pushed you up against the wall. He'd take his time, learning what makes your body tick, kiss down your neck and make a map of all the places that make your breath hitch.

The dress you wore that day is etched in his brain. Simple. Domestic.

Soft fabric that flowed off your body and showed off the little hint of your baby bump. He'd get you into the bed, kiss down your body, take his time peeling you out of it. He'd run tongue along the valley of your breasts, teasing you with fingers on your on nipples until you'd squirm. Arrest him for insider trading if you want, but a decades long friendship and a few nights with too many beers with your husband have left him privy to the information that his mouth on your tits will make you gasp out his name.

He'd slip his hands between soft skin of your thighs, spreading your legs open to make space for him. He'll wedge his leg between yours, letting you use his body while he switches breasts. He'll pinch and play with your nipples, suck little marks on the side of your breasts that he'll revisit in the morning.

He won't give you too much, wants you right on the edge for he sinks into you, watching your mouth fall open while he slowly pushes into you. The thumb on your clit will make your nails dig into his back, scratching to pull him closer to you.

Jack's pulled out of his reverie with a shout, spilling into his own hand. His chest heaves as he sits for a moment, letting himself live in the fantasy for a moment before the guilt sets in.

taglist: @misty–lillies @yl90 @abbott976 @fortjackson @andie88 @chikisreads @mrsjgbuck

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.

You’re both right where you want to be.

In hindsight, it was one of your better decisions not to go off the handles about it. Because on the third night, Jack had texted you a flurry of apologies. There were no excuses for his silence, just a simple explanation that the ED is swamped under new temporary management and he’s only been home for a few hours at a time to nap or shower or feed his cat. 

Which was a revelation in itself. Jack has a cat named Sally.

Originally, you had explained that you understood, that it was okay and he had a very important job he had responsibilities for. But Jack had seen that as an easy cop out he refused to take. Promised you that he was not avoiding you, that he did not regret a single second of that night and more convincingly, that he very much wants to do it again. 

And for the past week, Jack’s been nothing but present and attentive. Not physically, the ED has still had him entirely swamped of time. But any free moment he gets, he’s texting you, or a quick call to ask about your day, to ask about Phoebe. 

He sends photos of random things. A pretty sunrise when he manages to steal a moment to catch it from the ambulance bay. Drawings that children have given him that he’s cared for. And quite a few of someone you’ve learned to be John Shen who likes iced coffee more than you do. 

You’ve offered him the same. Photos of your breakfast or coffee when he asks what you’re having. Snapshots of Phoebe when he checks how she’s doing. Pictures of a messy kitchen island when you admit you’re struggling with outlines for your new book. 

And on the odd night, when it’s late enough for you to barely keep your eyes open and it’s calm enough for Jack to steal a moment alone, he’ll call to say goodnight. You tell him about your day with Phoebe, he tells you about his craziest patients. 

Over the last week it’s become somewhat of a routine. Calls, texts, captures of one another's life if fleeting moments. It’s been nice. Exciting. You find yourself reaching for your phone more often than before, feeling butterflies twist in your stomach every time his name lights up on your screen. 

So when the week passes and you wake up at 6 a.m. on the dot, your screen already has a message from Jack waiting for you, buried beneath the emails and texts and social media notifications under your pen name accounts. 

You ignore them all in favor of Jack.

Happy release day, sweetheart ❤️

The nickname he’s taken upon himself to give you sets your skin molten. The first time he casually called you that was over the phone one night, and the gentle form of endearment had almost burned you from the inside out. 

It’s with sleep-crusted eyes that you unlock your phone and re-read the text over and over again before sending off your reply with a grin. 

Good morning and thank you!! How is your shift going?

Despite his text being sent over four hours ago—likely during a rare lull on the night shift—typing bubbles form at the bottom of the texting thread, like he’s been waiting for you to rise from your slumber.

Long. Gotta stay a couple more hours, huge collision pile up on the interstate. Stay away from Parkway West if you can help it.

What are your plans to celebrate?

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, bottom lip caught between your teeth. Still blinking through the groginess, you roll your back, arms bent to hold your phone above your face. 

Will do! And just lunch with my parents this afternoon. Phoebe is at Tom’s tonight so probs wine, takeout and drafting for the next instalment. 

You wait a few moments for a reply. Which turns into a few minutes. In true fashion, Jack’s likely been pulled away, so you force yourself to get up and start your day. 

A very quick shower, a big cup of coffee and then you’re gently waking Phoebe with a tender hand to her back. Her eyes blink open with an immediate frown and she reaches to pull the covers over her head before you can stop her. 

“Come on, sleepyhead,” you laugh gently. “Time to get up for school.”

“I don’t wanna,” Phoebe grumbles, shifting until her back is to you.

You stand with a sigh, let your hands rest on your hips. “Okay, guess I’ll just have banana pancakes and listen to Phil Collins on my own then.”

Her head whips round to you at that, peeking from under the covers. She holds nothing but a stony expression and you can’t help the raise of your brows at the sight. 

“You wouldn’t.” She accuses with a squint. 

You shrug a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. The second you take a step away from her bed, she’s throwing the covers off her in a fit of annoyance and clambering to her feet. Her hair is a matted mess, pyjama top twisted and pant legs scrunched up to her knees. 

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer you anything more than an unimpressed look before walking past you and making her way to the kitchen. You watch with quiet amusement as she climbs the stool to sit at the island, takes a long gulp of the cup of water you already made her. 

And when you turn to begin making the pancakes, you hear her demand Alexa to play Easy Lover with more attitude than any four-year-old should possess. 

It’s when you’re sitting together and singing with mouthfuls of banana pancakes that your phone chimes with  a text from Jack. 

In that case, how would you feel about some company?

The music becomes a dull noise beneath the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears. You stop chewing as you read the text over and over, lungs seizing on a breath you haven’t fully expelled. You haven’t seen Jack since that night. Texting and calling has been exciting, has become a norm. But finally seeing him again? 

The thought is just as thrilling as it is terrifying.

You’re not working tonight? 

His response is immediate again. 

Not at the hospital. But I’m more than happy to put some hours in as a ghost writer. In fact, I insist.

The grin that spreads across your face is almost maniacal. It stretches so wide that your eyes crinkle and your body buzzes. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to how smoothly he flirts, how easily your body reacts to a fucking text message from him. Your fingers move across the screen quickly. 

Well, I can’t say no to that. 

The bubbles appear again for no more than a few seconds before they're replaced with another text. 

There we go. It’s a date. I’ll see you at 7

You choke on a noise that sounds similar to a squeal and you can’t tear your eyes away from the screen. You don’t trust yourself to type a reply, so you react to his message with a heart instead.

“Who are you texting?” Phoebe’s tone is accusational and a very sobering sound that snaps you from your little bubble. 

You flinch, unintentionally and quickly place your phone screen down on the island, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. 

“No one!” 

She watches you with a conspiratorial look, and for a moment you forget that she’s the kid and you’re the parent. Her suspicion morphs into a shit-eating grin. 

“Is it Jack?” 

You squint at her. “Shut up and eat your breakfast before we’re late.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Dana’s been watching Jack like a hawk for the past thirty minutes. 

A lightness in his expression that increases every time he checks his phone. An ease to his movements, a fluidity in his steps despite how long he’s been on his feet. 

She keeps a curious eye on him as he strides from trauma room to trauma room, notices the upward tilt that’s been pinching at his mouth since her shift started an hour ago. 

She’s not the only one. 

Shen stands beside her, slurping at the very last remnants of his vanilla frappe. The sound grates on the charge nurse’s ears but she lets it slide in favor of gossip. 

“What’s he so chipper about?” She mutters to John, eyes still tracking Abbot’s movements. 

He uncurls his lips from the straw, observes his fellow attending for only a moment before shrugging and bringing the straw back to his mouth. “Maybe he finally got laid.” 

Dana smirks to herself at that, shakes her head in something like amusement and fondness. It’s ten minutes later when Jack approaches the central hub and drums his palms on the desk like he’s waiting to find something else to do. 

“Your shift ended an hour ago, Diva.” Dana doesn’t lift her gaze from the tablet in her hand as she speaks, but she doesn’t need to for her to know the way Jack’s looking at her. 

He huffs out a grumble, but it sounds more fond than annoyed. “Not you, too.”

She shrugs, finally lets her eyes land on him. “What can I say? It suits you.” 

There’s a playful roll of his eyes when she grins.

And Dana just can’t help herself. She juts her chin to him just slightly, holds the tablet to her chest as she crosses her arms around it. “What are you so smiley about, anyway? Mania kicked in already?”

Jack considers her for a moment, a subtle tick in his cheek, an involuntary clench in his jaw. With a sigh, he leans his forearms on the high part of the desk, chews on his lower lip. 

“I have a date tonight.” He keeps his voice low enough, the words only meant for a dear friend's ears. But the walls listen in PTMC. When people brush past, the breeze carries the whispers of secrets not meant to be shared. 

It’s Joy that this secret reaches first. Before Dana can even react.

She stops still beside the desk, brows raising above the rim of her glasses. “Old people still date?”

Jack’s slightly too offended to consider that his quiet admittance will now become floor gossip. “I’m not that old.”

It’s Santos it reaches next. 

Eyes wide, jaw slack. And a shriek of astonishment and accusation. “Oh my God! Is it your neighbor? It’s totally the pelvic chick, right?”

His head whirls to the foghorn of her voice, brows pinched tight. Partly at her volume, the other part at the mention of you—of how she refers to you. 

“The pelvic chick?” He screws his face up, less than pleased. 

Joy shivers at the memory of it, the slip of tongue her attending gave still haunts her at random moments.

“I’m sorry, how do you even know about that?” A familiar presence brushes past his arm, the scent of jasmine and linen. 

“People talk.” Al-Hashimi murmurs the words softly, amusement dripping at the edges of it but she doesn’t outright poke fun at him.

It takes Jack a moment to comprehend her mutter, to cast his mind back to the night you came into the ER, the night he accidentally got an eyeful of you in the one way he never imagined he would. 

Joy isn’t the type to gossip. Ogilvie won’t want anyone to know about his scolding. So that only leaves…

Fucking McKay.

“Hey,” Dana calls him softly, “I think it’s great. About time you got back on the horse. Robby thinks so, too.”

Jack cocks a brow as the others disperse to their patients. “You talked to him?”

Dana hums, leans closer to keep the conversation private. “Yeah, he called me the other night. He sounds… not like he’s on the verge of a breakdown.”

Jack laughs but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, well. You know Robby. The novelty of things wears off pretty fast for him.” 

She listens, of course. And as much as Dana loves and respects Robby, there’s only so much talk of him that she can handle before she’s considering sabbatical for herself. So she turns to lean against the desk, angles her body to face Jack’s.

There’s an easy smile on her face. One that’s more than a smirk but less than a grin. A softness to her eyes, a genuine curiosity. 

“What’s she like?”

He knows who she’s talking about immediately. 

Jack lets out a sigh, one that’s a little shaky, struggles to fight the curl in his mouth. If Jack’s honest, he could sit for hours and talk about you. Your interests, your personality… but a selfish part of him what’s to keep that to himself. “She’s…gorgeous, obviously. Smart, kind, very funny. Comfortable, you know? Hard not to like.”

Dana nods, catches the fondness in his tone, the reverent look that seems to clear his eyes. She knows there’s more he wants to say, knows he’s also already shared more than he’s truly willing to. 

“And her daughter?” The question is asked softly, carefully. 

Jack doesn’t tear his gaze from her. Defensive, in a way. But he knows there’s no need to be. There’s no threat or judgement in Dana’s tone, no warning. Just quiet curiosity. A silent question that seeps into what she speaks. 

“I know what I’m signing myself up for.” 

Her smile stretches just a little bit wider at his answer. And with one hand wrapped around the tablet, she reaches to pat Jack on his shoulder as she walks past him. “I’m rooting for you, Abbot.”

He exhales slowly when she leaves. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Outlining scenes and dialogue is usually your favorite part of drafting. 

Little moments that make no sense without context, but integral to the story nonetheless. Usually, you’re riddled with moments and conversations; ideas that come to you during the most mundane of tasks.

Showering, eating, cleaning, dreaming. 

But for the past week, your thoughts have been far too occupied with something else. Someone else. Jack seems to hide in every crevice of your mind. His texts, his calls, the taste of his lips on yours. You don’t remember the last time you felt so wrapped up in another person, and now, it’s starting to affect your work.

The blank screen stares blankly at you, barely a few incoherent bullet points at the top of the document. When your inspiration dries up like this, it makes you feel like a fraud. 

You should be taking every free moment you have to get your plan sorted, to understand the trajectory of the final instalment to the trilogy. Instead, you’re clasping at straws and trying not to freak out when your phone chimes with a text. 

It’s almost seven and it’s not Jack, so the relief is instant that he isn’t cancelling at the last minute. 

Your moms contact lights up the screen. A simple two sentence text. 

Hope the date goes well! Told Tom you’re busy and to text me if Phoebe needs to go home ;) 

The innuendo of her text has a blush forming at the apples of your cheeks. She was like this at lunch, too. Suggestive smirks when you finally admitted you and Jack have been texting, a fat grin when you very quickly muttered out that he kissed you. 

Your dad, on the other hand… not so excited about the revelation. 

For the entire lunch, he had made his viewpoint clear. That he likes Jack, thinks he’s a nice and noble man. That he respects what he does and has done, but that his age is a factor that you need to consider. 

Your mom had scolded him for it, but you understood his reasoning. The insecurities he held himself for his age that he doesn’t verbalize outloud. All you could do was remind him of two simple things. You’re a big girl and it’s only a date. Not marriage. 

You shoot off a quick reply of: Stop winking at me, it’s weird (but thank you), and drop your phone to the marble counter with a thud at the same time your doorbell rings.

Forcing yourself to gulp down a breath, your hands involuntarily smooth your hips as you stand. Your mind is racing, heart pounding in your chest at the thought of Jack standing on the other side of the door. 

The reminder that you’ve texted and called and FaceTime’d more times than you can count over the past week does nothing to quell the nerves. Because seeing him in person is a lot different than through a screen.

When you open the door, your breath becomes lodged in your lungs and Jack drinks you in with an intensity you’ve never quite seen before.

His eyes linger on yours, fall down to your lips where they hover, before tracing the outline of your body. Cataloguing the brown halterneck top, the long frilly skirt, your bare feet and painted toenails. 

You do the same. Drink in the salt and pepper curls, the tick in the corner of his mouth, the white knitted shirt with the two top buttons undone. You catch sight of his silver chain as you go down, the dark wash jeans and boots tucked beneath. 

His hands, still ringless. One holds a bottle of white wine, the other holds a beautiful bouquet of summer blooms that oddly match the color pallet of your latest book. 

You tilt your head at him, purse your lips in a futile attempt to hide your smile. Jack doesn’t offer the same restrains and grins, catches his bottom lip between his teeth before it can spread too wide. 

“Wine and flowers, huh?” You tease in greeting. 

He glances down at them both before returning that molten gaze back to you. “The wine—and dinner—are to congratulate, the flowers are to apologize, again, for my radio silence.” 

You huff a laugh at that, open the door wider and step aside to allow him into your apartment. “I told you already, it’s fine.” 

Jack moves close, lets you close the door and when you turn, he’s almost chest to chest with you. Your breathing stutters at the unexpected proximity, but he grins down at you, the wine and flowers the only thing separating your bodies. 

“Not fine. Don’t argue with me on it.” His tone is light when he leans closer, words drifting into a sweet whisper. 

Jack dips his head lower, lets his lips brush against yours. Your eyes flutter closed, bracing yourself for the touch of his mouth meeting yours. But it doesn’t. Your breaths mingle until he moves, stubble tickling gentle at the corner of your lips until he kisses your cheek.

He doesn't pull away at first, like he’s considering giving in to temptation, but his self restraint is stronger than you’d like it to be. When he finally moves, it’s not far. Still remains close like he’s missed your presence more than he’s let on. 

“Pheebs at her dads?” he asks quietly, eyes still on you.

You’re a little mesmerized, nodding blankly. His words register, just barely. It feels like his eyes are sucking you into a warm abyss that you’ll never be able to claw your way out from. 

The idea doesn’t sound just metaphorical, either. 

You swallow around a dry throat. “Uh, yeah. Until she decides she wants to come home. But, my mom told him to call her.”

Jack hums, a small smile kissing the edges of his mouth. There’s a slight movement between you, the paper wrapping the flowers crinkly as he shakes them slightly. 

“Do you have a vase for these?” 

Your tongue wets your lips and you nod, guiding him into the kitchen and it’s completely innocent how your hips sway a little more than they usually would. 

Jack watches, of course. He’s only a man. But he’s gentlemanly enough to avert his gaze when you bend over to look inside a cabinet. Busies himself with gently tearing the paper around the bouquet. 

“I asked the florist to cut the stems, they’re good to just go in some water.” 

It almost makes you pause. 

The florist.

As in, he went inside a flower shop and asked for flowers. Not some cheap, premade bunch from a supermarket. You don’t think anyone but your parents has ever gotten you flowers from a florist. 

You fill the vase with water, thankful your back is to him to hide your grin, give yourself some time to get your stupid butterflies and ovulation under control.

When you turn back to him, Jack’s already approaching you, gently handling the delicate flora by the stems and he eases them into the narrow neck of the glass. Watches you admire them for a moment, bring them to your nose to smell the freshness of them.

The heat on your cheeks makes him nervous. Makes him feel young again. 

His wife was the last person he dated. Hasn’t cared about anyone enough to want to pursue something more than the odd one night stand. But you. You make his heart rate pick up just enough for him to notice a change, make his palms a little sweaty when he makes a joke in case you don’t laugh. 

But you’re grinning at the flowers like it’s the most precious gift you’ve ever received. And while it’s an incredibly beautiful sight, it’s also slightly painful. 

Are you not used to receiving flowers from guys you’re dating?

No, you’re not. No one's ever really cared enough to do the small things. 

“They’re beautiful, Jack. Thank you.” 

His smile is warm when you look at him a little sheepishly and Jack realizes that you’re just as nervous about this as he is. He knows he hasn’t dated since his wife, but he wonders if you’ve dated since Tom. If you've cared enough about anyone else since you lost your fiance. 

The answer is a resounding no. 

He doesn’t tell you that you’re the first woman he’s brought flowers for since his wife. Instead, he keeps the smile on his face and averts his gaze to the mess covering the kitchen island. His brows raise. Books everywhere, notepads and highlighters, a half empty glass of wine and a laptop screen with an almost blank document. 

Amusement shines in his eyes. “Hows it going?” 

A groan escapes you immediately and the nerves begin to dwindle. You reach for a glass, take the bottle from Jack’s hands mindlessly and pour him a drink as you sit on the stool. 

“It’s like I’m back in writing school and can’t think of a better word for ‘said’.” 

He chuckles at that, takes the glass and sits himself on the stool beside you. His eyes skim the laptop screen. 

Kade and mary

cheese

Lost keys??????? 

“You into grave diggers, baby?”

Someone has to put their finger in the dogs ass

“Necromancer? Aint that someone who fucks corpses?”

– “no thats a necrophiliac”

Dez rimjob scene (at circus)

Lubed up chorizo slap scene

Marys mom is a cougar

Asshole character UNNAMED with toms personality

Ground beef in the trifle

Strip club or orgie scene — undecided

Jack’s eyes blink profusely as he reads over the bullet point outline for your third book. It causes a tightness in his jeans at the thought of you imagining and writing some of these scenes. Reminded of the fact that you’ve told him about your very vivid imagination. 

“This how you outline all your books?” he asks with a rough voice.

It's then that your eyes widen with realisation at what he's read. You laugh nervously, scratching at the nape of your neck as you sit beside him. 

“It normally goes something like this. Not usually as brief, though. I’ve hit a bit of a block.” 

Jack hums, takes a sip of his wine before pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “Well, what if we order some food? See if a bit of energy gets that pretty head of yours conjuring something up, hm?” 

You don’t know how he does it—makes his flirting seem more playful than blatant. It’s enough to make your cheeks burn, to form a curl at your lips that you have no control over. So you nod, tell him what Chinese food you like and pretend to busy yourself looking at your paper notes while he raises the phone to his ear and smoothly lists off the order.

As excitable and nervous as you are, Jack’s presence is also strangely…comforting. He makes your home feel warmer, safer. His strong stance relaxing in your space, not taking it up.

For the forty minutes you’re waiting for dinner, you get through a bottle of wine between you. You try to ask Jack about work, which is something he’s very quick to brush off. 

“That hospital is the reason I haven’t seen you. Believe me when I tell you it's the last thing I want to talk about tonight. I want to hear about you, and Pheebs.” 

He makes your head spin, how open and genuine he is with the statement. You tell him all the mundane things you’ve gotten up to over the past week. And even though he already knows from the brief phone calls or facetime’s, Jack listens all the same. 

Intently, carefully. Like every word you speak is sacred. Like he genuinely cares. 

He laughs when you tell him some of the things Phoebe has said, his posture stiffens when you recall the two times Tom let her down in the past seven days, and he stares at you in pure wonder when you admit your book is already viral within the first 24 hours of release.

When the food comes, Jack pays in cash; gives you a look that suggests he’d be incredibly offended if you even offered to pay half, so you don’t. 

You’re both well on your way to tipsy when you get half way through the second bottle of wine, haphazardly shoving your notebooks to the side to make room for dinner. 

Your stools are closer together now, takeout boxes littering the kitchen island, your laptop screen still blinking an almost blank page. There are no first-date etiquettes as you both eat. Hunger and comfortability ruling over the nerves and self-conscious need to eat slowly and politely. 

Maybe it’s the wine that has you swiping soy sauce from the corner of Jack’s mouth. Maybe that’s what loosens his inhibitions enough to hand feed you a dumpling you admit you’ve never tried before.

And perhaps it’s the sheer familiarity in one another’s souls that has you snorting loudly into your glass of wine. That has Jack gripping onto the edge of the kitchen island to save him from falling backward off the stool. 

Your home is used to the sounds of laughter. It’s used to shrills and shrieks bouncing off the walls. But Jack's hearty chuckles don’t do that. His laughter curls into the crevices of the apartment. They don’t linger there, they make home. Seep into the wood and brick and metal until it’s wedged into the very foundations of the building. 

It takes you both an hour to finish your meals. Too caught up in laughter and side-tracked conversations that take your attention away from the task. It’s cold when you finish the last bite, and you push the container away in favor of your half-full glass instead. 

Jack mirrors your movement, shuffles his stool closer to yours. But instead of reaching for his beer, he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a pair of glasses instead. 

“Alright, got my readers. Let’s see what we’re working with.” 

Your lashes flutter at the endearing term he’s given them, at the way he gently opens the arm and hooks them over his ears. Your attraction to him grows tenfold at such a simple act, the smallest of adjustments. 

Yet you can’t help the ache that forms between your thighs, can’t stop your teeth from pinching your bottom lip. There’s something far too enticing about the black frames that sit on the slope of his nose. The stubbled jaw that clenches, the bob of his throat when he swallows.

And those fucking dangeous lips that twitch when he notices you staring. 

For hours, there’s a tightness to both of you as you struggle to write and Jack struggles to help. He was right about the food for energy but right now, Jack’s presence is nothing but a massive fucking hindarance to your writing abilities. 

Not your imagination, no. Your overactive mind is doing well with conjuring up explicit scenarios in your head of him fucking you raw and hungry with those fucking glasses on. Thoughts of your ankles resting on his broad shoulders, his beefy arms wrapping around your body, that short stubble burning your inner thighs. 

Jack can feel your eyes on the side of his face as he reads over the next page on the doc. He’s had years of training to observe from his peripheral and not lose focus on a task, and yet, he’s not really taking in a single word he’s reading. 

That is until he skims over a paragraph that does capture his attention. 

Kade’s breath is hot against Mary’s inner thigh, and despite the warmth, it awakens goosebumps across her flush skin. His hand reaches for her first, allows himself to touch her silkiness, to inch closer to her cunt. With his other hand, Kade brings the vibrator between her legs, teases the pulsing toy against her inner thigh—right where his touch started. 

Jack swallows thickly, hips shifting briefly in his seat on the stool. The movement breaks you from your little trance and your eyes flick quickly to the screen, realizing the passage he’s stumbled across. 

When your eyes flick back to Jack, he’s turning to you slowly with a playful squint, sinful mouth kicking up in a lopsided smirk.

The look does something carnal to you. You can’t tear your eyes away from his lips, can’t calm the hammering of your heart against your ribs. If you look away from his mouth for a moment, you’ll notice when his flicks down to yours. How they linger for far too long.

Your mouth parts just enough for your tongue to wet your bottom lip, and the movement is enough to make Jack give in. The small distance between you is closed when he takes his readers off with one hand and caresses your jaw with the other. 

Jack’s lips are on yours in an instant, soft and sweet and careful. So careful that he’s allowing you to lead the pace and tempo of it. 

You feel your body relax into the taste of him, your shoulders drooping as he swallows a sigh that slips from you. A small noise follows, one of need and contempt. Jack's hand reaches between your parted thighs, his fingers hooking beneath the seat of the stool. He pulls you toward him, the scrape of metal legs on hardwood echoing but you pay no attention. 

Your knees bump as you adjust them to fit between his widely parted thighs. Your hands find his face, sneaking to the back of his neck to snake your fingers through his curls. Jack kisses you harder, his tongue massaging at your bottom lip in a silent request for access. 

Something that you give him quickly, swirling your own against his. 

He tastes like wine, food and the promise of something you’re not allowing yourself to think too much into. Jack’s hands remain on your face, fingers hidden beneath your hair, palms cupping at your jaw. He lets out soft pants of breath, quiet moans that feed the slick that’s forming between your thighs. 

It’s intoxicating, how Jack kisses. Like every emotion he doesn’t verbalize is poured into it. His hands begin to roam in a respectfully needy way. One moves to tangle into your hair, the other slides down the warm skin of your neck, to the bare flesh on your back. 

His palm splays against the skin, tender in every aspect you can imagine. Neither of you come up for air, neither of you want to pull away. 

You’re shifting to the edge of your stool when Jack’s hands abandon their previous positions to land on your waist. The feverishness of his touch makes your head spin. Makes you slip from your stool so you’re standing between his parted thighs. Makes you tug at his curls as he tips his head up to meet your kiss. 

When you nibble on his lower lip, Jack loses his restraint. His hands slide back to your waist, down to your hips until they’re cupping the backs of your thighs, encouraging you to climb into his lap. You don’t know how he makes the movement so fluid, how you don’t tumble into him, how he doesn’t lose his balance. 

Your lips stay connected in a searing kiss throughout the movements, only breaking when Jack begins to migrate his lips to your jaw, licking and biting and kissing. Further down, until he’s at your neck and your hips are moving down on his crotch on their own accord. 

Your blood burns, so does his. And Jack has never felt so young and alive. So electric and feverish for another touch. 

Your head lulls back, eyes fluttering closed as your chest heaves with every breath. His salt and pepper stubble scratches deliciously at your skin. You can’t help but grind harder into him, the thought of that sensation further down almost enough to make your brain short circuit. 

You feel the wetness of his tongue as Jack licks a stripe up the column of your throat. One hand leaves your hips to rest on the back of your head, to tangle in your hair and angle your face back to his as his lips take yours with even more need and hunger. 

Your head is spinning. Your hips are erratic. If you don’t stop now, you won’t stop at all. 

“Jack.” Your voice is nothing more than a whimper into his mouth, but you don’t stop kissing him.

Jack hums, grunts, moans—it’s a noise you can’t place but one you can’t get enough of. You whimper his name again, breathless and shaky as you detach your mouth and rest your forehead against his.

He’s panting, eyes closed, jaw clenched. 

“I don’t—” you swallow in a heavy breath. “I don’t want to rush this.”

He nods, doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for more. Jack’s hands caress your jaw, his thumbs stroking calming patterns across your cheeks as he catches his breath, reins himself in. 

“I know.” His voice is guttural enough that you almost consider fucking off your previous statement. “I don’t want to rush this either.” 

For a few moments, you remain in the same position. Eyes closed and foreheads pressed. Jack's hands keep their hold on your face, his thumbs continuing their soothing ministries across your plump skin. 

He’s the one to pull away first. Moving his head back just enough so that when he opens his eyes, he can look at you. Big, heavy eyes. Swollen lips. Flushed skin. 

His jaw clenches at the sight, a heavy breath audible through his nose. But Jack looks no better. His curls are mussed from your fingers tangling into them, his lips are plumper and a slight smear of your lipgloss tints them pinker. 

And his eyes. It sends a shudder through you at the sight of them. Pupils almost blown, hooded and focused on yours. 

His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he’s moving closer again to brush his nose against yours. Your breath mingles, lips ghosting. It’s like he’s at war with himself. That if he rewards himself with even one more taste of you, he won’t be able to stop. 

“I should go.” It’s with pure agony that Jack utters the words. 

His voice is both rough and whiny. Like it’s the last thing he really wants to do. But you want to take it slow, so does he. You’re both well aware that if Jack stays for a moment longer, the night will end the way you want it to. Just not in the way either of you need it. 

Not like this. Not on the first date. Not with Phoebe in the picture. Not with his beloved wife’s memory to consider. 

You nod, clearing your throat as your forehead bumps against his. 

“Yeah, okay.” You’re breathless when you agree, voice slightly pained at the notion. But you both know it’s for the best. 

You half expect him to kiss you, at least once more. But he doesn’t. 

Jack pulls away to avert his gaze, silently helps you clean up the takeout boxes. You don’t tell him he doesn’t need to, don’t tell him you know he’s trying to prolong actually leaving. 

You bask in the final few moments together before walking him to the door. He hovers over the threshold, stopping short in the hall. Turns to you as you lean against the doorframe and it’s a mirror image of the night a week ago. At Phoebe's birthday. When he kissed you. Then went silent for three days. 

Jack seems to share the same sentiment on the memory because a breathless chuckle escapes him as he moves closer like he did before, as he presses his lips against yours slowly. Savoring the taste of you, the feel of your plump lips against his. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow?” 

You can’t help the sarcastic look on your face as he utters those same words. His grin morphs into something wider, eyes rolling at your silent tease. 

“I promise. No more radio silence after a kiss from me ever again.”

You hum with playfully squinted eyes. Jack mirrors your expression, leans in to kiss you again and you melt into him. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of it. Of him. 

“Okay. I believe you.” 

He hums against your lips at your words until he finally tears himself away from you. Jack licks across his bottom lip, tugs it between his teeth. The sight almost cripples you. 

“Get some sleep.” 

You nod once, fighting off your grin. “Goodnight, Jack.” 

His eyes soften, smirk dwindles into a soft, secret smile. Until he winks at you, leans in to steal yet another kiss that rips a laugh from your throat. 

When he pulls away again, Jack’s got a boyish beam across his face. “Night, gorgeous.” 

You’re left breathless once again as Jack retreats down the hall. You don’t watch him go, don’t trust that you won’t chase after him and drag him back into your apartment. So you close the door, back pressed against it as you squeeze your eyes shut in pure excitement, gnawing painfully on your bottom lip, but it’s no use hiding your grin. 

You carry the smile through your bedtime routine. You miss a few steps, too caught up in your head; replaying every word and kiss and look. Thirty minutes later, when you finally get into bed, your phone is still lighting up with notifications from fans.

And in between them, lies a message from Jack. 

You don’t mean for the somersaults in your stomach to start kicking. But you do mean to ignore every notification but his as you unlock your phone. 

Jack: Not sure on the dating etiquette these days when it comes to waiting to ask you to go out with me again… but are you free to get breakfast tomorrow morning?

You: miss me already dr. abbot?

Jack: Yes.

Jack: Breakfast tomorrow morning? My treat.

You: dinner was your treat, isn’t the next one meant to be my turn?

Jack: I don’t know what guys you’ve dated in the past. But, fuck no. 

Jack: I’m asking you out. I’m paying.

You: hmm

You: i’ll go to breakfast with you. on one condition

Jack: What’s your condition, sweetheart?

You: a pic of sally

Jack: [sent an attachment]

Your grin drops at the photo. A fucking selfie. Jack lays in bed, propped up against his pillow with a gray t-shirt clinging to his skin. Sally lays curled beside him, but she’s the least of your concern right now. 

You stare at his arms, the thick muscle and bulging veins as he angles the camera up above him. Crisp white sheets, his other arm curled around the cat with his hand buried into her fur. 

You swallow, let your eyes move along to the expanse of his throat and you find yourself regretting not kissing him there like he kissed you. Further up, his mouth quirked at the side in a smile, salt and pepper stubble somehow catching the light. 

But it’s when you look at his eyes that you forget how to breathe for a moment. He’s got his fucking readers on, his eyes squinting playfully at the camera through the lenses. Even through a fucking screen his stare is intense. Bores through to your soul and winds it around his fingers. 

You feel warmer when you take a moment to realize just how intimate the photo really is. How vulnerable and honest. 

Maybe that’s what makes you send a photo back. 

You: [sent an attachment]

Jack opens the message and freezes.

A photo. Of you. In your bed. 

You’re almost mirroring the one he sent you. But there’s no cat and you aren’t wearing any readers. 

No, you’re laying instead of sitting up. Your hair is an unruly mess across the pillows. Your eyes are tired but glistening with mirth. Your smile is crooked, almost shy, and your cheeks are flushed. Jack’s blood roars in his veins. 

He lets his eyes dip further down the photo. You’re also not wearing a gray t-shirt like him. 

Instead, you’re wearing something tight but flimsy. Spaghetti straps slipping off your pretty little shoulders. The swell of your breasts is far too prominent when you’re lying on your back, and Jack swallows thickly when he notices the pebbling of your nipples.

Jack: You are so beautiful. 

You ‘heart’ reacted to a message!

You: goodnight jack, see u in the morning <3

Jack: Goodnight, gorgeous x

He watches the little read receipt appear beneath his message, but no bubbles form at the bottom of the screen. Jack’s eyes flicker back to the photo, finding his thumb clicking on the screen to enlarge the sight of you. 

His checkered pyjama pants feel tight against his crotch. He’s not stupid. He feels the blood rush south, feels the discomfort and ache of a neglected erection. Jack sighs shakily, stares at his screen again. He should not be looking. It’s not what you sent him the fucking photo for. 

But despite how much he tries, he can’t tear his gaze away. Your soft skin, your supple breasts, your pouty lips. 

Sally moves from her position curled against him, blinks beady eyes in his direction before padding her way to the foot of the bed and jumping off to leave the room. 

Jack swallows, closes his eyes and practices those military breathing techniques for exactly thirty-four seconds before his eyes are peeling open again. 

A soft groan sounds at the back of his throat. It’s an inner battle with his mind. A fight of what he wants and that he shouldn’t. 

But he grows harder and more frustrated as the seconds pass and he doesn't have a hand around himself. His eyes squeeze shut, head tilts back against the headboard. Like a silent prayer, a beg for forgiveness. 

Then, he’s giving in. Reaching into his nightstand drawer for a bottle of lotion. Squeezes a pump into his hand, drops the phone on his stomach and reaches into the hem of his pyjama pants. 

Jack shifts on top of the mattress, lifts his hips to pull the pants down mid-thigh and releases himself with a sigh. One hand reaches for the phone, the other cupping the lotion. He brings his fingertips close to his wrist, skillfully warming the cream until his entire palm is covered with it. 

It’s hesitant when he wraps his fist around his cock, a whimper slipping from his lips as he stares at the photo of you on his screen. Your neck, your tits, your lips…

“Oh, fuck.” The whimper escapes him breathlessly.

One pump. Two. Twisting his wrist and tightening his grip. Jack’s chest is heaving with barely contained restraint, eyes locked on the pebbled nubs beneath your shirt.

He lets his mind wander as his pace quickens, lets him imagine himself in bed with you. How he would kiss and lick up your neck again, how your tongue would taste on his. 

How Jack wound tug your shirt down for your tits to spill out. How he’d wrap his lips around your nipples, bite them gently, suck them. 

“Fuck, baby. So good.” His voice is wrecked, nothing but a guttural whine as he moans. 

Jack thinks of how soft they’d be. How he’d knead your breasts in his palms, pinch your left nipple while he sucks on your right. Thinks about how your fingers would tug on his curls, how your hips would buck. 

A broken, desperate sound escapes him when he thinks about dipping his hand down your shorts. The slick he’d find, the heat. 

The thought of sinking two fingers deep into your pretty little cunt has Jack’s hips spluttering. His fist grows tighter, moves faster. His lungs are struggling to swallow down a real breath. 

And he’s coming, embarrassingly fast and needy. Hot white ribbons of arousal that spurt from him desperately, coating his hand. 

“Ah, fuck. Baby, oh fuck!” 

Jack’s head is thrown back against the headboard, lips parted and eyes squeezed shut as his release hits him like a freight train. 

Thoughts of burying his face between your thighs. The taste of you staining his tongue for days. 

And when he finally comes down from his high with a sticky hand and burning lungs, Jack can’t help but fucking laugh at himself. 

He’s so, so fucked. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

OKAY I ALMOST FORGOT TO POST LOL BUT HERE IT IS, i know jack's lil scene was brief but i promise i have so many smut plans to make up for it!!!! also i wanted the focus to be on the date rather than him jerking it off for 1k words LOL next chapter shit hits the fan and we get into some real juicy stuff HAHAHA

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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"Yes, but please don't say anything to the others yet." You close your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief at how those words just slipped from you.

Once you open your eyes, Dennis is looking at you like you've grown another head. "What is it?"

"I-I...come here." He drags you into one of the free rooms, shutting the door behind y'all.

"Dennis, what's wrong? You're kinda scaring me." He looks like he might puke as he stands in front of you.

"I really, really hate to be the one to tell you this..."

"Tell me what?" You ask, completely baffled. "Just spit it out."

"Abbot's married." You think you might have heard wrong for a second.

"Did you just say he's-he's married?" Your face goes white, joining the absolutely terrified expression on Dennis'.

"Yes. I've seen him wear a wedding band in the early days. He doesn't wear it now, but I just thought it was for safety reasons. Not-Not for shit like this."

You are shaking your head, hand in front of your mouth. You might actually get sick.

What the fuck is wrong with him? He's been taking you on the best fucking dates of your life. Being the most thoughtful and the kindest gentlemen. Whispering doting words in between stolen kisses. All while his wife waits for him at home?

You know the thing between you two hasn't been going on for too long, just barely a couple of weeks, but it makes you feel like such a fool.

Damn it, the man takes you out on 3 dates and you're already imagining your future with him. Meanwhile, he already has that whole future.

What the fuck.

There are tears streaming down your face when Dennis pulls you in and hugs you tightly.

"I'm sorry. "He says even if he didn't do anything wrong. His heart just aches for his close friend.

-

You get through the shift on autopilot. Everyone notices it because not an hour goes by that you don't get asked if you are okay.

No. You definitely aren't okay. You were supposed to go out on a date tonight, but instead you are going home to eat a tub of ice-cream to mourn a relationship that barely even started.

You pull your phone out as you head home. Jack is supposed to pick you up in an hour but yeah that's not happening.

'Don't bother coming here anymore. I already know the truth.'

It's all you text Jack before you block his ass. You don't have the strength to do anything more about it today. Cursing him out and then telling his wife the truth is a task for tomorrow. Today you are just going to cry.

Not even twenty minutes later, there's a knock on your door. You already know who it is and you don't bother opening up.

He's not crazy enough to shout or bang on your door again when it's so late. But he's crazy enough to call your friends.

Dennis's face shows up on your screen, and you pick up with a sniffle.

"Yeah?"

"Are you crying? Shit. Fuck. "Dennis sounds genuinely upset as he says that. "Fuck, y/n. It seems that I might have made a mistake."

"You didn't. I'm glad you told me."

"No, I mean-"

"Promise, Dennis, you didn't do anything wrong."

"No listen to me. Just open your door and let Jack explain, okay?" He says firmly before you can interrupt him again.

"He called you?"

"Yes. But I promise you. That everything will be okay after he explains, please just open your door before he comes bite my head off."

You shake your head, even more confused then before. But you trust Dennis. "Fine. I'll call you later."

You hang up and hastily wipe away your tears. You don't want to see Jack but the fact he'll get to see how much he hurt you brings a little satisfaction to you.

You slowly open the door and find a very much distraught Jack on the other side. You don't know how it's possible, but he looks even worse than you.

"Angel..." His attention immediately snaps to your face and he sees the dried tears there.

"I-...Please let me explain." Jack takes a hesitatant step closer to you. He doesn't want to make you uncomfortable or more upset.

"Okay. You have five minutes." You say quietly. You open your door wider, inviting him in, and he instantly steps inside.

You don't go far into your apartment because obviously, you don't think he'll have something to say to change your opinion about this. Even if Dennis's pleading is stuck at the back of your mind.

"I've been meaning to tell you." Jack starts, and you immediately roll your eyes, blinking away the stinging sensation.

"I know we only had a few dates, but I really like you, sweetheart and I know you already feel the heaviness of my life so I didn't want to add another burden just to scare you away."

"For once, I didn't want to scare somebody right away just because my life's fucked up, because I'm fucked up. But I guess I messed up, and I'm sorry, angel."

There are tears in his eyes, too. But it's his expression full of fear of losing you before he even really had you what makes you tear up even more.

Jack takes a shuddering breath before he speaks again. "Dennis was telling the truth. I used to wear a wedding band. I had a wife, we were together for a while until she passed away."

Jesus. You flinch so hard like somebody physically hit you. You didn't expect to hear those words from him and now you feel like the biggest idiot. He's been through all of that and you jumped the gun without a second thought.

You didn't even give him a chance to hear him out before jumping to the conclusion that he's an asshole. When in fact, he's never ever given you a reason to think anything bad about him.

"Jack..." you whisper sadly. "I'm so fucking sorry." And then your hands are around him, hugging him so tightly in hopes that he might understand that you didn't know and that you feel so bad about your reaction.

"I'm the one who's sorry, angel." He whispers against your neck where he's crouched down to hide his face to breath you in.

"She's been gone for five years now, and I thought I'd never find someone to share my life with again. Until I met you, sweetheart. I can see myself sharing my life with you, if you'll still have me." He says as he pulls away from you to gently wipe away the wetness on your cheeks. He can see himself being truly, madly in love with you as well, but he doesn't say that. Not yet.

"Of course, I'll have you." You murmur, aching to kiss his sad face away before having to talk more.

"Thank you." Jack says sincerely, relief flooding his body. His eyes dip towards your lips, too.

"And your life is not a burden. You deserve to be happy, I want to make you happy. I'm not going anywhere. We all have our demons to fight, and doing it with somebody makes it easier. " You state softly, raising on your tiptoes. Your lips hover inches from his.

"I'd love that so much, angel." Jack whispers wholeheartedly, before he finally connects his lips with yours. It's like the stone lifts off of your heart. Just a simple kiss from him making you feel better.

Jack sighs into the kiss, heaviness leaving his body in waves. He deepens the kiss just to have you close to him a little while longer. Plush, soft lips making all the worry dissappear.

When you finally pull apart, you catch your breath and then you say, "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions without even speaking to you."

"I understand, okay? You reacted accordingly, but for the future, let's just talk things out before we get angry at each other, please?"

You nod eagerly because if this relationship is going to work, you need to communicate properly.

"Yes, please." You reply as you unzip his jacket, and crouch down to untie his shoelaces.

"What are you doing?" Jack finally chuckles. "Undressing me already?"

You roll your eyes at him again, this time playfully. "Don't you want to stay? It was supposed to be our date night. We can have a movie marathon."

"Of course, I want to stay." Jack quickly pulls his jacket off and kicks his shoes off. He follows you towards your couch and says nothing about the ice-cream.

"Remind me, to scare Dennis the next time I see him." He states in all seriousness as he takes in the clearly break-up setting you have in the room.

You chuckle, pulling him after you onto the soft cushions. "He was just looking out for me."

"I know, angel." Jack's gaze softens because even if Dennis pissed him off, you were right. He is a great friend to you.

Jack settles next to you, hand immediately tugging you against him. "Okay, remind me to buy him his favourite coffee tomorrow then." Which only makes you chuckle more because only Jack will go from annoyed to sweet in a matter of seconds.

----------------------------------------------------

It’s the early morning, and for once, Jack isn’t coming from his night shift to immediately get himself shot with SWAT. You hear the front door close, then the soft thump of his shoes being placed in the cupboard. Only half asleep, you can picture his after-work routine: a full glass of water downed in one sip, a quick shower, and then a fresh pair of pajamas. Except for the change of clothes and the removal of his prosthetic, none of those things happen before he slips into bed. 

His hands are cold when they find your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You wait for the kiss on your cheek that he usually bestows upon you to greet you, but it never comes. 

“Hi,” you mumble, sleep sticking to your voice. 

He hums a half-answer, not a single word actually discernible. 

You’d blame it on a bad shift if the upcoming Friday wasn’t that date. 

Jack moves a little, and his hands wander up from your side to cross in front of your chest. It’s harder to breathe like this, but you missed him so much you won’t complain. 

Your nipples harden when his fingers brush over your breasts, and heat collects in your lower tummy, along with the slightest bit of discomfort. You would never say it out loud, but you’re terrified he’s imagining her right now. 

He palms you through your camisole, his cool hands gentle but demanding. 

It was one of the first things you noticed about him—how cold his hands always were. He had laughed when you told him and said he was a doctor, that that was just part of the job. And it stayed true to this day; whether he was holding your hand, passing you something, or burying his fingers deep inside you, his skin was always icy enough to make you shiver a little. 

You want to speak up, say something to him, ask him about his day, but the only thing that makes it out of your mouth is a soft moan when he cups your breast and kneads it. 

“Such a pretty sound, baby,” he whispers. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear, chasing goosebumps up and down your arms. His breath ghosts over your face, and your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open as Jack spins his webs of sweet comfort around you. 

He spends so much time working you open and pliant for him—tugging and twisting your nipples until you are writhing right in his arms, desperation turning you into a whining mess. Only then does he move his fingers lower. They drift between the valley of your breasts, then over your belly button, until he meets the edge of your panties. 

“Jack,” you gasp, his name more prayer than anything else. 

He shushes you sweetly, then slips underneath your waistband. You’re warm and wet and gooey, like honey on the stove. His fingers drag through your folds, collecting your arousal that already drenches your underwear. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, “So goddamn wet for me. Missed me that much, hm?”

He has no idea. How much you still miss him even now, while his pointer and middle finger circle your clit, the pressure just gentle enough to keep you eager.

“Jack—yeah, I-I did,” you manage to answer.

With his free hand, he finds your mouth. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip before he tugs it down a little. Your tongue darts out almost instinctively, and he uses that opportunity to press the pad of his finger against the wet muscle. When your lips close around his digit, he moans out loud. 

The pressure in your mouth almost makes you gag, but with his fingers teasing your entrance, all you can think about is how badly you want him. You keep letting your tongue swirl around his finger, sucking him deeper into the hollow of your throat, while his middle and ring finger slip inside of you. 

At first, the fullness is what you’ve been waiting for. Your warm walls stretch for him, accommodating the size of his digits that work their way in and out of you. But when he thrusts his fingers deeper into you, there’s a new coldness introduced, one you wish wouldn’t belong to him.  As he curls his fingers to meet your G-spot, you feel the hard metal of his wedding ring bite against your skin. It’s a sensation you’ve gotten used to, but today, it feels different—just another reminder that there was someone before you, someone Jack would give anything to have again. 

Your jaw grows slack with his thumb still inside your mouth, and part of you wants to tap out, but the heat at the base of your spine grows tighter. The knot unravels as his fingers piston in and out of you, and you cum on his hand with a muffled cry. 

Jack works you through your release until you are shaking from overstimulation and pushing his hands away. 

“That was a good one, huh?” he mutters, and pulls his respective hand from your mouth and cunt.  You are still catching your breath as you nod, tears that won’t spill collecting on your waterline. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

Jack hugs you from behind, wrapping his big arms around your middle. You stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for that inherent feeling of sadness to pass. 

“How was work?” you ask.

“Fine,” he answers, then presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Less busy than usual.”

He clears his throat and tightens his arms around you.  “I’m really tired,” he declares softly.

You swallow hard, the spit in your mouth bitter. 

“You should get some sleep then, my love,” you whisper, “I gotta get up soon anyway.”

--

You’ve learned to only ever cry in the shower when Jack gets like this. It wouldn’t be fair to him to unload your burdens and insecurities on him while he is grieving the life he could have lived. 

As the warm water cascades down your back, and the suds of soap collect at your feet, you let the tears flow until you no longer feel like you are going to choke on them.  The lump in the back of your throat doesn’t exactly go away, but it eases. You breathe a little better, and the tightness in your chest feels more like a memory than an active threat. 

Wrapped in a towel, you stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. You might look worse than him—dark circles under your eyes, your lips dry and flaky. You pull on the dead skin with your teeth until you bleed, then put on moisturizer and get dressed. 

Jack is asleep, or pretends to be, when you walk into the bedroom. His eyes are shut, his chest rises and falls softly. Your wet hair drips down the back of your neck and drenches your fresh blouse. 

For a moment, you watch your boyfriend. He always looks younger in his sleep, but it is so obvious that this time of the year is tough on him. It’s not that you expect him to just be okay; you’re not that selfish. You simply wish that he would talk to you instead of acting like things were fine. But then again, one might say you are doing the same thing. 

So you keep getting ready for the day and make yourself lunch while this large cloud of things left unsaid hangs over you. 

Work passes by in a blur and drags on simultaneously. It’s a little after 5 pm when you come home, and Jack is up by then. You put your shoes in the cupboard and walk into the kitchen. 

“Hi,” you greet him. 

Jack turns to face you, a tender smile on his lips. He crosses the room slowly, then kisses you briefly.

“Hey,” he answers when he pulls away.  He smells freshly showered, and the tips of his hair are still a little wet. 

As you lean against the counter, he fills up a glass of water and passes it to you. 

“Drink up,” he says. 

The gesture is sweet, but your skin crawls during the entire interaction. Everything feels so utterly performative and unreal that you almost wish he would leave for work early. The word ‘disassociation’ bounces around in your mind, just jumping out of reach every time you try to get a hold of it. 

When you look at Jack, his face doesn’t mirror yours at all. He seems unaware of your emotional turmoil, as if he doesn’t take issue with the situation at all. His face might as well be blank.

Every day, you miss his smug smile, his cheeky remarks, and the way he loves to tease you. All those habits die down every time the date gets closer, and then it takes a few days afterwards until he builds up the courage to slip back into that persona.

Sometimes, you feel like you are being gaslit. Like you’re imagining all these issues, because he just won’t say or show that there is something wrong. 

So you pour a little oil into the fire. 

“Any plans for the weekend?” you ask. “I saw that you’re not working.”

His work schedule hangs on the fridge, this weekend being the only one blank for the entire month.  You watch as Jack freezes in his step, just for a moment, before he fills his mug with tea. 

“Nope, not really,” he answers then. Lie.

“Yeah?” you go on, knowing that you’re treading the line, and leaning dangerously to one side. 

“Yes,” he says, a little sharper than before. His fingers tap against the counter once, twice, before he looks out the window.  “Actually,” he continues, “Maybe I’ll visit the garage with Robby. Check out some bikes with him.” Lie. 

“Oh,” you reply dumbly. 

You watch as the tension builds in his shoulders, and you think you might have him now, but when he turns to face you, Jack is smiling. 

“Yeah, don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t start riding, too,” he vows quietly.  He holds your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, then kisses you again. There is not an ounce of feeling to it. 

You smile weakly, and he accepts that. 

The hour between your arrival from work and his parting for his shift, you spend in shared discomfort. You start cooking dinner and pack some of it for his ‘break’ that he won’t get, while he hovers in the kitchen like he is scared to leave you alone for too long, but not willing to talk to you either. 

You’re incredibly thankful for the invention of music because you would have fled the house if Jack hadn’t turned on some jazzy playlist to cover the fact that neither one of you had anything to say to the other. 

The second the clock strikes half past six, you pass Jack a Tupperware with his food, then kiss him goodbye.  “Have a good shift,” you mumble when you pull away.  His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he answers, “Will try.”

The front door falls shut, and dinner tastes like ash. 

--

On Thursday morning, things come to a boil. 

Jack comes home from his shift, the look of death written all over his face. He barely even greets you before he walks straight to the bathroom and locks himself in there for thirty minutes.  You call in sick to work when you hear the water running but never catch him stepping into the bathtub.  Pure fear settles in your stomach, so you pace up and down in front of the bathroom. You know you should tell him you’re there for him and that he can talk to you, but you are too scared to spook him. Your nervous wandering turns into a slow trot before you slide down the bathroom door and sit there in silence. 

It’s almost 10 am when you dare to call out his name.  “Jack?”

You hear a gasp and a soft thump, then his voice follows. “Sweetheart? What- what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”

The thick wood of the door makes him sound muffled, but you don’t miss his tone. Jack usually compartmentalizes well, even after a terrible shift, but right now, he sounds like rock bottom is close, and he is holding a shovel. 

“I took the day off,” you reply. 

He stays quiet for a moment. You picture him in the room, sitting on the edge of the bathtub or leaning over the sink with horror etched into his face, memories he’ll never shake replaying in his mind. 

“Wish I had done that,” he murmurs then. The words are so quiet that you barely catch them, but you do. 

You chew on your lip, trying to think of something to say, anything that might soothe his aching soul, but you can’t come up with anything. So you try the next best thing.

“Can you let me in?”

Your choice of words almost makes you laugh—after all, that is all you’ve wanted for the last few days. 

The other side of the door stays quiet for a long while, and you almost give up hope. Until the lock clicks. You scramble to your feet just in time to meet Jack’s eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this. Faint tear tracks glisten on his cheeks, wiped away hastily until his skin had reddened.

“My love…,” you mumble, and he looks away instantly. 

“Just a bad shift,” he mutters, his eyes trained on the floor. 

You shake your head and take his hand.  “It’s not just that, is it?” 

You know the answer; you knew it before you even asked the question. Jack’s eyes find yours for a second, and your heart drops as you see his expression: there’s anger in his gaze. Just for a moment. Just a millisecond. It fades into sadness, the one you’d do anything to carry for him. But it was there long enough for you to see it. To read it. To file it away and have it gnawing at your already dwindling confidence until the end of your days. 

But now is not the time for your worries and hurt feelings. 

You pull yourself together and lead Jack out of the bathroom. After situating him on the bed, you bring him a fresh pair of sweatpants and a simple black shirt. You watch him change, watch how his skin is exposed and then covered again by cloth. The faint scars, from training and his time overseas, the ones you know by heart, are a little more noticeable today. 

“Let’s get you into bed,” you whisper to Jack as you push back the blanket. He follows your request on autopilot, slipping underneath the covers. Seeing the blank stare, you almost wish he’d go back to being angry at you. 

“Do you want to eat something, my love?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. 

“Can I keep you company?” you continue. 

You hold your breath as you wait for his answer, and he takes his time. The vacant look in his eyes threatens to trigger tears in your own. His lips part once, twice, before he turns his head and looks away.

“I’d like that,” he mutters then. 

His skin is cold beneath your fingers when you find your place next to him on the bed. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, feeling the sturdy beat below. 

You take a deep breath and try to think of the best thing to say. 

“I know tomorrow will be hard for you,” you begin.  Jack’s entire body tenses up, and his head whips to you, the first sign of life flashing across his face. 

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t talk about it.”

Your lips part, uncertainty making it impossible to think properly. His eyebrows draw together as you struggle for the right answer, and you can almost hear his thoughts. 

“Alright,” you whisper against your better judgment. “Just… just get some rest, honey.”

--

Friday morning, you wake up to an empty bed—not the way you’re used to. In the entirety of your relationship, you can practically count the days you woke up in Jack’s arms on both hands, but today, it’s a new loneliness that greets you as the sunlight filters in through the curtains. 

His side on the mattress isn’t even warm anymore, and you wonder just how much time he had even spent asleep. 

As you climb out of bed, you let your eyes drag through the room and find your favorite photo of all time. Your face is half hidden in it, mushed into Jack’s neck, your nose tickled by his slightly unkempt beard, but it is the happiest you’ve ever looked. You still remember the day as clear as if it had been yesterday. 

It had been taken on your six-month anniversary, just you, Jack, and a small boat he barely knew how to commandeer.  As the salty sea water had sprayed your face with its cold droplets, you grinned at Jack, all smiles and teeth and pure unfiltered happiness. 

He had wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “I love it when it’s just us.” With his chest pressed against your back, you had stared out onto the sea, his warm lips pressing against your cheek.  “Me, too,” you had mumbled fondly. 

Now, you wonder how much of that was still true today.  Back then, you had known that he was a widower but hadn’t known the date of his wife’s passing yet.  

You know it’s wrong to be so jealous of a dead woman—and Jack would probably hate you if you knew just how much you despised her on some days.  But as your fingers drift over the cold, empty space in bed next to you, you allow yourself to wallow in your melancholy a little longer. 

Selfishly, you think you wouldn’t want Jack to move on if you were to die. Of course, no part of you wished to see him sink into depression and utter loneliness as he’d mourn you, but your heart constricts at the idea of him finding love after your passing. You wonder if his wife had thought the same thing, or if she had been a much better person than you and hoped for his happiness—or if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind at all. 

The sound of the front door closing rips you out of your head. You run to the window overlooking your front yard just in time to catch Jack slamming his car door shut and driving off. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself. 

You think of the past years, of all the anniversaries of her death during which you watched from the sidelines, breath bated. 

On the first, you didn’t even know what was happening. Jack had hidden from you all day, keeping his head buried as he worked a double shift. When he came home, all 24 hours of her death day having already passed, he confessed to you what the date meant to him. 

A year later, you thought you were prepared—you were wrong. You bought flowers and made soup and lasagna, the most comforting food you could think of. When Jack came home that morning (—this time around, you had convinced him not to work all day—), he ate a spoonful before he excused himself and cried in the bathroom. His sobs still echo through your head every now and then when the darkest, deepest part of your insecurities comes to life. 

Eleven months after that, you made the biggest mistake to date. You tried to get Jack out of the city for that week. A booked hotel room, couple’s massages, and room service all went down the drain when you tried to surprise Jack with it. He hadn’t screamed at you—it might’ve hurt less if he had. Instead, he had only muttered that he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d want to do something like that on a day like this.

Which is why you didn’t come up with any plans this year. 

But not doing anything at all feels worse than giving yourself to him as an outlet for his pain. 

The day passes like chewing gum stretches. It expands and grows and keeps giving until you think it might snap, but it doesn’t. Solitude clings to you, burying itself in your bones—it practically settles in your lungs to the point where you’re not sure anymore whether you’re still breathing.

You wander around, fulfilling chores and taking care of things that need to be done, but you don’t remember any of it by the time the clock strikes seven pm. 

Jack isn’t home. 

You are. 

He is chasing a ghost you’ll never be able to replace. 

As you get into your car and drive, it’s an obvious guess where he is. 

--

Wind chases goosebumps down your spine when you open the squeaky gate. Its metal looks old, the rust on its surface rough against your palm. The lush greenery all around surprises you—it’s too early in the year for the shrubs to have that color, but you understand the intention. No one wants to grieve their loved ones in a field of grey. 

The graveyard looks well-kept, some of the graves more than others. Shame fills your chest as you catch yourself wondering how much money Jack might spend on the upkeep of his wife’s one per month.  It could be more than your rent, and she’d deserve every penny. 

He is easy to spot. The silver hairs stand out, illuminated by the gentle evening sun just beginning to settle in for the night. He stands awkwardly, most of his weight shifted onto his left leg, and you feel your heart clench. It’s obvious that he is in pain. You don’t know for sure whether he has been here all day, but you assume so as you walk up to him. 

The bouquet you’re holding trembles in your hands. You take a deep breath before you come to a stop just a few meters shy of him. You try to think of something to say, something clever or loving or maybe even funny. 

“Hi,” is all you can manage. 

Jack flinches—and you wish you hadn’t come. You almost wish he had never even met you. 

Seconds that feel like hours pass where neither one of you speaks or moves. One of the petals of the chrysanthemum in your bouquet falls to the ground. 

Jack’s mouth opens and closes twice, but not a single sound comes out. 

“I…”  You stand there in front of him, feeling like a little kid caught up past their bedtime.  “I hope it’s okay that I came,” you mumble then. 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at the flowers in your hands and clenches his jaw. 

“I’ll come home soon,” he murmurs. His voice is rough from disuse, thick with tears unshed, or maybe they have been shed already, and he has run out. 

Your heart sinks. 

“You don’t have to,” you reply. “You- you can stay here. I can stay here with you.”

“No.”  His answer is final. It’s not cold or disapproving, just desperate—but so are you. 

“Jack, please,” you beg. “Let me stay. Just… let me help you.”

He flinches as if you shot him. One hand raised uncomfortably, like he’s trying to keep you at bay, he stands there as still as a deer in headlights. You’re the car going ninety. 

“My love, please,” you repeat, taking a step towards him. “I… Just talk to me. Tell me- tell me how you feel, or about her—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Jesus Christ, do you really think—”  He stops himself and shakes his head.  Your worst fears unhinge their jaws as they get ready to feast on you.

“Do I really think what?” you prompt bitterly. “Do I really think that I… that I deserve to know her? That I’m the one who could maybe help you a bit through this grief? I don’t know, Jack, you obviously don’t.”

His mouth falls open. 

“What?” he croaks. 

You shrug helplessly.  “You don’t want me here,” you reply.

“No, I don’t,” he replies. “But not… not because I think you don’t deserve to know her, but because… because you don’t deserve this weight on your shoulders. My grief—my fucking… never-ending grief…”

As his words drizzle out into uncertainty, you’re left to stare at him. 

“I… I just don’t want you to see me like this and think… think that I…”  He shakes his head. 

“That you want her instead of me,” you finish for him. 

“That’s not the case,” he says sharply. 

“Isn’t it?” you counter. 

“No,” he hisses. “She’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do to bring her back. You’re here.”

“Yeah, but if you could—”

“But I can’t!”  His shoulders tremble as he fights to keep his voice down.  “She’ll never come back. Never.”

“But you’ll never stop loving her,” you whisper.

“How can I?” he snaps. “I… I vowed to love her until death do us part, and now—now she is dead, and we’re apart, but I’m still here. And I fell for you.”

He takes a deep breath. “Every day, I’m fucking terrified that I make you feel like… like you have to compete for my love with someone who is not here anymore, and obviously, I’ve fucking done that. And you look at me like… like I’m wounded. You treat me like I’m someone to take care of, so I behave like it.”

“But you don’t let me take care of you,” you reply. “You don’t let me in. You don’t let me help.”

“Because if I do, I’ll have to start talking about her to you. I’ll have to tell you how much I love her and that—I can’t fucking do that to you!” he answers.

“But I’m asking you to do that,” you spit out. “I’d rather hear how much love her than live with her fucking ghost looming over us unmentioned. Like that, I don’t even get to feel second best next to her.”

The world grows quiet at your admission. The wind that was blowing before dies down, much like your bravery. You want to take it back. You wish you could rewind time. 

“Fuck, Jack,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes are glassy as he looks at you. 

“You’re not second best,” he mutters. “You matter as deeply to me as she does. I just don’t know how to show you that.”

“Maybe start letting me in,” you whisper. “Treat me like I’m worth your time. Don’t lie to me about how terrible you feel. Help me help you.” You awkwardly shake the flowers in your hands.  “Let me be part of your grief.”

His eyes follow your hands, and he swallows hard. 

“Did you buy them for her?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” you mumble.  As you walk towards him, it feels like crossing a bridge into unknown territory. Maybe you’re overstepping. Maybe you’re being cruel. Maybe you should be more understanding. 

“They’re… I don’t know what kind of flowers she liked, or… if she liked them at all, but they’re chrysanthemums and Peruvian lilies,” you explain. 

“She would’ve liked them,” he answers quickly. “She liked all flowers.”

He reaches out but stops himself.  “Do you… do you want to…”  He motions to the grave and steps aside. Your path is clear. 

Her grave stone is made from smooth limestone, her name engraved in simple, strong letters.  Beloved wife.

You crouch down and lean the flowers against the stone, then stay there for a second. As you glance over your shoulder, you see Jack looking at you. At both of you. 

“I didn’t get her any,” he mumbles. 

You straighten up and return to his side. 

“Why not?” you ask. 

He stays quiet for a moment before he turns to look at you. “It felt disrespectful to you.”

For a second, it’s like he has stolen all the air from you. The pit in your stomach deepens. And then it eases. 

“Jack,” you whisper, “I don’t care if you get her a million flowers—I’ll deliver them here myself. I just want to know that you look at me and see me. Not her, or her… her successor.”

“I do,” he vows, “I do see you.”

in floriography (the language of flowers), chrysanthemums and peruvian lilies stand for honor, respect, and loyalty

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mutual masturbation with bf!abbot

—

He sits on the worn leather sofa in the fraternity common room, a lukewarm coffee in hand, watching a pair of freshmen argue over a video game. Last year, this room was a minefield of budget crises, noise complaints from the dean, and brotherhood disputes that required the diplomacy of a UN peacekeeper.

Now? His biggest administrative headache is convincing a nineteen-year-old sophomore that failing Intro to Macroeconomics will directly result in a ban on the upcoming Halloween celebrations.

It’s a glorious, low-stakes existence, and Jack intends to ride this wave of absolute mediocrity straight through to May.

His only other role in the frat this year is party-planning, and Jack has no problem dedicating time to that.

Tonight's festivities - their annual Hippies vs. Cowboys party. A legendary night that requires him to dust off his old presidential authority to keep the drinks flowing and spirits high.

Planning it is always an exercise in absurdity. Jack spends the week leading up to the party negotiating borders in the backyard, dividing the lawn into a "Saloon" and a "Commune." He has to veto the freshmen's increasingly dangerous ideas for a homemade mechanical bull, while simultaneously confiscating suspicious bundles of sage that the "hippies" want to burn inside a house with centuries-old wooden beams.

Everything is set up. Now, his only concern is trying to salvage the guestlist when Robby decides he’s not coming out of the blue.

"Come on, man, it’s Hippies and Cowboys," Jack argues, propping his phone against the mirror. "You can literally just wear some denim. I have an extra hat. It takes zero effort."

On the screen, Robby looks thoroughly exhausted, surrounded by thick textbooks and empty coffee cups. "I'm in med school, Jack. My brain is leaking out of my ears. You’ll understand next year."

As one of the only academically-inclined members of the team, he and Robby had become fast-friends in Jack’s first year, when Robby was a senior. Now an MS3, he’s been a life-saver when it comes to applying to med school.

"Which is exactly why you need to get drunk in a basement. Savour this before you’re pulling fourteen hour shifts every day.”

"I am not traveling all the way up from the medical campus just to watch a bunch of freshmen pass out on a mechanical bull," Robby groans, rubbing his temples. "The commute alone will kill me, and I start my Psych rotation at dawn. Go have a beer for me.”

“Loser,” Jack hollers.

“Whatever. Try not to torment the female population of Cornell tonight, and I’ll see you at the first game.”

*****

The bass from the speakers downstairs is already vibrating through the floorboards when the front door officially opens. Within an hour, the house is packed to capacity, a sweaty, high-energy blur of denim, suede, flower crowns, and flannel.

Jack takes his role as host seriously. He moves through the crowded living room with easy, senior-year confidence, high-fiving guys from the lacrosse team, directing people toward the kegs, and making sure the hired DJ actually keeps the crowd moving. He plays the part perfectly, laughing at jokes, keeping the peace, and flirting where necessary.

He may also be looking for someone to hook up with.

He argues that it’s only natural. First week of the semester, you’ve got to start how you intend to go on. And Jack intends to have fun. Unattached, zero strings fun.

When Chloe walks in, it feels a little like a sign.

A Communications major, they’ve been hooking up on-and-off since sophomore year. She catches his eye, gives him a slow, familiar smile, and begins to make her way through the crowds.

Normally, Jack would meet her halfway. Tonight, though, he just isn't feeling it.

The thought of going through the usual routine - the standard small talk, the familiar rhythm - suddenly feels entirely unappealing. He gives her a friendly, casual wave instead of a come-hither look, deliberately stepping into a conversation with a group of hockey freshmen to break her line of sight. He needs something different tonight. He just doesn't know what it is yet.

He’s lamenting his lack of options, when one literally falls into his lap. There’s a slight commotion that he’s not paying attention to, before you’re pushed, stumbling slightly before hitting the side of his legs and losing your balance entirely.

If Jack is expecting some kind of slowing of time, prolonged eye contact and shy smiles, he doesn’t get any of it. Instead, you toss him a brief apology, before you’re back on your feet to yell at the guy who pushed you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Normally, Jack makes it a rule to not get involved with fraternity drama. One of the more sober brothers can deal with it. But something about you has him getting to his feet, arms crossed as he situates himself between you and your assailant. He glances at the guy, vaguely recognises him as someone who’s caused trouble before.

Doesn’t tend to understand the word no.

“Is there a problem here?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested, and he fucking shoved me!”

That’s all Jack needs to hear. For all the issues that Sigma Chi may have, they certainly don’t allow creeps on their premises. All it takes is one rumour of the frat not shutting it down properly, and they can kiss their squeaky-clean reputation goodbye. “Right, you’re done,” He starts, a hand on the guy’s chest as he waves for security by the front door.

“What?” When the guy speaks, his voice is slurred, his cheeks flushed. He’s totally wasted, to the point where it’s a miracle he’s even standing upright. “S-She came on t’me.”

“I’m positive that’s not true,” Jack replies, taking one look at him. Unkempt hair, noticeable body odour, and a shitty attitude. You could definitely do better. “What’s your name?”

“Why d’ya w-want t’know?”

“We’re offering you an award,” Jack replies dryly. “Because I’m banning you from the house, dumbass.”

The guy goes to reply, tries to make a half-hearted swing at Jack, when security take an arm each, and begin to haul him out backwards.

“Check his ID, and give me his name at the end of the night!” Jack calls after him, before turning his attention back to you.

You don’t look scared, or distressed, or even annoyed. Instead, you look almost amused by the entire situation.

“Jack,” He offers you his hand, and you tell him your own name. He tries it out, likes the way it sounds on his tongue. “You want a drink?”

You’re nodding, and he’s leading you through to the kitchen to grab a beer. Your nose scrunches a little as you take it. “What - you don’t like beer?”

Which is how, for the first time in his college career, Jack finds himself mixing up a margarita in the middle of a frat party. You’d insisted you’d be fine with some vodka and coke, but he finds himself wanting to impress you.

“So… was your inspiration Manson-Family-Chic?” He asks, raising an eyebrow while you snort, into your cup. He doesn’t know why he’s ragging on you, given you’re one of the only people here who looks like they could’ve fallen out of the sixties. The neckline of your dress is high, leaving everything to the imagination, but the hem falls high on your thighs, to the point where one wrong move would have everything on display.

Most other guests took the hippie theme to mean lingerie with some over-sized glasses and a peace-sign necklace.

He likes that you took it seriously.

The way he checks you out is far from subtle, hazel eyes trailing down your form, all the way down to your white go-go boots.

“Do you know what the Manson Family were wearing on a day-to-day basis? Because it certainly wasn’t vintage Biba.”

Somebody bumps into you from behind, and Jack takes the opportunity to hook an arm around your waist and pull you into him for the second time that night. Now chest-to-chest, you’re looking up at him through darkly-lined eyes, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

“Does the white knight thing normally work for you?”

He lets out a laugh, low and genuine. “It’s never hurt.”

Over the next few minutes, Jack learns more about you than he knows about some of his own teammates. You’re on the pre-law track, but because you were such an ‘annoying overachiever’ in high school, your plan is to chill for the rest of college. You also play bass and sing back-up in a band, but were supremely embarrassed by any kind of suggestion that you might sing for him sometime.

“So… you’re what - some kind of rockstar?” He asks, obviously out to charm, and you snort.

“Definitely not as sexy as that. Bassists don’t normally get that much love.”

“I don’t know, sounds pretty sexy to me,” His head is dipped, his nose almost touching yours. “Hot girl, guitar… pretty sure I had wet dreams exactly like that in high school.”

You laugh before you can help it, the sound getting swallowed by the music and the noise of the party around you.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Too much?”

You glance up at him, trying to decide your answer, when the music shifts, and the opening chords of Layla waft through the frat house. He watches your face visibly light up, and bites back a smile.

“Clapton fan?” he asks.

“Let me guess - you’re in charge of the music tonight.”

“Unfortunately, the rest of the team think that the nineties counts as retro. Do you dance?”

“You asking?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You any good?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Perfect.”

Before he can react, you grab his wrist and tug him toward the centre of the room.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He uses your grip on his wrist to pull you flush against him, completely eliminating the space between you. His large, calloused palm settles firmly against the small of your back, guiding you into a breathless rhythm.

You look up, completely caught in his orbit as he spins you out and pulls you right back against his chest. At this distance, the rest of the frat house completely blurs out. Jack dips his head, lips brushing your neck in the briefest kiss.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.

The lyrics echo in his head, and for the first time in his life, they don't feel like hyperbole. If Clapton hadn't written it fifty years ago, Jack is pretty sure someone would have to write it about you tonight.

Begging darling please, Layla

He catches Chloe’s eye as his hands drop to your waist, and he immediately glances away.

They're not dating. They have zero obligations to one another.

So why does she look so pissed?

Darling, won't you ease my worried mind?

The guitar solo is screaming through the speakers, matching the frantic, heavy rhythm in Jack's chest. He looks down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, and realises he is completely text-book losing his mind. A freshman bumps hard into his shoulder, but he barely registers it. He is entirely done with this crowded room, done sharing the way you move and the sweet smell of your perfume with a hundred drunk strangers.

Pulling you into him, he lowers his head until his lips brush the warm skin just below your ear. “Come upstairs with me,” he murmurs, his voice tight with an impatience he doesn't even bother trying to hide.

He doesn't offer a lame excuse. He just pulls back to look down at you, waiting.

Instead of answering, you slide your hand up his neck, tilt your chin, and press your lips directly to his.

Jack lets out a quiet, defeated breath against you, his hands instantly sliding up your back to anchor you against him. The kiss is intoxicating, tasting like the drink on your breath and the heat of the room, completely shattering his usual composure.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathing a little harder, you finally slide your hand down into his open palm and squeeze it gently. “Lead the way, hockey boy.”

*****

You catch the back of his neck and pull him into you, allowing him to walk you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed.

Jack's been known to rip some clothing in his time, but he takes surprising care with your dress. As soon as it’s draped over the back of his chair, the rest of your clothes go in a frenzied rush. The dancing was the foreplay, and neither of you can stand a single second more of not being as close as possible.

There's a layer of sweat covering Jack's skin, glittering under the light from the lamp on his bedside, and you allow yourself a second to admire his abs.

He catches you looking, and a familiar, cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He follows you down onto the mattress, his weight a warm, welcome pressure that drives every remaining thought of the noisy fraternity house right out of your head. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair while his mouth finds yours again.

“You up for this?” He breathes, and you find yourself oddly charmed. He checked on you twice on the way up here - and while, sure, it’s the bare minimum, it’s not something you’re hugely used to.

“I wouldn’t have let you bring me up here if I wasn’t,” You mumble back, between kisses, anticipation in your chest tripling as he reaches for a condom.

You're not usually one to be bossed around, but there's something intoxicating about the way Jack manhandles you. A few small giggles escape as he flips you onto your front, pulling your ass back to meet his hips.

“Something funny?”

“I guess that depends on your performance.”

“You’re a tough critic. Noted.”

With that, he’s sinking in, and your fingers grip helplessly at his sheets as you try and ground yourself. “Shit.”

You’d rather die than tell him, but he’s big. Thicker and longer than your ex.

“Doing okay down there?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and realise he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Just fine.”

He starts to move, movements slow at first as his hands settle at your hips, gripping tightly. The stretch soon gives way to pleasure, and you’re more than a little embarrassed when you whimper.

You don’t whimper.

Not at all.

Except tonight, it seems.

Must be the alcohol.

“J-Jack, oh my god-”

An arm loops around your front, pulling you upwards until your back is pressed to his chest. With it, the angle changes, and you can feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Good girl,” is groaned right into your ear, and you think you might be seeing stars.

Maybe hockey players do know what they're doing.

You're suddenly very glad for the blaring music downstairs drowning out the sound of skin slapping, and the way Jack is moaning behind you. If you weren't close before, his hand dropping between your legs to circle at your clit throws you over the edge.

You tilt your head upwards, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss as he works you through the orgasm.

Normally, this would be it. A brief kiss pressed to your shoulder, before your ex curled up in bed and left you hanging.

Jack, however, appears to have exactly the stamina you'd expect from a varsity jock, and you’re on your back before you can even orient yourself. His face is buried in the crook of your neck as his thrusts resume.

Nails digging in to the meat of his back, your mind is totally cleared of anything that isn’t Jack’s name. You don’t even know his surname.

You wouldn't have pegged him for an eye contact guy, but as his movements become more erratic, he’s pulling back to hold your jaw, keeping your gaze fixed on him.

“F-Fuck, I think I’m gonna-” With a final groan, he climaxes, dropping his head to rest against yours while his hips start to slow. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” You breathe. “Holy shit.”

“You okay?”

You nod quickly, lip between your teeth. The last thing you want to do is give him an even bigger head than he already has, but it slips out before you can stop it. “I’ve never cum that quickly before.”

“What can I say? I’m a pro,” He replies, a lazy grin on his face as he presses one last kiss to your temple before he pulls out, and gets to his feet to reach for the trash can.

Condom discarded, he pads back over to the bed, his shoulders so broad that he takes up half the space.

“Are you one of those guys that can't have girls stay over?” You ask, chest still heaving a little as you try and regain your senses.

“M'not gonna kick you out at-” He checks his phone. “3am. What kind of a monster do you think I am?”

“Well, you are on the hockey team,” You start, trailing off in a fit of giggles when Jack digs his fingers into your side, tickling mercilessly. “Hey!”

“I've got practice in the morning, though. So I'll be out at like six.”

You understand what he's getting at. Jack is not in the relationship business.

You don't have a problem with that. You wanted some variety in your life, and you got it. “S'okay. It was good sex. No point in trying to make it something it isn't.”

“You're my kind of girl, princess. You ever thought about coming to the hockey games?”

You snort, shooting him a glance. “Are you trying to recruit me to the Puck Bunny leagues? Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one, thanks.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack groans, throwing a heavy arm over his eyes, though a smug little smirk still tugs at his lips. “It’s peak entertainment.”

“And you’ll have CTE by the time you’re twenty-five.”

“Technically, I’m more likely to lose teeth. If we’re talking statistics.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Gross.”

“Besides,” He continues. “This is my last year playing. I’m going to med school next year.”

“Really?” You gape, turning onto your side to get a better look at him. He’d told you earlier he was a biology major, but you hadn’t given it much thought. You’d figured he was probably just trying to avoid as many essays as possible.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” He grumbles.

“I’m just keeping your feet on the ground, hockey boy. Someone’s gotta do it. Good for you, though - I thought hockey players lost all their braincells from the fights.”

“Going to sleep now,” Jack singsongs, shoving lightly at your shoulder, and you laugh again.

You slide down into the mattress, turning your back to him and pulling the blanket tight around your shoulders. You expect him to stay on his side, but after a minute, the mattress shifts. Jack moves closer, his chest pressing against your back, his large frame bracketing yours to block out the chill of the room. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. His arm slides carefully around your waist, holding you still, and despite the biting comments, you let yourself sink backward into his warmth as you both drift off.

You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.

Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.

You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.

Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.  

You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.

The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.

Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."

Jack lowered himself into the sofa beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.

"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"

"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."

"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.

"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.

"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.  

"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.

You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.

You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:

"I booked us that exclusive Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."

"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.

"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."

His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.

You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"

He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the sofa beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."

Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.

The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.

Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.

And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.

What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.

He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.

Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.

He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.

His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.

"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.

You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.

"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.

He deserved that.

"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.

"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.

"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."

Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at a massive institution managing over $7 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.

"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."

He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.

"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."

Jack paused. "Who?”

You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."

The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.

You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.

A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.

"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.

"A mojito, please."

"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the palms. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.

"Grazie," you said.

The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.

You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.

After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.

You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.

"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.

"You’re not from around here, are you?"

"Nope."

"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."

"Lucky them," you muttered.

"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.

"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.

He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."

"I guess."

"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."

"I’m not interested."

"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.

"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.

"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."

"Good thing I’m not yours, then."

He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.

A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.

"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"

Jack stood shirtless in swim trunks, a t-shirt twisted between his hands, the afternoon light catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.

The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his prosthetic caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.

"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"

"Look, I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued. 

"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."

The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."

You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.

Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.

"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.

"Yeah. I am."

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."

"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."

You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.

After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."

You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."

"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."

"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."

"You say that now—"

"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.

"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."

His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.

"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."

"Really?" you asked meekly.

Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

"4 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy.

Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).

"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.

"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."

You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.

"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."

"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.

"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.

You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.

A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.

"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"

A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.

"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."

You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."

"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.

His logic was a seductive trap.

"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.

He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered, his voice a low, tender rumble. "Let me take care of you now."

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.

Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.

"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.

"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. "You’re doing so good for me."

You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.

"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."

As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his fingers moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.

Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.

"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”

His movements became more deliberate, his fingers curling slightly, searching. When he found that sweet spot inside you, your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.

"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.

"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed another soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"

He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.

A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with a filthy, knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."

He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you gasp. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a relentless counterpoint on your clit.

"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."

The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.

"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.

He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.

"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers curled, pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come again, just from my tongue."

"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.

"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."

He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you with a deep, steady rhythm that hit that perfect, devastating spot every single time.

"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"

The command in his voice, the filthy, vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.

He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.

You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.

"You did so good for me."

He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.

"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."

He turned around, and you draped limply over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.

Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger.  You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.

He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.

"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.

"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."

Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.

"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.

Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.

Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.

"I love you," you murmured.

"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.

You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.

You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.

"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.

"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"

"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."

"Tempting.” His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last, playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."

You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging briefly to his torso.

"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.

"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?

He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.

"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."

You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.

"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.

"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said, her accent a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.

He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"

"Yes," you giggled.

She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.

"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."

He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.

"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.

You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.

"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."

"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.

"Thank you," you said.

As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.

Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.

Robby: She’s so out of your league.  

Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.

Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.

Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.

Jack: I’m nervous as hell.

Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.

Robby then sent another quick message.

Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.

Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.

When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.

The doors to the ER slid open once again, but this time you wished you could've stayed home.

You'd barely slept. Four hours at most, and ever since you woke up, you hadn't been able to think about anything except the mistake you made with your attending. You wondered if he'd slept well, probably he was sitting at home right now drinking coffee like nothing happened.

And here you were.

Technically your shift didn't start for another two hours, but the anxiety had dragged you back into the pitt anyway, which was funny because ten minutes ago you were seriously considering giving up and starting a new life somewhere in Alaska.

Your stomach twisted again just thinking about having to see him today.

Everything seemed calmer than usual, which honestly felt suspicious. You didn't even want to think too hard about it before you jinxed it. At this point you were convinced you personally carried bad luck around with you.

You nervously adjusted the sleeves of your oversized pink hoodie while scanning the station looking for the girls, and Whitaker.

It wasn't difficult to find Trinity. She was sitting beside Whitaker, aggressively stabbing at the computer keyboard before dramatically letting her head fall onto it. She quickly lifted her head again when Dennis touched her shoulder and pointed toward you with his head.

The second she saw you, her eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

"Why are you here?"

Not even a hello.

"What room is free?" You asked immediately.

"Okay… not even a coffee first?" Whitaker joked.

"This is serious."

Something in your expression must've looked genuinely unstable because Whitaker's smile disappeared almost instantly.

Both of them stood up immediately and started walking through the hallway looking for an empty room. Luckily you nearly ran straight into Victoria on the way there. She gave you a confused look but smiled anyway, though the second she noticed Trinity and Whitaker walking in front of you like bodyguards, she silently followed behind.

The moment they found an empty trauma room, they closed the door behind you. The silence didn't last long, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat while trying to figure out how to even begin explaining what happened.

"Are you dating Abbot?" Whitaker asked slowly, crossing his arms.