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Inch one was just pressure. His hands stroked your hair out of your face, stubble rough against your ear as he whispered "You gonna be a good girl for me? You gonna take all my cock in this pretty pussy?"

What a tease inch two was. He held his postition there for a beat while he kissed your lips and then rocked his cock back out. Then back in. His girth alone was a lot but you had six more inches to take.

Inch three started to feel good, his sheer size stretching at your sensitive walls. Instinctively you clenched and Jack felt it. "Fuck, so tight. Keep them legs wide for me baby." He grunted as his hand came down to the inside of your thigh, softly keeping them apart.

Oh but inch four had you gasping. Only half way and you moaned into his ear, praising him. "Oh so good Jack-fuck."

Tingles in your lower tummy is what inch five gave you as he slowly dragged his cock through your folds. That familiar build up starting right at the pitt of your stomach, your pussy pulsing for more.

"Jack!" Inch six had your toes curling, your lungs gulping the air that you both shared.

Inch seven and you were biting into his neck, his weathered skin salty but still soft on your tongue. Gifting him your hums of pleasure, you sucked a generous love mark in your place.

And finally - inch eight. You were seeing stars, your pulse vibrating through your body as you opened your eyes again. Your fingers fisted at the back of his head tugging at his curls, your body relaxing into him.

And Willa stops for a second and rethinks the last thirty minutes. “You’re telling me I could get more?” 

“Yeah, if you want. Do you want a coffee too?”

And Jack really wants Willa to like him so maybe he’s going against your orders by letting her get a caffeinated drink well after twelve. 

Willa picks out like three more books all in the young adult or murder mystery section. And sometimes Jack will pick one up and be like “you seem like you would like this one.”

“Ah, no. I read that and gave it away to a friend. It was too futuristic.” 

And Jack nods and put the book back, mentally making a list of things she doesn’t like and adding ‘futuristic’ into that list. 

At one point it becomes a small problem. You told Jack one day that your ex-husband Dante called, he was upset that Willa wouldn’t let him buy any books or her anymore. And when inquiring why it’s because Willa didn’t want that much money spent on her. Not when she had an unlimited supply at home given to her by Jack, the same Jack that said money wasn’t an issue and always supported such a hobby. 

And Jack doesn’t ask questions when checking out. But he will glance at the back of it, if it seems cool enough Jack I’ll ask further. 

“What’s ‘the song of Achilles’ about?”

“It’s sort of a retelling.” 

So Jack nods and when he sees it out on the open on the coffee table one day he takes a brief glance. Jack read all the classics in high school; did he understand them? No. 

But he nods along to the story line, and wouldn’t you know it by the time he’s done with the whole book it’s already time for Jack to clock in on his night shift. 

After work he comes home, dawns a kiss to your forehead and walks into Willa’s room. He’s been waiting the whole night to talk to her about the book.  

“The song of Achilles book… did you like it?” 

“Yeah….” 

“What was your favorite part?”

And Willa stops to think for a moment, blinking as if all the memories come rushing back. 

“When Achilles dragged hectors body about camp.” 

“My girl.” 

And they sit and talk and giggle together. Jack just slightly sleep deprived and Willa going to be late for school. At one point you realize that Willa hasn’t walked out the door yet, and Jack hasn’t invited you to cuddle after his shower. 

So you wander into where the talking is, faintly as you open the creaky door you can hear them talking about the next fantasy book they’re gonna read. 

When the door opens all the way, both pairs of eyes land on you and their talking goes quiet. Like you’re interrupting a party. 

“My bad.” You excuse yourself, only slightly offended. “I just thought you’d like to know it’s already 8:30.” 

“Shhhhh…shoot.” 

Willa resists a curse and jumps up from the bed, grabbing at her backpack and sliding past you and outside. 

You give Jack a look. 

“What?” 

“Don’t what me. You’re stealing my daughter.” 

Jack scoffs, he can’t resist the smile if he tried. “It’s not my fault we have things in common.” 

You shake your head, crossing your arms as Jack gets up to meet you halfway. Hands finding home on your hips and rubbing softly. 

“Want me to by you books too?” 

You think about it, hand scratching the short graying hair at his nape. 

“No, just keep doing what you’re doing solider.”  N’jack loves it when you call him solider. He kisses your lips because the bubbly urge inside him is too much to resist.

But in the middle of your R4 he suddenly broke things off with you. No explanation, no big speech about how it’s not you it’s him. Just a simple ‘we can’t do this anymore, I’m sorry’ text. You did your best to brush it off and act as if he didn’t break your heart. You had to, it was supposed to be no strings attached.

Unfortunately those strings had a tight grip around your heart, and even if you didn’t want to admit it they still do. So when the familiar scent of his faded cologne came across your senses and the familiar warmth of his hand rested at your lower back you didn’t fight much against his guidance.

With half lidded eyes you mumbled a sentence that sounded almost like you were trying to say ‘what the fuck’. But it was as if your tongue was lead, slurring together each vowel and consonant. But the moment Jack ended up manhandled you into an on call room bed your mind began waking.

“Dr.Abbot what do you think you’re doing?” Your elbows bent against the soft blankets propping up your upper body.

“Don’t pull that bullshit with me kid” his graveled scoff rang out, “we’re alone so it’s Jack, and don’t act like you aren’t fighting your every nerve to stay awake”

“Well not anymore seeing as I’m not tired, Abbot”

“The fuck do you mean not tired you’re wobbling all over the damn place and basically taking a nap with each goddamn blink!” He crossed his arms and swayed closer to where you lay.

His wide stance and concerned gaze pulled a long sigh from you before flopping back on the bed. Eyes tearing up just slightly.

“Look even if I wanted to sleep I can’t get more than two hours at a time” you squeezed your eyes closed as the stinging sensation built behind your lids, “I’ve tried everything to help me sleep but nothing is working”

“Since when have you had problems sleeping?” Jack furrowed his brows trying to remember the last time you had such an issue, “usually I had problems keeping you awake or waking you up”

His casual mentioning of your previous relationship had your mood souring quickly. You could stand being on the same floor as him and even in the same room. But the obliviousness and ignorance he must’ve held to just bring it up as it was nothing had you angrier than you or he expected.

“Right well you don’t know me anymore Dr.Abbot, and you lost the privilege to my personal life outside of these walls months ago,” the speed at which you stood up was incredible considering how tired you were, “I’m no longer interested in whatever little hero fantasy dreamland you thought was going to play out here”

Your words had him flinching back as they hit him square in the chest. When he broke it off with you it was because he had realized that the ache in his chest everytime he saw you was too real. The care he felt for you became too real. And he knew that a man of his age and history would only bring a young woman like you with a bright future down with him. He didn’t however, account for your own feelings.

“Hey, hey I’m sorry okay” he gently grasped your arm and raised his other in the air as a small surrender, “I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay”

His insistence to play the good guy was simultaneously melting your heart all over again, and pissing you off more. And because all you know is to take control and hurt someone before hurting you, you meant for your next words to hurt.

“Well Jack we can’t do this anymore” you mirrored his last text to you, “except I’m not sorry, in fact I’m glad you cut it off before I realized how much you just weren’t worth the effort”

Now those words would’ve absolutely broken him, if it weren’t for the accumulation of tears and the crack in your voice that told him you didn’t truly mean them. But it did tell him just how much he hurt you, and that made it worse than if you had actually meant what you said.

So with more determination than before he grabbed your shoulders, spun you around and pulled you into his chest. Wrapping an arm around your mid back to keep you in place and another above your shoulders so he could hold your head.

“Get off of me!” You fought the urge to relax and let go, refusing to just give in, “Jack I-please-I can’t!”

“Hey enough okay I’m sorry, I’m so sorry baby” he tightened his hold as your fists hit his chest, “I was selfish okay and I’m so sorry, but please let me help you and we can talk about all this later”

“I don’t want your help”

The softer tone of your voice made it very hard for you to seem angry still. As well as the way you were leaning into his chest and gripping his shirt.

“Even if you don’t want to, will you at least let me try?”

His hands moved up and down your back before they both traveled to the sides of your face. One on each side as he tilted your head away from his shirt. Jack leaned his forehead down to touch yours, noses brushing against each other. Your eyes instinctively closed at the contact, lips seeking his. Touching only for a moment before he spoke softly.

“Such a little brat like always,” his lips kissed your nose, “need to hear you say yes, okay?”

You nod, unable to form the words. Just desperately seeking his touch, his taste, him. Truly you should be ashamed how quickly you have in. But in all honestly you missed his warmth and the safety he gave you.

“C’mon baby, one little word. And then I’ll take care of you just like you need” Jacks lips brushed yours with each syllable, the taste of mint gum wafted across your mouth.

“Y-yes”

With a slight tilt of your head by his hands, his lips finally sought yours out. A small smirk forming on his as you let out a breathy moan, you had missed this. You had missed him.

He led you back to the bed, where you sat down instinctively when the back of your knees felt the mattress. His lips trailed across your face and down the column of your neck, taking the time to suck a harsh mark or two just above your scrub collar. His fingers playing with the hem of your top before he slipped it off. Your bra following closely after.

“God how I want to take my time with you after so long, but we don’t have much time baby” he laid your upper body down before slipping of your bottoms. “Next time I’ll make sure you know just how much I love you”

While your mind was warped and filled with pleasure and exhaustion that didn’t mean his words didn’t register with you. You just needed a moment to process, but he didn’t think twice. You weren’t even sure he fully realized what he said, but the look in his eyes said he did.

But as Jacks thumb expertly found your clit, and created tight circles he wasn’t expecting a response. Especially when he shoved two thick fingers into your soaking wet cunt, curling them just right seemingly never forgetting the curves and contours of your body. The feeling of being stuffed full and aching had you finally moaning out your response.

“Oh fuck Jack! Feels s’good please don’t stop, I-I love you too”

His movements stuttered for just a moment before he doubled down. Dropping onto his good knee and replacing his fingers at your clit with his mouth. Swirling his tongue as if he was trying to carve his name into your skin. And the fingers that were still buried so deeply into you kept hitting that one spot at the roof of your anterior walls.

Only taking a few more curls and a particularly harsh suck of your clit before you came, hard, and a bit too loud for it being your place of work.

“That’s it baby, let it out. You taste just as good as I remember”

His gravely voice was sex to your ears, clouding your judgement with each word. Barely registering the sound of his zipper or the clink of his belt. Only opening your eyes when his large hands lifted both your legs onto his shoulders. Remembering just how big he was you tried to scoot away.

“Ah ah ah, I gotchya don’t worry, I know it’s been a while so I’ll take it nice and slow” he dragged out the end of the word nice in a smug tone.

Notching the head of his cock at your cunt, you made one last attempt to slip at least one leg down. But Jack just leaned his upper body forward, stretching your hamstrings so that you couldn’t slip off. He also reached a hand up to cover your mouth, but before you could ask what he was doing, his hips thrusted forward in a not so slow manner.

His unbelievably thick cock splitting you open as he only got halfway down. The hand that you weren’t sure why was on your mouth now made sense, your guttural moans were thankfully muffled as your nerves were overwhelmed with him.

“Look at that baby, only halfway in and she’s squeezing me so tightly,” Jack pulled out just slightly before pushing back in sneaking in more of his length, “she’s just weeping with how much she missed me, huh?”

With one more push, his entire cock was buried deep in your warmth, his cock head resting tightly against your cervix. Moving your legs forward just a bit more so your butt was slightly off the bed, he pulled out until just the last inch was left before slamming back into you.

The force pushing all the air from your lungs, over and over again. His brutal pace had him bullying your walls over and over. And with a small adjustment to the angle of his hips, Jack had you seeing stars. You both could feel the way your second orgasm was building as your cunt contracted around his cock every so often.

“P-please n-need t’cum Jackie!”

“Shhh, I’m almost done okay just hold on f’me I know you can”

A pathetic whine left your lips as you nodded in agreement, trying your best to stave off your orgasm. But you were so exhausted and your eyes lids felt as if they were 30lbs. So in one breath you had lost the grip you had on holding it back as your mind drifted off in briefly into unconsciousness for two seconds before you were brought back by the most intense orgasm you’ve had in months ripping through you.

Sounds you didn’t know you could make were emanating from your throat, and just above you Jack decided it would be a good time to join you. His thrusts slowed burying himself as deep as he could go and stuck to grinding his hips. Seeing as the tight clench of your cunt made it hard for him to keep his pace. But he didn’t mind, he loved knowing only he was capable of fucking you this good.

It took less than a minute before he buried his face into your neck and began emptying himself deep inside of your warmth. Grunting out his release and deciding later is a better time to worry about any consequences about forgoing a condom. Resting his body tight against yours he rode out both your highs.

As the fluttering of your walls slowed and relaxed he finally pulled himself out of you and noticed the familiar soft snores sounding from you. Jack took the time to move you into a proper sleeping position before grabbing a cloth from the closet to clean you up. The water was warm but you didn’t even bat an eye at the sensation.

Pulling up the covers he tucked you in before giving you a kiss on the forehead.

“I’m taking you to my place after work and we are settling everything once and for all”

Your only reply was a snuggle of the pillow he placed under your head. Walking out of the room he made sure to put up the occupied/DND sign before walking back onto the floor. Something he regretted when the sight of his two fellow doctors Ellis and Shen greeted him with overly satisfied looks.

“Not the big bad attending using the on call rooms for all his sick little desires” Shen chuckled out reaching for his coffee cup.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh don’t play coy with us Abbot you put that girl through work” Ellis patted him on the back, “and thank god because we were all worried you would never admit your feelings”

“Just make sure you’re quieter next time. Myrna ratted you out to us when she found herself down a hall she wasn’t supposed to be in” Shen then turned to Ellis ignoring Abbots utter shock and embarrassment. Which looked more like angry but theses two knew him very well.

“You take three and I’ll take the other three of her patients while lover boy takes the rest?” Ellis nodded in response before Jack finally spoke up.

“Woah rest of what smart asses?”

“Her patients because that girl was on the brink of death before yall left and I don’t even want to think of her state now”

Ellis shuddered at the idea she created in her head before walking off with Shen. Both of them leaving Jack at the nurses station with a small smile overtaking his expression.

“Way to go hot stuff I knew you still had it in yah” Myrna rolled up behind Jack and delivered a sharp smack to his butt with her hand before rolling away.

He’d noticed it gradually.

Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldn’t have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.

Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.

Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble

He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.

Eventually he’d stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. That’s that, then.

He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things he’d want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenant’s cock remained operational or not.

He didn’t make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.

Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.

So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.

Simon’s body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.

He didn’t particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.

It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.

Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.

Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.

New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.

Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simon’s patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.

You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.

The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because you’d been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, “Are you finished?”

“Finished what?” he’d replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if he’s deny it until the day he died.

“This.” You waved vaguely at all of him. “Whatever weird intimidation ritual you’ve got going on. Move.”

He hadn’t and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.

Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.

Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.

By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap you’d created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.

Deeply irritating. That was Simon’s assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.

Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.

Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.

One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug you’d been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.

“Use another one.”

“Wanted this one.”

“You’re a prick.”

“Been told.”

You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. “Do you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?”

“Natural talent.”

Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.

The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after you’d already submitted it.

You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.

Simon informed you that he’d corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.

“That is an accurate account of events,” you argued.

“Not putting that in an official report.”

“You’re only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.”

“I am an asshole.”

“Then why are we editing for accuracy?”

You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.

He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.

You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.

Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.

“You listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- “

Simon stopped listening.

His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.

For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.

Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.

He was hard.

Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.

Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.

You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.

He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. “What?”

Simon said nothing.

“What?” you repeated. “Have you gone deaf?”

His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didn’t.

If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.

“No,” he finally said.

“Then say something.”

There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, “Finished?”

Your whole expression sharpened. “Oh, fuck you.”

You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.

He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.

The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.

Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, “Tha’s fucki’ inconvenient.”

By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.

After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.

So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.

You’d made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. “Move.”

“Comfy.”

Your hand paused on the mug. “You’re blocking the spoons.”

“Plenty elsewhere.”

“No, there aren’t. They’re in the drawer behind your ass.”

“Sounds inconvenient.”

You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.

Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.

Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. “For fuck’s sake, Riley, move.”

His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.

There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Riley’s long dormant reproductive system.

You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked when you turned back.

“Nothin’.”

“You look weird.”

“Always look like this.”

“No, you’re acting weird.”

Simon left without making the tea he’d ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.

Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.

He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didn’t do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didn’t do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.

There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.

Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.

“Riley.”

Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.

“Riley.”

Nothing.

“Simon.”

There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.

“Wot?” he asked.

“I’ve been talking to you.”

“Have you?”

Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.

Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.

Three times constituted a pattern.

After that, his behavior became indefensible.

He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.

He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.

A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether he’d cleaned the knife he’d used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response he’d become accustomed to years before.

The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because he’d eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. “I swear to God, Riley, I’m going to kill you.”

His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.

Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”

Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. “You absolute fucking bastard.”

You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.

Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. “Stay away from my food,” you snapped, throwing Gaz’s hands off of you, before walking out.

Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.

Simon turned his head very slowly.

Gaz’s eyebrows rose.

“Wot?”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. “Not a conversation I’m looking to have, mate.”

Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.

It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years he’d assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.

He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.

Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.

Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.

Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.

But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.

It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.

Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.

But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.

Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.

Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.

The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.

You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. “Move.”

Simon remained where he was, arms folded.

“Riley.”

“Hm?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. “Standing exactly where I need to go.”

“Small corridor.”

“Exactly and you’re somehow taking up all of it.”

“Skill.”

You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.

“Are you twelve?”

“Could ask you the same.”

“Oh, my God.” You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. “Move, Riley.”

Heat tightened beneath his belt.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.

Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, “Make me.”

You went very still.

There was a small part of Simon’s brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.

Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.

The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.

Simon looked down at them.

You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.

Silence settled between you.

Simon felt the exact moment you understood.

Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.

“No.”

He said nothing.

Your mouth began to twitch. “No fucking way. Is that why you’ve been fucking with me?”

“No.”

The denial came far too quickly.

Your expression transformed. “Oh my God.”

Simon pushed away from the wall. “Don’t.”

“You have been deliberately pissing me off.”

“Have not.”

“You moved my boots yesterday.”

“Safety hazard.”

“They were under my bed.”

“Could’ve tripped.”

“In my sleep?”

“Dangerous business.”

You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.

“You ate my food,” you accused between breaths.

“Was hungry.”

“You stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.”

“Liked yours.”

“You stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.”

Simon’s silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.

“You’ve been fucking with me because it gets you off.”

“Wouldn’t call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

He had nothing.

Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.

“You’re a fucking freak, Riley.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“That do it too?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.

“Let go.”

His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.

Your eyes narrowed.

Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Simon released your wrists.

You didn’t move back.

Neither did he.

The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Bullshit.”

You tugged him half an inch closer.

His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.

That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.

Simon’s entire body betrayed him at once.

His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.

He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.

You gave a small, experimental squeeze.

Simon’s hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.

“Christ,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.

You didn’t let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simon’s breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.

You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.

“So,” you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenant’s previously non-functional cock in her hand, “this is the bit where you explain yourself, or…?”

Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.

“Not explainin’ a fuckin’ thing,” he managed, voice rough. “While you’re still holdin’ my cock in your hand. You’re becoming a problem.”

“I’m becoming a problem? You’ve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someone’s hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.”

“Tha’s not what’s happening.”

“You got hard because I shoved you into a wall.”

“Coincidence.”

“I can test that.”

“You fuckin’ will not.”

Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.

Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soap’s voice sounded from around the corner. “Ghost, ye seen- “

Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.

Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnny’s gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.

“Aye,” Soap said slowly.

Nobody answered.

He nodded to himself. “Actually, never mind.”

Soap turned around.

“MacTavish.”

His pace increased.

“Johnny.”

“Didnae see anything, LT.”

“You didn’t.”

“Exactly.”

He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.

You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.

This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.

The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.

His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.

That one. You need to fuck that one.

The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.

Apparently he’d used up all this good will because the Almighty wasn’t.

There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.

“Move, Riley.”

His cock twitched again.

Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. “Fuck’s sake.”

but more than that, he loves what follows. he loves the groveling apologies and the soft makeup kisses. he loves taming that craziness of yours and soothing you back into that sweet little thing you truly are.

he loves it so much, in fact, that he occasionally finds himself pushing your buttons just for fun.

sometimes he turns his location off in the middle of a shift and make bets with shen about how long it'll take for you to show up to ptmc.

jack comes out of a trauma half an hour later to find you talking with lena at the charge desk, and he thinks you look real cute wearing a pair of his boxers, a hoodie, and your house slippers.

he smiles big and says, "hey, baby. what're you doin' here so late?"

lena snorts and mutters under her breath, "give him hell, kid."

you give him that scowl jack knows all too well, saying, "don't hey baby me. why the fuck did you turn your location off, jack?"

he wraps his arms around your waist and sneakily slides his hands just a liiitle lower than what should be acceptable in a place like this. "just wanted to see you, sweetheart. that so bad?"

"me, or your other girlfriend?"

it makes jack laugh. the idea alone is insane—there would never be anyone else for him but you. his pretty little brat. "c'mon. let's go talk about this somewhere quiet, hm?"

you let him lead you to an empty room, and jack locks the door behind him because he knows good and well what comes next.

he admits he'd stopped sharing his location because he knew you'd show up, and he'd just missed you sooo much. jack sets you on the hospital bed and stands between your legs, his hands roaming down your shoulders, over the curves of your hips, thumbs massaging little circles on the inside of your thighs.

"just been such a long day, baby," he tells you, pulling over the stool to sit between your spread legs. jack presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, mouth moving upwards until he's pressing kisses against your pussy through the cotton fabric of his boxers that you've stolen. "m'sorry i upset you. just missed you so much, you know? can i make it up to you, hm? you gonna let me do that?"

and you do, of course. let him pull your bottoms off so he can lick and suck at your clit until you're writhing, moaning so loud he has to stuff his fingers in your mouth to quiet you.

there's something addicting about it, about having you like this. you're always so strong and sure of yourself, yet you turn to putty in his big hands. so pliant and perfect for him.

jack makes you cum with just the warm slide of his tongue against your clit, circling the pulsing nerves until you're begging him for reprieve, so overstimulated there's not a trace of that attitude left behind.

when he does finally come up for air, his chin is slick with your arousal and he wears a knowing little smirk. "that's better, isn't it? hm?"

you roll your eyes, but the action is full of playfulness instead of irritation and jack knows he'll get through the rest of his shift a whole lot easier now that he's had a little pick me up.

by the time you leave, jack's sharing his location once more and he's twenty dollars richer (much to shen's dismay).

jack's favorite button of yours to push is the jealous one, though. and he knows it might be a little mean, but god. he just can't help it. you get so territorial and it's not like it's his fault that it makes his dick hard.

the two of you will be out shopping one afternoon. jack has the things you've already picked out draped over his arm, and you're carrying a few items you're not sure about when you find a employee to ask for a fitting room.

the woman is nice enough—she wears a tight-lipped smile and leads you to the back of the store and opens one of the rooms for you with the key around her neck.

but then she turns to jack and her smile brightens. "one for you too, sir?" the words are sweet and soft and overly bubbly, and jack fights the grin that starts to form on his face when you turn rigid at his side.

your fingers find his bicep, curling around the thick muscle. "uhm, no. he doesn't. thanks," you answer for him—tone stiff and final. not rude exactly, but something pretty close.

you then pull him into the fitting room and lock the door, already shaking your head as he sits on the little bench across from the mirror. "she was just being nice, baby," he says, but it's a lie, and you both know it.

"yeah, sure. too fucking nice if you ask me." you scoff. "i bet you she was hoping you'd say yes so she could go in with you and suck your dick or something. i mean, seriously. what the fuck is her problem? she didn't see me right next to you? you guys offer eye exams at the ED? i bet she'd love to come see you sometime, jack—"

"okay, hey. come here." you do as he says, coming to stand in front of him with your arms folded tightly over your chest. jack takes your hands in his and untangles them. he's grinning up at you—he can't help it. jack thinks you just look so sexy all riled up. "don't care what she wants, cause i only want you. hm? yeah? you listening?"

you still sport a crease between your brows, but nod in acknowledgment.

jack reaches up with one hand and takes your jaw gently between his fingers. "i only want my dick in this mouth for the rest of my life," he says.

you giggle and try to hide your amusement by shyly turning your head into your shoulder. but there's nothing shy about the way you kneel before him and reach for his belt buckle. there's nothing shy about the way you pull his cock out, already hard watching you indulge those strong feelings of yours.

jack's hands are tender as they stroke your hair away from your face while you swallow him down. your tongue swirls around the tip, your saliva collecting and dripping down to the base of his cock. his muscles go slack at the sensation when you hollow out your cheeks, sucking him hard.

"you look so pretty like this," he murmurs. "taking it so well, baby. feels so fucking good."

he lets you take what you need, lets you prove yourself the way he knows you need to.

"so much better than anyone else could ever be," jack encourages, cock throbbing between your plush lips. "yeah, there you go. that's it—shit—"

he finishes at the back of your throat, groaning as his cum fills your mouth. he slides out slowly, but keeps a firm hand on the back of your neck.

"show me," he instructs, and you obey immediately, sticking out your tongue and looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes. jack feels himself twitch at the sight of what he's made of you. filthy little thing. "mmhm. good. swallow now."

you do, swallowing his release like the perfect girl you are. a small drip spills down the corner of your mouth, and jack swipes it away with his thumb and makes you lick the digit clean.

he tucks himself back in his jeans while you stand. you reach for his hand next, pulling him to his feet to lead him out of the dressing room.

jack tries to grab the clothes you'd picked out earlier, but you tell him to leave them. "over my dead fucking body am i letting her check us out while she checks you out," you grumble. "we're leaving."

he doesn't argue, but he does ask parker to go back a week later with his credit card to pick up the things you liked.

that jealousy appears again a few weeks later when trinity invites a few people out for drinks at a new bar that just opened a short drive from the hospital.

but as it turns out, it's more of a nightclub than a bar—not exactly jack's scene. not for the last twenty years, anyway.

you and trinity have always gotten along so well, and jack thinks the invitation might've only been given to him in hopes that you'd attend, too. robby shows up late, his invitation given from dennis, of course—and the night quickly turns into drinks and a show.

jack and robby sit at the bar, nursing a couple of sweating beer bottles while they watch the group of you dance together animatedly. there's strobe lights and poppy synth music playing. you're wearing a pretty sequined dress, giggling and twirling victoria around in a circle.

and try as he might, jack can't keep his eyes off you—so passionate and full of life, young and carefree in a way he wants to soak up. he could stay here for hours, jack thinks. just watching you have your fun with a smile on his face.

later in the night, you come over to order another one of those garnished pink drinks and a round of green tea shots. you've got your arm around jack's shoulders and his is bracketed tight around your waist, pulling you into him, close enough he can smell your sweet body spray and the faint scent of you underneath.

the bartender is a young guy—far closer to you in age than jack is. he's got a shaggy hair cut and a nose ring and when he sits your drink and the shots on the bar in front of you, he grins and says over the music, "i like your nails."

and jack…well. jack doesn't think it's funny at all, when he's on the other end of this.

you immediately glance at him, at the amusement that falls from his face—and then you turn back to the bartender and say, "thanks! my boyfriend paid for them!"

jack's arm tightens around your waist. he's never considered himself a jealous man, not really. but the way the bartender's looking at you doesn't sit well at all.

you take a drink from your glass and swallow the shimmery pink liquid. "mm, it's so good, jack. here, try some."

at first, he thinks you're going to pass the glass to him to take a small sip. but what you do instead is take his jaw between your manicured fingers and kiss him hard. your tongue slips lewdly into his mouth, sliding against his own. he can taste the alcohol and the sugary sweetness on your lips.

jack doesn't think he'd be able to fight off his big ass grin if he tried.

you pull away, laughing girlishly, and then turn his head to playfully lick the stubble on his cheek. "thanks for the drinks, daddy!"

jack squeezes his jaw and chuckles low as you gather the shots in your hand before returning to the dance floor.

the bartender mixes someone else's drink now, jaw feathering as he pointedly avoids jack's gaze.

beside him,robby shakes his head before taking a slow swig from his beer. "you've got your hands full, brother."

it makes jack laugh.

because yeah, he does. and he fucking loves it.

and later that night, back at your apartment? well, jack's got his hands full of something else.

you're bent over the mattress, dress pushed up around your hips, panties pulled to the side. he palms the pillowy globes of you ass as he fucks his cock into you, pussy slick and dripping for him.

"yeah, there you go. fuckin' take it," he says, hips snapping forward. "my girl. my girl, baby. no one else can fuck you like this, huh?"

"only—hmm—only you," you whimper. you're a trembling mess beneath him, fingers clutched tight in the sheets. your moans echo against the four walls, the obscene, wet slide of his cock making him throb.

"say it," he orders, a low sound rumbling in his chest. "tell me who you belong to."

"m'yours, jack—oh god, oh—yours, yours yours—i'm your girl—fuck—"

"that's right, sweetheart," he says, slipping a hand around your hip and beneath you to find your clit. he circles it gently, applying the perfect amount of pressure. "can feel you squeezing me. you wanna cum, baby? hm? you like the way i fuck you?"

"yes, jack—oh god, so fucking good, please please—"

he drives his cock deeper, spreading you open so he can watch it go in. he can feel his own release threatening, a white hot bliss coiling tight at the base of his spine. "give it to me," jack says. "mmhm. yeah, that's it. this pussy belongs to me. my pussy. my fuckin' girl."

the sticky walls of your cunt tighten around him, pulling him in impossibly deeper, and it sends jack over the edge. he fucks you through it, filling you up with his release, fingers circling your clit until you're shaking beneath him.

when he's spent, jack falls forward, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he tries to catch his breath. he presses sweet, soft kisses to your skin, whispering all the while. "did so good for me. my favorite girl. so pretty."

he feels you stiffen beneath him, and jack stands to allow you the space to move. you turn over, tugging your dress up and over your head to discard it on the floor.

you're still panting and your thighs are still trembling, but jack can see the irritation in the way you move.

with his mouth turned up at the corners, jack asks, "what's wrong, baby?"

When Jack had asked you for drinks you'd been overjoyed that your lingering glances and petty touches had been enough to convey your interest. However, you then had to explain yours and Robby's arrangement.

You'd been fucking quietly (as in on the down low, nothing about the way you fucked was quiet) and needed to make sure Jack was okay knowing that wouldn't be stopping just because he was taking you on one date. As much as you'd been looking at Jack, hoping for his attention, you couldn't stop the attraction you had to Robby. It had come first, afterall.

You'd said as much to Robby with his cock deep inside of you. Your hands on his shoulders as you bounced, the plap plap plap of skin bouncing off his bedroom walls. “Jack- Jack asked me for drinks,” you gasped.

Robby's skin glowed in sweat. His hands dug into your hips, helping you move up and down at a brutal pace. “My Jack?”

Something about the way he insisted Jack was his had you moaning out, your walls tightening around him.

“Fuck, don't do that,” Robby grunted, head thrown back on his headboard with a whack.

“Your-your Jack. Yes!” Your hands reached back to his thighs, fingernails digging into his skin.

It thrust your chest in Robby's face and he didn't miss a beat to trail his tongue messily across your chest, tasting your sweat and groping at your breast to take your nipple and swirl his tongue around the bud. He moaned around it, sucking like a baby and sending stimulation through your body.

“Fuck-fuck, Robby,” you moaned, dragging your core over him in delicious circles.

He hummed and watched you with encouraging nods. He pulled away from your breast and took your neck, bringing you in to him sharply. He nodded along with the movements of your body. “Come on my cock, scream my name, then we can talk about your date with Jack.”

Come on his cock you did, body shaking, mouth hung open soundlessly as Robby held you close into his chest and rutted up into you till he finished, painting your walls and biting down on your shoulder.

Moments later you were tucked into his side, Robby twirling bits of your hair with his head rested against yours.

“So Jack, huh?” he'd asked. “You want to go.” He wasn't looking at you but at the empty space at the bottom of his bed. There was a chest at the bottom with the essentials for such activities: towels, wipes, condoms, lube, maybe even some toys you'd slipped in as a joke all well within reach for him.

“Yeah I do,” you said. “We're only casual right, I'm within my rights to see who I want, aren't I?”

It was all teasing. You knew Robby didn't really want to share you but couldn't commit either so until then you'd be exercising your freedom.

Till he broke, because you knew he would.

That's how you ended up at a bar with Jack, crowded together in a small booth in the corner just days later. A few empty glasses sat around you, as well as an empty basket of chicken wings you'd shared earlier in the night.

Jack's arm was thrown around the booth, finger so close to touching, thigh almost pressed to yours but he kept just beyond touch. Either out of respect for yours and Robby's arrangement, or to drive you crazy.

“How long's this thing with you and Robby been going on?” he asked.

“Few months. We both needed a release with no strings attached kind of thing and it just happened that way.” You weren't ashamed of it. Not embarrassed that you'd given in to Robby the way you'd always wanted to. You didn't care that he was your boss or older than you by some decades. If stuff like that bothered you, you wouldn't have been sitting in the bar with Jack.

“You ever thought of asking me?” he asked with a smirk.

“If you were there that day, I just might have.”

It wasn't like you could ever ignore how attractive Jack was. Just as you couldn't ignore how attractive Robby was.

“And if I wanted to take you on more dates,” said Jack. “How would that work with you and Robby?”

You took your time in running your fingers over the rim of your glass.

The fact of the matter was you thought it wouldn't get better than Robby. Same hours and the same needs bled into sex that had your body shivering and never left you without pleasure. You liked it. You hadn't thought about changing it. You didn't know if you could find as deep a knowing as you had with Robby.

“I-I don't know,” you said, frowning to yourself at your own admission.

“Hey-hey,” said Jack, hand brushing back your hair and cradling your cheek. “I'm not asking you and Robby to stop.” Jack shuffled closer, finally touching you. “I'm just asking if you had room for one more.”

That's how you ended up in the back of Jack's truck pulled around to the dark corners of the bar, sprawled naked along the backs of his seat, legs spread and his mouth hot and heavy on you.

He'd got an orgasm from you pressed up against the wall, fingers curling and circling in the ways you liked like he'd been studying for this.

“Yeah... yeah...” Jack talked down to your pussy, your arousal coating his lips and almost dripping down before he dove back in, fingers spreading you wide and tongue slotting in.

“Jack! It's-it's too much!” you cried, desperate to close your thighs but his hands darted out and kept one high up on the back seats and the other limp on the floor. “Jack!”

His tongue fucked into you. “Just come. Come for me baby and I promise I'll stop, I promise-”

Condensation rolled down the windows of his truck, your body moving against the seats as you withered in pleasure. You had come on his tongue, not that it stopped Jack as he promised it would.

You had to explain to Robby the next time you saw him why there were bruises he definitely didn't leave at your thighs and why the pussy he'd memorised the taste of had something different to it.

That's how the challenge started.

Your time was split three ways: Work, Robby and Jack. Downtime was spent in Robby's apartment or Jack's place. You had a perfectly divided sets of your favourite clothes in each wardrobe, had given enough hints for each of them to get in your favourite snacks and a toothbrush in each bathroom.

You had, you would say, perfectly trained them.

They knew it. They knew they'd somehow become your toys. They knew if you weren't with one of them you'd be with the other and they used your body like a telegram to read each others messages, but as far as you knew they'd never brought it up with each other in person.

“What are you doing tonight?” asked Robby, hovering next to you, looking down at the tablet in hand.

Around the two of you the Pitt carried on moving. The doctors and nurses conversed and walked, the patients complained and crashed and nobody looked twice at the boss talking to a resident. If they'd looked too close they might have realised how often the two of you did speak in work.

You stood, staring at the board, trying to find a blank spot to slide into. “Uh, dinner with Jack.”

From the corners of your eyes you spotted Robby shifting his weight, head lowering as he huffs.

“Dinner with Jack, second time this week, huh,” he said. “Wonder how this place can manage without him.”

A smirk graced your lips as you turned to consider him.

“Someone feeling neglected?”

“Noooo,” he said, dragging it out and finding something on the tablet cover that was much more important than staring at you. He quipped his head to the side. “Just... you and Jack been going on dinners a lot, this week.”

“Our second one?”

“I could take you for dinner too.”

“But you never do.”

“Do you want me to?” he tried to sound casual but his brows rose at once.

You shrugged. “Ask me.”

“Got to book in time to see you now?” Robby asked. His head bent lower to your ear until you could smell the mint on his lips and feel the heat of his breath ghost the shell of your ear. He blew on it lightly, knowing how it sent shivers down your spine and made your body curl closer into his. “I was here first.”

You tried to hold back a smirk as you stepped back, turning to him. “Is someone jealous?” you teased.

Robby pulled his lips into a frown and shook his head, but he couldn't meet your eyes.

Casual was what Robby wanted, what he thrived on and the only thing he thought he was consistent at. So consistent it was his only relationship. Really, he had no right to be jealous and yet you saw the way his eyes narrowed when patients flirted with you. You knew he felt it when he fucked you hard after doctors on higher floors came down and stared too long at the way you leant over a computer. Casual was what Robby was good at, so he'd never admit he was getting it wrong.

“I'm a single girl,” you reminded him.

“That you are,” he trailed every word longer than it needed to be, saying it as if he didn't quite believe himself.

“And I'm allowed to have dinner with whoever I want?”

“It's not about the dinner,” he said, eyes following a nurse that walked a little too close to the two of you. “It's the fact that I want you in my bed tonight and you tell me you have plans.”

“If you wanted me in your bed more you could just make me your girlfriend?” you said, biting down on your lip to stop your smile.

You watched a glimmer of panic flash in front of his face before it gave way to relief. He knew you weren't really asking because casual worked for you too. Not having to remember dates, or buy anniversary presents or text constantly. It was what you needed. And yet, you loved to tease him with the G and B words.

“I don't have to. You'll come around,” Robby shrugged. “You always do. Tell Jack I said hi.” He walked past you then, hands grazing your elbows as he shuffled by like there wasn't plenty of space.

The small touches he teased you with through out the day was never enough to sustain you. That's why he did it: to keep you coming back for more.

Your dinner with Jack ended how it did almost every night, you in his lap in his apartment, lips moulding against yours, hands running up your back.

Jack always took it slow like the pleasure of you was something to savour, like he didn't believe he'd ever get the chance again. But it had been three months of going back and forth between the two, three months of your body bathed in their kisses and walking around with your head in the clouds.

As much as you loved being with Robby, Jack was new and you were still learning.

“Grinding down on my lap?” he teased slightly breathless, pulling back enough to speak.

You hadn't even realised you were until you felt your panties dampening, till you felt the tension in your hips and the smirk on his lips.

Jack seethed in a breath and went back into you, hand catching the back of your head to draw you in as he encouraged your movements. “Does Robby not satisfy you?”

You smiled against his lips, nipping. “You boys,” you muttered, shuffling closer into his hardening cock, hidden behind his jeans. “Really want to out-do one another, huh?”

“Just want to make sure you're not wasting your time,” he said. Jack pecked your lips over and over again as his hands found the buttons to your jeans, deftly popping them. “With either of us.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

It didn't take long for Jack's fingers to wriggle themselves into your jeans, running lines against your clothed pussy that cried for him. He loved to watch how you moved against his smallest of touches, how you reacted slowly, needy.

“Jack,” you gasped, tilting your head back as his thumb pushed down on your clit, circling slowly. “Robby-Robby says hi.”

Jack hummed. “Does he?” his middle finger slid past the elastic of your panties, finding a home in the warmth of your walls. “He can come say it to me, no good using our girl for messages.”

His lips kissed sweetly at your temple, his endearing move that would catch you off guard in the dirtiest of moments. When he was coaching orgasms out of you through curling fingers or driving into you with your cock, his lips would find your forehead and stay there, mumbling encouragements and compliments that had your body grow fuzzy in a different way.

It was the same way Robby pulled you into his side, fingers twirling around your hair or knuckles grazing your forearms.

They had ways of surprising you, still.

“I got you something,” said Jack, pulling back to get a look at you.

“Oh?”

Jack nodded and tilted his head to nudge against your hose like some horse begging for attention before he withdrew his finger from you. He patted your thighs and you climbed off, falling back into his sofa and letting the cushions swallow you.

You watched as he put his finger in his mouth, licking off the taste of you as if it was a taste of his favourite dish.

Your eyes trailed down his body as he disappeared. The swing of his hips, the pull of his pants over his crotch and the veins that pulled in his arms that had you drooling.

When Jack returned there was a small box in hand and he settled down next to you, throwing an arm around the back of the sofa and offering you the box.

“What is it?” you asked without taking the box. The instinct to sit on your hands to not reach out was a hard one to fight against.

You didn't do gifts, at least not with Robby. His gifts came in litters of kisses and drawn out pleasure throughout long nights. The only present he'd ever got you was a set of lingerie that had only ended up in strips and tears of fabric sprawled along his bedroom floor.

Jack shrugged. “A puppy. You want him to suffocate?” he teased.

With a roll of your eyes you pulled the lid open as Jack tugged your legs into his lap, running his hands up and down.

A thin chain lay on a small velvet, black cushion, a delicate J hanging on the end.

You could feel Jack's eyes on you, watching and waiting for a creation. You were scared to reach out and touch it. Terrified that you'd reach out and the lid would snap shut, that the chain would strangle you. It was as if you'd never been given a gift so beautiful. You hadn't. “Jack, I... I don't know what to say.”

Was it too much? If you and Jack were as casual as you and Robby how could you wear his initial on a necklace?

But you didn't want it to disappear.

You thought about the J hanging over your heart, the chain dangling when you slowly sank onto Jack's cock. You imagined Robby finding it, the way his fingers would push down on the letter till J was etched in there. Or when you rode him, lingering over him to watch his pleasure, would he take the metal letter into his mouth and keep it warm?

“I think you should say-” said Jack, taking up the chain and slowly moving, resting it around your neck. “I love it.”

You moved your hair aside, allowing him to clasp it and relishing in the cooling metal against the flush of your skin. “I do. I love it.”

Jack kissed over the clasp against your skin. “Yeah?”

When your head turned his lips were there, waiting and kissed yours sweetly, hand crawling up to your neck to lay you flat against him. He tested the taste of you with his tongue. His hand ran down your front, pulling at your shirt and exposing the skin only just healing from your last night with him.

“This way,” he said, lips moving against yours with enough time to find words. “When you're with Robby, I'm there too.”

Robby caught sight of the necklace a week later.

“Hey,” he said, eyeing Samira who stood over your shoulder. “Can I borrow you? Ten minutes? Fifteen, tops?”

Sometimes with how well you and Robby played co-workers you couldn’t tell the difference between needing to see a patient and him needing you.

“Course.” Your chair scraped back as you bid a see you later to Mohan and followed after Robby.

He was making a hard line through the department, wearing out his trainers as he didn’t once look back to see if you were hot on his heels. You were.

“Everything okay?”

He led you out the doors and past the stairwell where the on call room was tucked in a corner. It was a room you’d grown familiar with. You knew the desk was rickety and wasn’t best for the kind of activities you and Robby got up to in the room. You knew it was best to cushion the headboard with a cushion, not because there were neighbours to worry about, but to stop anyone else passing by from hearing the thud.

Robby pressed his key into the door and held it open for you, checking the coast was clear before nudging you in and slamming it closed behind the two of you.

His hands were on you, fisting your scrub top, lips claiming yours like he wanted to share his very breath with you.

In spite of the patient you had waiting on discharge, the chairs that you never seemed to quite catch up on and the monitors still ringing in your mind, you held onto Robby with just as much fever. Your hands gripped his shoulders, finding his scruffy hair and pushed your tongue against his.

“You know better than to tease me at work,” he said.

You bit down on his bottom lip, tugging it out.

Robby guided you back to the bed with steady hands on your hips. “Or at least I thought you did.”

When the back of your knees met the bed frame you fell back, dragging Robby with you.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” you mumbled, hands winding under his top, scraping at the roundness of his belly and feeling the bristle of his hairs.

He hummed, pressing his weight into you. “No?”

“Nuh-uh,” you said.

Robby pulled back enough for you to catch the darkness in his eyes, your slightly tinted lip balm smudging his lips. “I thought you were clever, huh?”

Teasing. You'd only been leaning over charting, maybe jutting out your hips a little more. Maybe grazing against Robby more than you needed to.

There was little time to reply before Robby was licking into your lips again, groaning at the taste and the push of himself into you. He opened your mouth and sort your tongue, hands pushing and pulling up your scrub top until skin gave way to skin and he could feel the plains of you, the warmth you were giving off. He tugged and moved at the skin and pulled off your scrub top.

You knew how it would go. In ten minutes Robby would work you up, have you teetering on the edge of insanity and want then send you back out to the ward. He'd demand you to double up on patients and get them all discharged before you left. He'd get you begging by the end of the night.

Your scrub top was thrown to the corner and Robby's hands grabbed your breasts, groping and moving, licking over what spilled from your bra and nipping.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, tugging him in closer-

Then- he grew cold and still, his lips moving away from his chest.

“Huh? Robby, what?” You shook yourself out of your haze and looked at him.

“What's this?” his voice was low in his throat as he pulled back.

There was cooling metal rested on your chest. Your spine tingled as a finger traced the letter there.

Robby was staring down at the necklace with a frown, eyebrows pinched together and mouth twisting.

You'd imagined Robby finding out about the chain a dozen times, but you didn't expect the look of hurt or anger there. “It's nothing. It's just- Jack, a gift.”

“Gift?” he questioned.

You nodded and gulped, suddenly worried. What if Robby said he couldn't do it anymore? He couldn't share you? Would he insist upon you ending it with Jack to have you all to himself, or would he ditch you and leave you to Jack's capable hands.

The both of you shuffled. Robby swung his legs over the bed, running a hand through his hair as he hunched over and you sat up.

“It's nothing, just a gift, I promise, Robby. I promise,” you said, holding onto his shoulders and pressing a kiss into his shoulder.

Robby stared down at his hands. “It's pretty,” he grumbled.

“You're prettier,” you said, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Robby turned and pulled a face at you.

You smiled and kissed his shoulder again. “Don't think anything of it.”

He inhaled, body moving against yours as he did. “Hard not to. His fucking letter of his name is sitting in between my favourite place.” His eyes flickered down to where your chest was lying in temptation.

You stilled as his hand darted out, picking up the J and fiddling with it.

There was an odd look to him. There was a clench in his jaw and you could feel his body tense but that familiar darkness was still in his eyes. He still licked his lips like he wanted to take a bite from every bit of your flesh and he wasn't letting go of the initial at your chest.

You'd seen the ways your boys acted. When you mentioned the dinner with Jack and watched Robby try to act like he didn't care. When Jack stripped you bare and eyed the bites Robby had left the nights before. Jack would give time to making those marks worse, deeper in colour and mixing Robby's dried spit with his own. How even with his cock deep inside of you Robby would go the lengths of asking for excruciating details on your dates with Jack.

“Well, I have a theory,” you said, swinging yourself into his lap. His hands fell upon you, working like velcro. “You quite like it, the challenge.”

His brows rose, hands casting up and down you. “Challenge?”

“You and Jack. Sharing me.” To test the waters, you rolled your hips against him and felt his cock answer. “The back and worth. Wanting to do better than the other.”

“Don't I?” he asked, kissing over the chain between your shoulder and neck. He picked it up between his teeth and dropped it back down.

“You both have your talents,” you whispered, tilting your neck back and grinding down on him.

“Yeah?”

“Your favourite things... your favourite parts...”

“Parts?” Robby's eyes were wide and pleasing, looking up to you.

You nodded and closed your eyes, chasing the feeling of him. “Jack... he likes to be down there more,” you said with a particular roll down on your hips. “You like to be up here.” You brought your hands up and squeezed at your breasts to bring them together.

Robby's eyes practically bulge out his head and he latches himself between them, groaning into your skin like this was the only rest bite he craved. The only place he needed to be.

“Jack's staking his claim,” you moaned. “Making sure... you see him.”

His tongue left a trail of his saliva over your chest. “Then I guess I better stake mine.”

Three days later, Robby's head was between your thighs, nudging his tongue in deep, rubbing his nose into your wetness.

You were calling his name, moaning his name when a new smaller cold chain wrapped around your ankle. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, looking through the haze of pleasure to see a band around your ankle, a delicate R hanging there.

Robby's eyes flicked up to you, smirking and your arousal wetting his lips.

“An anklet, huh?”

“You started it,” said Robby. “A necklace?”

Jack shrugged. “It was something nice.”

“It was a dig.”

Jack shook his head innocently. “No.”

The two of them were leant casually over the counter, stealing a few minutes of relative peace before Robby had to lead him room to room and tell him who was going home and who was not. Who had good chances of living a normal life and those that did not.

Their idea of peace was staring at you from across the floor, where you lingered with Dana. You were talking, just talking with the occasional smile but it was enough for the two of them.

They kept their conversations timid regarding you. They could say everything they needed to say by leaving little bits of each other on your skin.

It seemed the new gifts suddenly sprang on you was encouragement enough.

“So what do we do about it?” asked Jack.

Robby was reluctant to tear is gaze away from you as he slowly dragged his gaze to check on Jack. “On what?”

Jack nodded toward you. “We gonna do this forever?”

“Seems to be working,” said Robby.

“Forever?”

Robby nerves grew on him. He turned his body to Jack, considering him as he considered you. “Has she... said something?” Robby knew he wasn't what made boyfriends or husbands, but were you not happy with what you had?

“No,” said Jack, moving to look down at his hands. “We just gonna keep sharing her? I don't like the idea that I'm stealing your guys time from you.”

“We make it work,” said Robby.

The both of them returned to observing you.

“I like her,” said Jack.

Robby agreed. “Yeah. More than me?”

Jack's eyes ran up and down from you. “Only time will tell.”

“If you're worried about her time we can work something out,” said Robby.

He had the feeling you'd like something like that too. Your time together exhausted him in the best way possible before work so he wasn't sure how you managed splitting your time between him, Jack and work and supposedly getting some rest all between it.

“Work something out?” asked Jack, frowning at the words. It seemed the both of them were stubborn about you. “What? Like a schedule?”

Robby's head fell side to side. “Something like that.”

It took two more weeks of shared dates and beds before you, Robby and Jack could finally be in the same room that wasn't the hospital.

You'd noticed the two of them were talking about each other more. It wasn't unusual for one to bring up the other with arms firm around you, lips etched to your neck.

“Has Jack found that little spot that gets you whining yet?” Robby would ask, sucking on said mark with thick fingers curling into you.

Jack had but you didn't need to answer that for him to know.

“Mmh, mmh, I love this pussy,” Jack said one night when he'd already spent fifteen minutes in lucking and sucking up your pussy. “Can fucking taste Robby in here.”

It was becoming apparent to you, even if it wasn't them, that they really, really liked seeing each other in you. Liked kissing over the same marks and tracing the same path.

Robby had invited you over under the pretence of just casual drinks. You'd said you had plans with Jack (his nights off getting increasingly more likely) and saw the tick in Robby's jaw that you had plans again. Plans that meant his time with you was limited to what he could steal in the staff lounge and on-call room.

Which was why Robby had invited you and Jack around to his. For drinks. Casual.

It didn't stay casual for long.

“Oh, come on,” said Jack taking a swig of his beer, all sweaty from how he'd held it most of the night. “If both of us approached you at a bar, who you picking?”

“I'm not answering that,” you laughed.

You were sandwiched between the two of them on Robby's sofa, curled up between the meat of their thighs that were spread to touch you. Around the back of the sofa, Robby rested his arm while Jack watched you with his head rested on his arm propped on the back of the sofa.

“What? You have to,” said Robby.

“No, I don't,” you said again with a laugh, taking a sip of beer.

“We're big guys, we can handle it,” said Jack with a shrug of indifference.

You doubted they could, whoever you picked. The other would take you to bed and fuck you into the mattress and lick their name against your spine.

Robby's finger prodded into your shoulder for an answer.

“Okay,” you said. You leant forward and ditched your can on the coffee table before settling back with their bodies closer to you. “How does it work?”

“How does what work?” asked Robby, very intrigued by the prospect of who you'd go for.

You rolled your eyes and flattened your feet on the floor. “Dress it up for me. What's the bar like? Who am I with? What are the two of you doing?”

Robby made some sort of pfft sound and laid back.

Jack rubbed a finger over the bottom of his lip and dedicated time to think about it. “The bars dark, low, that kind of thing you'd find downtown,” he recited like he'd thought about this a hundred times. His hand comes to your knee, circling it till you jerked at the tickle. “You'd come with a bunch of your girlfriends and Robby and I-”

“- at the bar,” interjected Robby. His eyes drifted from Jack to you. “We met for a couple drinks, tired from work.”

“Oh, this is very realistic,” you smirked.

Robby gave his own back. “And then you walk in. Little dress, like that black thing you wear sometimes.”

“Practically begging to be noticed,” said Jack. “How could we not? Two old men, down on their luck and a pretty, young thing like you walks in.”

The tingle down your body ran deeper, fuzzier than ever with Jack's hand on you and Robby's eyes lingering. Their breaths and heat co-existing drove you slowly mad.

“Then you start throwing down favours? Is that it?” you asked quietly.

“Rest of the night carries on a bit,” said Robby, drawing your attention to him. He shifts his head side to side as if weighing up the different ways this hypothetical night could go. “Jack and I are having drinks, keeping an eye on you all night.”

“Some of your friends decide to call it early but you want to keep having fun,” said Jack, his hand travelling further up your leg. “Wild girl.”

You had no time to retort before Robby was reaching for you, talking again.

“Jack and I had been waiting for you all night, watching, thinking about buying you drinks every time you got out your card out.” His voice was low, body leaning into you.

“I approach you at the bar, some cheesy line I know you'd secretly like-” added Jack.

“You come sit with us,” said Robby, “Stuck between the two of us just like you are now.”

Robby's breath fanned your pulse thumping in your neck and Jack's hand travelled to the height of your thigh, rubbing his hand up and down. You could imagine it. The bar with the lights down low, catching the eye of the two men who leaned in to talk to each other. Maybe Robby would spot you first as he was saying something to Jack and un-able to take his eyes from you Jack would just have to take a look also.

From there you'd dance with your friends, swing out your hips more than needed, brush back your hair with every sway. You'd check they were watching, enamoured by you every once and in a while and of course they were. How could they not?

“I'm sitting with you now?” you ask, voice breathless as you struggled with knowing who to look at.

Jack's head nodded as his hand came up, popping the button of your jeans. You didn't rise to meet him, nor did you try and stop him.

Neither did Robby.

“Just like now. A good girl, sat between two men who are just slowly, slowly trying to get a taste.” Robby's voice dropped lower and lower, head ducking until he brushed hair from your neck and pressed light kisses along there.

You could feel your own chest heaving, see the the quick moves of it under your hooded gaze.

Jack's hand had slid down your pants and was making a slow observation of your clothed pussy, wet like he'd never known it to be.

You leant your head back for Robby as another warmth spread along the other side of your neck. “Do I let them?” you asked. “Get a taste?”

“Oh yeah,” said Jack, on the account of Robby finding a home in your neck and kissing and licking over his favourite spot. The spot that had your panties growing wetter. “Yeah you let them try, you're so sweet like that.” He pressed a kiss onto your clothed shoulder.

“Whose do we go back to?” you asked, your hands coming up to cradle each of their heads.

“Mine.”

Both of their voices were muffled from lips pressed to different parts of you, but both were just as possessive.

Your fingers curled delightfully around the backs of their heads.

The two of them retreated, looking to each other.

“No cat fights now, boys.”

You leant into Jack first just to grate against Robby's nerves. You pressed your lips into his, holding his face to yours as your lips parted his and you swallowed the sound of surprise he gave you. He groaned and moaned into your lips as he fingers prodded at the gate to heaven under your panties. You were sure he was making more of a noise and more of a show of it because Robby was at your other side.

You didn't know if you'd expected Robby to groan and complain about the show the two of you were putting on. Whether or not he'd get up from his sofa and demand you both leave, ending what you'd been teetering on for months.

Instead, you felt him remain steady and close behind you, his eyes burning into your skull.

You pulled back from Jack slowly, the wet smack of lips leaving the room.

Robby eagerly took you in his arms when you leant back into him.

He sighed at the taste of your lips but as soon as your mouth opened up he moaned at the taste of you mixed with Jack, some forbidden fruit he'd taken the first bite of and become addicted to.

“Oh my god,” Jack groaned from behind you, finally slipping two fingers past your panties and into you folds.

You gasped against Robby's mouth, teeth clashing with his. He held your neck, holding you in to draw out the kiss as his tongue flicked against yours.

You felt Robby's arm stretch out and you expect the feel of his warm embrace, of his hands cupping your chest or pulling back your hair. Instead, he moved past you and wrapped his fingers around Jack's wrist, urging him to move his fingers inside of you in a steady pace.

“Oh-” you moaned, back arching up into Robby was he dropped his head to your neck.

“You're squeezin' me like that, honey,” Jack mumbled against your ear. “Feel like you're already gonna come, huh?”

Robby made a noise into your neck. “We got her excited.”

With your eyes closed in bliss and focusing on not rocking into Jack's hand you blindly reached out. A hand gripped onto Jack's thigh that tensed under your claws digging in and the other to Robby's cock that strained against his jeans.

“Please,” you said, breathless.

Any other time maybe Robby would have put up a fight, make you work for just a glimpse of himself but he smiled and clicked his tongue before he shifted in his seat and started to pop the buttons slowly.

Jack bit down on his lip, his finger working you open and curling but eyes on where Robby's hands fumbled for the belt. “Yeah, that's what you wanted? Wanted Robby's cock?”

“Yes,” you said with a lick of your lips.

Jack brought out his fingers and spread you arousal all around you before circling that small bundle of nerves.

Your head was thrown back, stretching out the skin of your neck. “J-Jack!”

His teeth scraped your neck.

“Gonna come already?” asked Robby, amused at the state of you. He'd never had a front row seat to the effect Jack had on you and by what you'd felt through his boxers and jeans, he was enjoying it.

You shut him up when you bypassed his layers of clothing and wrapped your hand around his cock.

Robby seethed and laid back as you reached around for him, taking what arousal was leaking for the head and dragging it down him.

“You're so good at that, aren't you, baby?” asked Jack as set a steady rhythm upon you. “So good.”

“Jack,” you panted. “Please, I wanna- I wanna-”

He nodded against you.

“You wanna come?” asked Robby from behind you, a hand running up and down your back. “So soon?”

“Let her finish,” said Jack pulling back and staring at you. He worked his fingers over your clit faster, dipping into your heat to drag up your want and repeat it until you were starting to tremble. “Not her fault she's excited by the both of us against her.”

Robby grumbled but couldn't find the words to say much else as your thumb swept the tip of him repeatedly.

“J-Jack!” you came onto his hand with a breath of a moan, your hand squeezing Robby.

“Fuck!” he groaned as he watched you come down from your high.

Jack sent a smirk over your shoulder. “What? Gonna come so soon?” he teased, licking a finger into his mouth and cleaning you from himself.

You caught your breath, slowly taking away your hand from Robby's cock and sitting up straighter. Your heart hammers, your ears were left ringing like you'd just gone through something life changing. You think you had.

Both of the men at your sides shuffled to sit up on either side of you.

“What's up?” asked Jack. “No regrets?”

You looked between the two of them and shook your head.

Before you knew it Robby took to one side of your neck, Jack the other. You were left sitting there as they held you up for them to do their diligent work.

Your eyes closed as you focused on the rub of Robby's beard as he sucked a deep mark onto you. On the other side Jack's slight stubble grazed as he scraped his teeth against different spots of you, unable to settle.

Their hands were hot as Robby's ran over the length of your back, coming around to squeeze at your breasts and earn noises of relief as reward while Jack focused on pulling down your jeans, on pulling open your thighs, desperate to be slotted in between them.

You guided Robby up by his chin, kissing him with a heavy tongue and eager lips writing everything you wanted him to do to you. His cock was still out, protruding and begging for attention with every messy swipe of your lips.

Jack was still on you, making a work at your neck.

You pulled away from Robby, his eyes still almost black from need when you moved to Jack, to kiss him and give him a taste of Robby.

You didn't know if it was just the adrenaline of the two of them kissing you, working you open and apart but you swear you'd never felt the two of them kiss you like they did then. With the other watching, with the other just within reach and with their lips still on the soft skin of yours.

You kept like that for a while, in between them, kissing each one moment, the other breathing hard on you. At some point Jack had gotten his own hardening cock out, rubbing it up and down leisurely as if you had all night to enjoy everything.

Delicately, you dragged your nails down their necks, cupping their chins and kept them steady and like putty in your hands.

Enamoured and under you spell neither realised when there wasn't just one tongue but another. When your smooth skin gave way to stubble neither blinked and when the hands became gruff and coarse, they relished in it.

All until you could guide Robby and Jack's mouths in together, settling back on the sofa like you were about to watch your favourite show.

You watched as Jack's grey and Robby's brown brows furrowed in as they focused in on the new taste, the rougher lips and hotter tongue. Their hands were searching these new bodies with grips and grasps.

Their cocks bobbed with their movements and you watched, mouth salivating.

Noises you'd never heard them make before left them but you weren't even jealous. You were wet and trying to remember what they looked like caving into each other to keep in the back of your mind for months to come.

Only when their faces were reddening and you feared they might fait from suffocation and you'd have to call PTMC and explain why their cocks were out, you clapped your hands once.

Their eyes opened, mouths still against each other as they caught their breaths before looking to you slowly, eyes hazy and faces red, lips swollen.

“Well, this has been fun,” you said, patting their thighs and wedging yourself out from between them. “But I should call it, work tomorrow, early night and all.”

The two were frozen, dumb-founded like teen boys realising they might like their guy friend a little too much.

You were already at the door, throwing your hair over your shoulder and showing the beautiful litters of marks they'd left on you. “See you in work!”

You left gratified. You'd got to come by Jack's hands once and had watched them make out. And even though you were accustom to a drawn out night of pleasure, you were more than set up for the rest of the night with the image of the two of them safely stored away.

taglist (if you want to be added or took off just say the word!):

Divorce leaves you with an embarrassing amount of free time. Like many women on the other side of a relationship, you find yourself in desperate need of a hobby.

Call it perhaps naïve optimism, but decades of movie-induced psychosis had you somewhat convinced that after ending a marriage your life would fall into that frazzled chase towards the proverbial moving on. Your Bridget Jones-esque era, so to speak.

You're certain you've done all the steps. Bought a tape dispenser to pack your shared life into tidy cardboard boxes, called the notary, fixed the doorbell tag, endured the pity comments, drank the gifted celebration wine bottles (expensive), had the obligatory celebratory one-night stand (bad), and decided the backsplash had to go as it's only there because Simon liked it (he didn't. He positively did not care.)

You hate the backsplash tiles.

They'd been clearance stock from a hardware store, and when you'd seen the price, you had squealed so hard your husband had pretended to plug his good ear. His lips had thinned into that long-suffering line as your fingers curled around his elbow, tugging him towards the pallet. 'S ceramic crap, Simon had objected, tapping a nail against the PEI sticker. You'd rolled your eyes and had wanted to ask him exactly what he would know about tiling, but his hands had been already pulling the wallet out of his back pocket.

It took him two attempts and several YouTube tutorials he kept rewinding every ten seconds, but he got them up in the end. You sucked him off as repayment with your knees to the kitchen floor, tracing lazy circles across the white of his knuckles where they gripped the countertop.

They get stripped off in a manic yet satisfying fit of hysteria, and now instead of ignoring them, you ignore a sticky note over bare plaster reminding you to call the remodel company.

Hot pilates seems as good as any distraction, and your therapist's office sits between the studio and your house. It's convenient: you can waste an hour on some very pricey lies and then go shed the guilt along calories and sweat. You squirm on the love seat and nod along her words when it seems appropriate.

"I think it would help if it were a more... A cleaner cut," you stammer. Your tongue is dry but you've achieved what you think is the perfect interested-but-nonchalant posture and you don't want to risk it for the glass of water. "I still get all his stuff, you know. His medical records and his phone bills, it's... Confusing."

Your friends occupy every Thursday and Saturday night since last October. They sit criss-cross applesauce on the wood of your living room for movie night, swing by the day after potluck for their washed casserole bowl. You get passed from one hand to the other in the most absurd game of "who has it", a watchful eye forever on you and your spine of jello.

Around them, it's easy to forget you've lost the flock. You fall into step without thinking, borrowing their direction for a few hours. Let yourself be carried on the same current, trusting they know where they're going.

But when night comes, they rise up and rub their knees and the small of their backs and swipe open their phones. One texts her fiancé— leaving now, home in 15. The other traps the device between shoulder and cheek as she buttons her coat. Did you wash your teeth? Jaime, I'm going to check before your goodnight kiss.

Instagram fills your head with christenings and birthdays while you stack the dishes in the sink. The washer-dryer gets stuck on heavy duty. You take a shot in the dark.

[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] [Attached image] ?

It makes you feel a little less pathetic that he answers immediately.

[Mar 23, 11.06 P.M] control lock on have to turn it off

[Mar 23, 11.15 P.M] nite pet

It should feel nice, that two can play the same game. You don't respond anyway.

The next morning, you check the mail before heading out for work. Wedged between letters and advertising flyers, you find another health record. This time there's a full STI panel in the summary.

[Mar 24, 7.03 AM] youre not funny

The call comes at 3 A.M.

Your car is on and out of the driveway before you've even fully realised what Price's voice is saying, streaming out of the speaker. They got the short end of the stick on the outskirts of northern Paris, and then had to get EVAC'd out of there because Simon almost bled out in a helo.

The team at Queen Elizabeth's Centre for Defence Medicine extracts two bullets from your ex-husband's side, nestled between his spleen and his pancreatic artery. A couple millimetres in a different direction, and you'd be getting a death notification instead of a call from the ICU.

You sit on the plastic benches just outside the OR block and stare at the linoleum until a woman timidly scooches over. She's waiting for her daughter, a ruptured appendix she tells you, and she cuts the biggest orange you've ever seen in slices to coax into your hands.

"Who are you waiting for?" She asks, and your eyes decide they no longer have the strength to contain the neurotic tears you've been holding in.

She pats your back awkwardly, a little maternal, and makes soft cooing sounds as you sob into your palms, pressing your nose and your mouth into your fingers.

You picture him lying there, on a steel anatomical table, the surgeon suctioning his blood into numbered plastic bags. You wonder if they've given him something for his head. His neck hurts, if he uses a pillow that's too thick. You hope they've found him a flat one.

For a moment, you imagine that he does die, and that you're relieved. You rub against the front of your throat when that makes your stomach turn until you feel sick.

The tears slip into your mouth, iodine and sweet juice.

"There, dear," the woman tuts, smoothing over your hair. "I'm sure everything will find its place."

You're not sure how to feel about it, that you couldn't answer her question.

The zipper of your bag leaves a red imprint like a scar across your cheek. You attempt to rub it away as the nurse leads you through the frigid corridor of the unit, shoes squeaking and cleaning agents stinging the lining of your nostrils. She makes you wear funny green covers for your shoes and hook a mask over your ears, showing you how to work the gel disinfectant into your hands.

Your bag slips off your shoulder as you peek through the gap, pushing the heavy door of the room open.

A wet laugh surges from you, completely involuntary, because Simon truly looks ridiculous. Sprawled out on a mattress somehow too small for him, cast leg propped on a metal sling, oxygen cannulas skewed over his top lip, away from where they're supposed to rest against his nose. They must've had trouble dressing him, because his gown is sagging down his arm, loosely tied behind his neck.

Half of it must be his own making given that he's leaning over the edge of the bed to smash his clunky fingers onto the screen of a beeping machine. He turns his head to look at you and you take a step back to rest against the doorpost. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to check...

His chest heaves into a great sigh when he flops back against the pillows. "Sweetheart," he burrs, nodding his chin towards the equipment. "Giv'us a hand, yeah?"

You think about hitting him, but you're sure they'd throw you out.

He watches as you drag your feet towards the bed, letting your bag drop to the floor so you can inspect the monitor. His chin dips again with encouragement when your hand hovers on the side buttons, and the half-moons under his eyes have your heart give a pained squeeze.

"Simon," you start, hating how your voice turns wet. "Oh my God. Are you okay?"

Your ex-husband cocks his head to the side, like he's taking your measurements, and the line of his mouth softens. "None o'that," he tells you, patting the seat of the chair next to his head, "c'mon, you're breakin' my heart."

He lets you sniffle a little, stretching to the nightstand to offer you a tissue box as you start rubbing your eyes. You take one out of politeness, but there's really no need: they are so puffy and dry you'd be surprised if they'd manage to produce something. Still, you jam one end into your inner corner and hope at least to clear some crust from sleep.

"How long you been 'ere."

"Since four, maybe. What happened?"

Simon scans the room and you're sure he's fishing for a clock, but he winces when his eyelids flutter in the harsh lights and he covers one with a knuckle. "Ah, nothin'."

Some part of you must still have enough hope because you wait for him to offer up more. It never comes, predictably, and you wind your arms around yourself and drop your gaze as old resentment floods your mouth.

It makes him sigh again, a heavy noise that bleeds into a groan somewhere in the middle. "Not keepin' secrets, you wouldn't understand half o'it. Who called ya?"

"Price," you admit reluctantly, twisting the point of your shoe against the ground. You find the action immediately childish, so you stop by shifting in your chair and knocking your knees together. "I told you to take me off it."

The hand he had to his eye falls down over his barrel chest as it wavers up and down with his shallow breaths. There are scrapes there you didn't notice before, at the start of his wrists and up his forearms where the tactical jacket must've rolled up. He's more gauze than skin there, between the plasters and the IV dressings.

"Been busy."

"I've called the office. Says you didn't authorise it."

"S'important paperwork. Deserves proper attention."

"Right," you scoff, primming your lips. Perhaps you don't make the best decisions in a panic. His team would've taken care of him, so there's no need for you to be here. What a clean cut you'll get if your hands keep trembling around the handle.

Your bag is halfway from the floor when his hand dangles off the bed, right in front of your face. His index hooks into the strings of the mask, nail scraping lightly against your temple, and then he's pulling it down until it rests on your chin. Your eyebrows knit together as you look up at him and his thumb smoothes over one of them, hair catching on the callouses.

He's staring at you with that complete impassivity that can only mean he's thinking very hard.

"You look nice."

Sometimes, it's easy to forget that out of the two of you he's the better butcher.

Taking him home isn't a planned thing, nor a welcomed one. He spends eleven days in the hospital and you manage to limit yourself to one other visit only, just to really assure your brain that he's out of death's grip so you can leave this whole thing behind and go back to dismantle what's left of your marriage.

It's sprung up on you. You ask him what's the prognosis and he clucks his tongue and rubs his nape until he feels like he's made you work enough for it.

They won't let him go back to his flat. The stitches on his side are still precarious and his broken leg hobbles him even with crutches, so for once in his life, it seems Simon isn't trusted to take care of himself. The medical team is still too concerned about the risk of infection and hemorrhage to leave him be without observation.

"I thought you said your spleen was fine." Your eyes squint while you help him arrange his lunch tray precariously on his knees. The dedicated support attached to the bed doesn't fit over the width of his thighs.

He sucks his teeth before using them to tear open the oil packet. "It is. Just nicked it."

The rest of his unit has been sent on action already, gone a day or two after his injury. It's protocol, but you stare at the way he tightens when he shifts wrong and think that he looks a bit like a toy someone has gotten tired of playing with.

He eats around his words, hunched over the food like a big animal of prey. He's not one to complain, but you catch the way his crooked nose twists when he gives the spare bed in the room a sideways glance. He tells you that some kid blew his fingers off like it's to spite him personally.

"Thought I'd get some R&R, at least," he grumbles, licking meat glaze off the knife. "Have to share wit' a wanker who can't keep the spoon still."

You know you shouldn't say it, but it comes out anyway.

"Do you, uhm..." Your brain tells you to backtrack, twisting your voice until it's all strangled. "Do you want to come stay at the house? I work, so it's not like we'd see eachother much and I can... Yeah, I can help you out."

It wins you a taste of the laser focus he's capable of. "Oh, pet," he croons, making your toes curl inside your shoes. "S'not a good idea, innit?"

You shrug your shoulders, prickly with vulnerability you've grown unused to. It feels a bit like rejection, and can't figure out why it hurts. The plastic covers of the meal gather into your palms, and you cringe when condensation dampens your skin.

Simon reaches for you when you try to move to the bin. His thumb and forefinger close around your wrist, feeling for your heartbeat.

"Don't want to take advantage," he adds, and you know him too well to ignore what swims in his eyes. You pretend not to see it.

"You'd do it for me."

He licks his lips, and the hesitant press around your wrist turns full, hand circling it completely. "Yeah," he agrees, "of course I would."

The fact that the divorce was your idea goes without saying.

It's unclear exactly which cog had stopped turning, but one day you'd woken up to the uncanny feeling that no time had passed since the day before. Simon had been somewhere in the other hemisphere, and you'd stumbled through the twenty-four-hour cycle of your life with an inexplicable anxiety.

You'd felt like one of those birds that smash again and again on a window they can't see, desperate for something beyond the glass.

Then Simon had come home, and time had resumed moving. It had scared you terribly.

You try to keep it from heading there, now. In the morning you leave for work and attempt to think of anything else other than where Simon will be once you return. At times you find him wandering the back garden, checking the tree roots' stability with the end of one crutch. Others he's at the kitchen table, typing clumsily on a laptop with Tesco-bought plastic glasses precariously perched on the tip of his nose. Most of the time he doesn't even bother putting them on correctly, with one arm going over the ear and not behind.

Taking care of something gives a direction to your life that's been missing. You like that he has to listen to you, now.

He doesn't object when you nag him about taking his meds and makes such deep, growling noises of appreciation for your cooking they go right down to your stomach.

His thank-yous come in service, always, so he fixes the wardrobe door that's been giving you trouble and checks all the lightbulbs of the house. You're reminded of how many things he sees that you don't: your car oil too low, loose window latch in the bathroom. The fact that your neighbour's garage has been broken into twice since Christmas.

He spends a Saturday afternoon replacing locks and tinkering with the security system. You're only informed when a new set of keys is delivered into your hand.

"You can't change stuff in my house without telling me," you try to admonish him, pretending to not be distracted by the rolled-up sleeves of his sweated t-shirt. "You know normal people just call someone for this, yeah?"

"Aye," he says around the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, "get ya a three-weeks wait and a half-arsed job. You need this done now."

This is what you've been missing: to not have to explain yourself. The few (try two) dates that you've been on since you and Simon split have failed for the same reason. You can't expect someone to know you when there's no history, but it's a hard adjustment coming from a long-term relationship.

There's no need to faff around with Simon. You don't have to explain why it's a grand thing, when you're late at the end of the work day and enter the house and tell him that your sister is pregnant. Due in September, after a third cycle of IUI.

He turns the toy you've picked up from the store on the way home in his hands. "You think 'bout it?" He asks, waits for the moment it takes for it to click in your head.

"What, about kids?"

Sometimes, you want to say, but it seems unfair to say it to him. Parenthood was always off the table, to your agreement as well. How does one raise a child when their father is across the globe half a year. The idea was shelved and replaced with something else, and for a while it had worked.

"Don't know," you're hesitant to respond, torturing the inside of your cheek. "Depends on who comes along, I guess."

He hums, stare never leaving your face. "Sounds about right."

Simon knows just when he has to push with you, and where. You're aware he lets you ramble so you're distracted when he tugs your feet into his lap, press his thumb into your socked arches. Because he knows you, you let him.

Your former uni roommate glowers at you over clementine martinis when you go out drinking. Your ex-husband has been stashed in your house for two whole weeks and you've yet to tell a single soul. It would've gone on longer, but after you'd called a rain check on your Thursday-Saturday meetups twice in a row, your friends were nearly committed to an intervention. You managed to de-escalate it down to drinks, hoping the alcohol would help, but perhaps a tête-à-tête hadn't been your brightest idea.

"It's just until the end of the month," you reiterate, sounding too much like you're justifying yourself.

There's no particular amount of affection that your inner circle holds for Simon, and you're quite sure it has decreased significantly since your separation. No need to fake appearances once a friend's insufferable partner is out of their life.

"I don't know, babe," she grimaces, stirring her drink with a straw. "It's kind of fresh, you don't even have the papers signed. I don't think it's the healthiest thing."

"It's practical. And, c'mon, what was I supposed to do? Leave him there? It's temporary and it's... It's fine, it's nothing."

"All I'm saying is, you don't make the smartest decisions around him," she points out. Not like you can get mad at her if she's right.

You swirl the words on your tongue while you drive back.

The lights are all off and you wander into the kitchen, pulling open the medicine cabinet to rummage around for a paracetamol. The weather is not quite hot enough for summer yet, but you feel stifled under your dress, fanning your face with your free hand to dampen the alcohol-fed licks of heat travelling up your spine.

A shadow shifts in the corner of your sight and you scramble, whirling around and pressing against the counter so fast you almost land on top of it.

Simon turns his head away to curl his lips in that nasty manner that means he's amused, standing a few feet away as if not entirely sure you won't bolt. Your palm slides away from your heart, and you award him a blank look.

"Fuckhead," you chastise him, low because the anger has already bled out of you. Quiet is not something he decides on anymore.

He gives you a canine smile and saunters closer, holding his arm out for you to see. "Patch's comin' off," he explains, picking the corner of the dressing with his nails to show you how loose it is, nodding his head towards the cabinet.

The help isn't offered nor does it need to be, because he angles towards you and waits until you reach behind your back for the disinfectant and the box of plasters. You murmur that you're sorry when the glue pulls at the straw hairs on his forearm, and he hums softly like he's conversing with an animal he thinks a bit dumb.

"I like the dress," he tells you after a while, and when you look up briefly, he's sizing the length of your body approvingly. Your hips shift in response, correcting your slouch as you clean the skin around the wound. "When 'ave you worn this?"

"I haven't," you swallow, hissing when your fingers fumble opening up the new dressing. "Got it after you."

The massive curve of his shoulders hunch, closing in, and you don't think he liked that so much, that there's an after you. You stick the plaster in place and prepare to bite the bullet.

"You smell good," he interrupts eagerly, and it almost makes you give in.

"Simon, can you sign the papers?"

His eyes are so weird. They shift like earth, at times, one moment the light, rich brown of soil, warmed by the sunlight. Now they deepen, the ground opening in layers, pulling you further by a magnetic core, bubbling in their tar pits.

"What papers, love?" He asks it along a deep breath, lips pulling at one corner, like you're revising some old shared joke and he's helping you set up the punchline.

"The divorce papers. I have them in the office, we can..."

Your mouth opens, and you curl your lips to wet them, squeeze some moisture out of your dry mouth. Your hand lets go of his arm, but he moves his behind you to rest on the counter so he can bend you in a more comfortable position for himself, shifting you until you face him directly. You have to tuck your shoulders inwards or you brush against the cupboard.

"You know wha' I think," he mumbles, swiping his nose over the crown of your head. "I think tha' yer a little drunk, pet, and you're not talkin' straight."

In a broader sense, you already knew this was going to happen, so it's not exactly shock that twists in your gut when his fingers hike the skirt of your dress up your thighs. They pinch the softness there as they go, mean enough that you squeak, and he chuckles with his mouth fitted to your ear.

You fear for his stitches when he hoists you up on the countertop, trying to swat his hands away, but he's clever and he hooks the gusset of your underwear in the crease of your pelvis. You've been wet since you noticed he was in the kitchen, and the groan that rumbles up his throat when he discovers it punches you in the solar plexus.

"Fuckin' knew it, I knew she missed me."

It seems like memory doesn't fail him, because his thumb traces the folds at the top before he caresses the length of your labia, finding the pool of slick at your opening and smearing it back up.

You can't help but clutch at his shoulders, digging into the muscle. The heel on your left foot bangs against the wood behind it and threatens to slip away, but when you try to spread your toes to keep it on, Simon gives your clit a good jiggle that has you doing the opposite.

"Speakin' a load of nonsense with a cunt leakin' for me," he huffs annoyedly, muffled against the spot on your neck he's lavishing. He doesn't warn you, just presses hard against your clit and plunges two thick fingers into you, bullying the rim apart until it stretches over the thick of his knuckles.

"Simon-!"

The gasp is out of you before you can reel it back, and he uses the opportunity of your open lips and cram his tongue into your mouth, with such an insistence you'd think there isn't enough space. You try to duck your head away a little, keep this from turning tender, but he palpates the hinges of your jaw and strokes quick little jabs against your front wall that make your lips slack.

You cum dizzyingly fast, moaning when you suck instinctively on his tongue the way you know he wants you to.

Simon grins like the cat who got the cream when he decides to let you breathe again, rubbing your cheek in a rough back-and-forth with his thumb. No more sounds seem willing to leave your body, so you're silent as he tugs your panties back in place, smoothing the dress over your legs.

Unsure of what else to say, you palm his side with a delicate touch. "Are you hurt?"

"No, darlin'," he's quick to respond, lowering his head so he can plant an insistent kiss over your mouth. "Feel fuckin' fantastic."

The following week, you celebrate your birthday. It falls on a Saturday, so you'll go out to that nice rooftop bar you've been meaning to try with your friends and you'll pretend it's all a surprise. But on Friday, Simon orders your favourite Indian and almost gets offended when you try to pay him back. It makes you so awkward that you let him stamp a peck to the side of your head before settling on the couch to watch a film.

When 9 PM comes, he taps your biceps with his fingers. "Pill," he clicks his tongue, and you're somehow shocked that he remembered.

The truth gets wedged in your throat on its way out. Admitting to it seems like dangling intimacy in front of his eyes that you're not ready to depart from.

"Yeah, sure," you hum, feigning severe interest in the movie. "In a minute."

"No, not in a minute. Now."

You think about getting up and swallowing an ibuprofen, just to get him off your trail. But why should he have that control over you?

"I'm, uh, not on it anymore." Hand reaching for a curry chip, you sniff and stuff it between your lips, deciding to focus on the spice burning the roof of your mouth instead of the intense look he gives your cheekbone. "Didn't really seem useful. Thought I'd take a break."

The rest of the evening is spent convincing yourself that you don't care about his opinion rather than worrying whether he thinks it's a bad thing.

You make your wish over chicken korma and pray he hasn't yet figured out how to read your mind.

By the time the last week of the month rolls in, you've half-forgotten Simon is supposed to leave eventually. If it's slipping from your mind, then he's buried the thought so deep it may as well not exist. Every time he leaves for a health check-up, you wring your hands and wait for him to come back and tell you that the time is up, that he doesn't need you anymore. What is supposed to bring you solace now fills you with dread.

Spring is drawing to an end and you feel a part of your life goes with it.

Over dinner he tells you that his medical downgrade will be lifted when May comes, and you're grateful that he pretends to ignore your fork clattering against the plate. You twirl it around your fingers, tapping the tabletop with the flat end of it.

Steam curls from the pasta between you. Simon decided to cook for once, and you'd come home just in time to bear the results. "Clean across 1500 meters", you'd said, enjoying having to evade his grabby hands, "and defeated by a timer."

Now he eats like he's still in a mess hall, elbow planted wide across the table, barely looking at his plate. He's always had that about him. This is mine, his posture says sometimes, come and take it.

"That's good," is what comes when you manage to metabolize it as the prongs skewer a limp maccheroni, and he watches your mouth open for it.

You're not sure if it's irritation or embarrassment that twinges at your nape when he snorts, tilting his head away so you're only allowed one side of his face, watching the way the line of his mouth bleeds into the scarred divot on his cheek. It turns his whole face into one long, pitying grin.

You've seen the place he's supposed to return to. A stuffy cubicle crammed into the side of a duplex, so narrow you weren't sure it was fit for rent. He hadn't seemed interested in decorating, because it had been lacking any furniture aside from the basics, all dull popcorn ceilings and vinyl plank floors. You'd found a pack of condoms in the hardboard sidetable digging for the things he'd sent you to retrieve; shame somersaults in your guts at the memory of throwing them away.

Another noodle makes it into your mouth, and you swallow it along with the image of him noticing just as he's about to fuck another woman. "Will you go back?"

"Back where?" Simon says, stealing the last piece of bread for himself.

You go to answer honestly, but you lose your bravado. "Field. Your team left," you reply stupidly, as if he possibly couldn't know, "a few days after your surgery."

"Aye, probably. Kind o' need-to-know stuff."

The chair creaks under your shifting weight as you adjust, curling a foot towards your chest so it rests flat on the seat.

"Have you packed anything yet?"

"Plenty o'time."

He says it like time is something he can afford to waste, like leaving is an inconvenience to be dealt with only when necessary. He clears the plates without asking, carrying the stack to the sink while you rinse the cutlery. Silence grows thick, cut only by scraping metal and rushing water.

When you wander to check the back door, he looks up from where he's polishing a knife. "What're you doin'."

"Making sure it's shut," you reply with your hand still on the handle. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The door gives a good rattle as you try the latch, putting some of your weight into it. The lock clicks, firm in its place even when tested under a second, harder shake. His mouth twitches and it earns him a mean glance in response.

"Checked it half an hour ago."

"So?"

"So you're starting to sound like me."

You laugh, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when you try to make it real. He shifts away from the sink, setting the knife on the rack, sighing when you don't offer anything else.

"Someone had a go at Ms. Cooke's place. Police came sniffin' round."

"What?" You gape, abandoning the door to move back towards the kitchen island. Your stomach goes tight and unpleasantly hollow, and you can't stop your hand from pressing over it, as if that alone could help it settle. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Was tellin' ya now." His shoulder sways in disinterest, like he's swatting away a fly, watching you with that unnerving patience he gets when he's already decided on something. "S'fine. We've got the alarm."

When the tidying up is done, you go upstairs and stew in your anxiety. The night seems to have an in on your thoughts, because every little noise acquires intent. Your shoulders jump as you undress when the boiler settles with a knock in the walls, and later your eyes wander from your paperback towards the dark glass of the window, wind worrying at the fence panels.

A car door slamming is what sends you out of bed, resigned that you can't bear it anymore. You stick your fingers in your mouth, gnawing at the nails, and take laps around the first floor to inspect the dark corners of your home, the phone flashlight gripped in your palm as a weapon.

By the time you descend the stairs, you're embarrassed by yourself. You find Simon exactly where you've left him, sunk in the edge of the sofa with a Stella hanging lazily off his hand. Blue-white flashes from an old football match ripple across his face. He doesn't turn, but greets you before your feet have even landed from the flight.

"Oi."

There's no rush for an answer on his part, yet he still sighs heavily when it doesn't come. His eyes studies you, moving over your face with a quiet attentiveness you've never learnt to evade. "Still thinkin' bout Cooke?"

Your expression must answer for you, because he rubs a thumb over the condensation on the bottle before he's speaking again.

"If they're worth half o' their salt, they'll have scoped the place already." His chin dips towards the window without looking away from you. "Not stupid 'nuff to try while I'm in the house."

You know, of course you do. You've spent months alone in this very same building, and haven't spent a night turning in your bed about it. For some reason, it doesn't stop your stomach from churning tonight.

"Need me to come up?"

You're not strong enough to pretend that his weight on the mattress is not a relief. The sheets have been kicked to the end of the bed, room too stuffy for them to be useful, and you anchor a hand to the edge of the bed to keep yourself from rolling in his direction, gravity wanting to move you towards the alcove of his body.

Somehow, Simon feels bigger than you remembered. His breath rumbles when he stretches lavishly with one arm over his head, knee popping as he hangs his foot over the bed's end. The sound reverberates through the fabric, pulsing where your skin meets the topper. It turns physical when a hand touches between your scapulae.

Makes you jolt, eyes darting over your shoulder, finding the humped line of his nose bridge. His arm is still over his head, and he stares up at the ceiling while using the opposite to drag his knuckles up and down your spine. You don't have time to ask what he's doing before he answers.

"Stiff as a board," he chuffs. The fat joint of his middle finger digs into a sore spot dead centre on your back, and you tilt backwards in protest. " 'am makin' you nervous."

"Always," you reply, and he chuckles like he thinks it's a joke.

"And here I was hopin' it was the break-ins."

You give a sharp jiggle of your shoulders to knock his hand away, still too touched by the fact that he's sharing your bed to reassure you to bed truly mad. You keep tight to your pillow so there's no chance that he sees you smiling when he snorts, and fall asleep with his fingers tracing patterns over your back.

His tug wakes you. Your eyes flutter open mid-motion, rolling with the pull until your face plants against his chest. His breath wafts in your mouth before Simon tucks you under his chin, seemingly more content to take long huffs of your hair than facing you directly.

You're probably the only one conscious out of the two, which is why you don't move away. You take the precious opportunity, wallowing in the instinctive comfort it offers.

It's his smell you realise you've missed. Saliva drips liquid-hot on the back of your tongue as you press your nose to his throat. Dried sweat sticks to the crook of the arm beneath your head and in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, catching the back of your nostrils with acridness. It makes you press your thighs together, too embarrassed to consider rubbing them like you want to.

The pleasant floatiness of half-sleep is ripped away from you when his hand fists the fat of your calf to drag your leg over his hip.

"Wot 's it, baby," Simon slurs against the top of your head, and you gulp down your doe instinct with his voice under your ear.

You have to work the words through the tightness of your vocal cords and pull back a little from him so you can speak. "Sorry," you start, "just woke up. Think I rolled over."

The hand on your calf travels up, palming the length of your leg. When it reaches your ass, he sinks his fingers there like the pyjama trousers between you are a problem.

"Yeah." He ignores you when that makes you whimper, slapping his palm over your cheek a couple of times. It's not a smack, more of a pat, like he's testing the solidness of you. He grabs it again, this time a little bruising. "Need some touchin', do ya."

The familiarity of it confuses you. Your brain is not sure, as his palm moves to your front and up your shirt, if he should be allowed to do this. He's your husband and he's in your bed, but he's not. He's your ex and he's plucking your nipple between two fingers until he can catch your panting in his mouth, but you can't help it when it makes you rub your pussy on the muscle of his thigh.

"Please." You convince yourself you're begging him to stop, head spinning, but Simon must hear something else in your voice because the pad of his thumb flattens against the peak of your breast, and he flexes his leg to give you something harder to grind against.

"Bloody hell. Alrigh'," he groans, a punched moan, and the forearm behind your head curls so he can weave his fingers into your hair. Prickles bloom at your nape when he pulls, forcing your chin back so he can kiss you. His spit slips into your mouth, syrupy. Waxy sugar over candied apples, stuck behind your teeth out of your tongue's reach.

Whenever you get shy and try to inch backwards, he forces you again on his leg, pressing you so hard to himself that the rubbing verges between pleasure and burning. You know you're obscenely wet because he drags two fingers over the crotch of your pants repeatedly, trying to feel the moisture that seeps into the fabric.

"Goin' to be nice to me, uhm?" He croons, pressing his forehead to yours. He's gotten you desperate enough that your hips continue working even when his palm leaves them in favour of guiding you to the tent of his joggers. The hot, thick shape of his forces whines out of you, tip of your noses bumping. "So sweet for your old man, yeah."

The fabric moves and he's in your hand, weighty enough that it makes your cunt clench at the memory.

He has a cock that makes you want to touch it. He makes you want to touch him. You've known this since the first time you've slept together: there's a deliciousness in circling your fingers around the shaft, feeling the soft give of the veins gorging, swelling with his arousal. It has you hot in the stomach, eager when you find the tip angry and leaking already, slipping between your fingers until they're slick. You stroke him from the upside of his length, trapping yourself between him and his belly so you can feel the coarse hair on his pelvis tickle the back of your hand.

You imagine he made less noise when they shot him. He tries to muffle it by smashing your mouths together, cupping your cheeks to keep you still when you struggle to breathe.

"Fuck, tha's it," he hisses, bouncing his thigh when it makes you sigh pathetic little oh's. "Good girl, stroking my cock so good. Makes you wet as rain, uh? Ahhhh, fuck-"

Your head spins again, and this time it's because he's easing you on your back. It takes the pressure away from your achy pussy, and you claw at the dark where he's supposed to be only to come up empty-handed.

"Simon-" you call, until the bedside lamp switches on. He's already taking his shirt over his head. His back casts broad shadows across the wall, shifting with his wingspan, muscles flexing at the bottom of his sternum where they disappear into the soft fold of fat over his lower stomach. The ink on his bicep jumps when he fists his length, so tight you're sure it must hurt.

You realise the light is less for you when his free hand yanks your shirt until it rests at your collarbone, baring your breasts. He sucks on his teeth and settles on his hunches between your spread thighs.

"Lemme see," he beckons with a nod, barrel chest heaving. You feel pinned by his gaze, like there's no place else for you to be, and the head of his cock bobs up and down when he resumes stroking it. "Play with yer tits."

You oblige, strumming your nipples until they perk and rosy, coaxing gentle ripples of pleasure that move your hips in jerky circles. Every attempt to close your legs is stopped by his free hand.

"Baby," you sob when you're at your wit's end. You must hit whatever nail he was laying right on the head, because the stoic line of his brow softens and he shuffles forward towards you.

"You poor thing." Simon lets go of himself, tip slapping against his belly right under the surgery scar, in favour of pulling down your bottoms and panties all in one. His thumbs hook under your knees, and you gape up open-mouthed as he guides them towards your chest. "Been a'bad husband, haven't I?"

Your sight blurs, and he notices and cooes. Precum beads and drips to land on your inner thigh. His fingers seem a bit apologetic as they nudge you apart, pushing inside your cunt to make you sigh.

You want to cum, and you tell him with your walls spasming around his knuckles, shivering from the warmth of the tears leaking from your eyes and the warmth of the wetness leaking from your pussy. He wipes the former away and gives you a third finger to stretch on.

"Gonna be good to you from now on," he promises as he rolls you on your front, detangling the clothes from your feet. Your arms attempt to push you back around but a rough palm on your spine holds you down against the mattress.

"I'm-"

The head of his cock slips over your entrance, too slick to gain enough friction, your skin pulsing when he uses his fingers to wipe some of your wetness away. Looking back, you choke on your spit as you watch him lick them clean.

Simon cages you in, a fence of muscles over you, settling his elbows around your head when he punches his length into you. It's a bit stilted at first because he's not at the right angle, and it burns, paper-cut sharp. He soothes you with a kiss on your nape and gives you the rest of it.

You feel yourself open up for him, a caving space that wants for his shape. Your cunt gulps around his shaft, suctioning, pulling him further while you struggle to catch up, pressing your mouth to your forearm. "Ah, Simon, please-"

"S'okay," he says through gritted teeth, like he's telling you more than he's reassuring you. A hand fists your hair to have more of the back of your neck so he can bite you there when his hips start pumping. "I've got ya."

The train of your thoughts gets woozy after that, brain too winded in keeping conscious. The buzz at the base of your skull grows with each sound smack of his thighs against yours, skin prickling. You'll be red there tomorrow, and at the end of your spine where his abdomen chafes. His cock pistons deep behind your mons, sending direct waves to your redden clit as it rubs on the bed.

"My wife," Simon growls when his maw leaves your neck, pushing your head down when it tries to lift up. Your field of vision is entirely occupied by his bicep, jaw slack. He presses his nose into your cheek when you thump your forehead against his arm. "My fuckin' wife... Comin' on my fuckin' cock. Mine, my-"

"Fuck, please. Right there, ah, make me come," you keen, fucking yourself back, lifting your ass to meet his thrusts. You think you could cry when he balances on one arm to sneak the other under you, stroking his fingers on your clit. "Yes, Simon, yeah-!"

It's a full body spasm, a rolling tide, growing and growing until your throat is tightening around your pants and you're near silent, mouth open in teary sobs. The ring of your pussy draws so strict that he inhales like it stings before he's rocking hard against you, making your teeth clack together.

Once you're sated, his pace changes from rolling plunges to short stabs that makes you search for his fisted hand, so hard they make it for your lungs to expand. It loosens just a second, only to snake around yours, constricting like a noose.

You feel his cock throb, pulse against your rim, and you swipe your thumb over his knuckles. "Pull out," you try, voice smothered by his weight, "pull out. Baby-"

The sound is harsh when he shushes you, lips pressed right over your temple. His arms lock like a manacle, elbows digging in the mattress, mouth parted over your ear when he huffs like a bull.

"Givin' it to you," he warns, and something scampers in your guts. Your shoulders try to shift, but you're rendered near immobile under him. "Ya need it, yeah? Somethin' to fuss over. Yours and mine, pet. Uhm?"

Objecting is a useless attempt, because the only things that come out when you open your mouth are feeble moans and wheezing breaths. He must take your silence as a yes, and his cock pulls back all the way, right down to the head, before it's slamming inside in a few desperate thrusts.

They're a repetitive drumming, laden, heavy shoves that have the entire power of the muscles of his back and thighs. Your second orgasm comes like a tumble, catching you underfoot as he spills against your cervix, making you shiver with the viscous warmth of it.

He stays there for a while, nudging the back of your head with his nose while you both catch your breath. You pant against the mattress and wince when your pussy doesn't want to let him go, seizing up when his spent sloshes out of you as he slips out.

Simon gathers you up in his arms, pulling you astride his hips, letting you rest your cheek against his tacky pectoral. He tilts your chin up with two knuckles and kisses you until you gasp for air, just to make himself laugh.

"I love you, sweetheart," he smiles when you frown at him, sealing the words with another press of his lips.

You feel like the price is already paid. Whether by you or him, it seems unimportant.

Pregnancy doesn't agree with you, but you're so content you can hardly pay it any mind.

The feeling is self-inflicted, though, because people smile at you in the grocery store, eyeing the gentle curve of your belly, and your friends twist their fingers in your hair every night out, checking the quality of the locks. God, so the pregnancy glow is real! Why didn't I look like this? You know Simon agrees because he seems physically incapable of sharing your twenty inches radius without cupping some part of your body.

The first two months you could barely roll out of bed, and when you would, you'd have to sway towards the bathroom before nausea had you bent in half. Now on the cusp of your second trimester, the stubborn thing growing under your ribs seems happier to grant you the occasional uninterrupted walk.

You take your breakfast by skirting the trowels, tile cutters and floats strewn across your kitchen floor, pinching your nose when the sharp smell of grout catches in the back of your throat.

"Out," your husband commands, swatting your ass with a loud smack. You'd think that having done this once already would be helping him somehow, but he seems to be struggling more than the first time. There's no rush: you know he'll get it how he wants it in the end. "Shouldn't be breathin' this in. Go somewhere else."

You retreat with your tea and the morning post, humming along to the weather forecast intro while you sort through envelopes. Bills. A wedding invitation. A card from your godparents congratulating you on the pregnancy. Can the baby hear you yet? Does it recognise the sound of your voice and Simon's?

When you're in bed at night, it seems that it can— it lands such kicks when its father presses his mouth to your abdomen to make silly noises for the pleasure of making you laugh.

A yolk-yellow paper clip slips from the stack and lands on the table. It takes a second to recognise it: the medical records from the night Simon was shot.

You push it aside to continue parsing through the remaining letters, but curiosity has you going back. The excerpt from the surgical record is nothing new. Two entry wounds to the abdomen (LUQ), no major arterial damage, minor damage to the splenic capsule. Patient underwent emergency exploratory laparotomy. Then there are the files from his hospital stay, the billing from the RXs and the reports of his blood work. The last page is his discharge notes.

Discharge destination: patient's residential address. Advice and caretaking: no heavy lifting 3mos, no contact exercise 3mos, see therapy section for pharmacy. No home care required.

The date stares back at you until Simon curses from the kitchen. You smooth the corner flat and slide it back beneath the paper clip.

"Simon?"

Robby lifted his head, blinking slowly, trying to make sense of where he was. Duke sat a few feet away on an overturned bucket, working on his Bonneville. They were in Duke's shop. Robby had been here plenty of times before, but he couldn't for the life of him remember how he'd gotten here this time.

He forced himself upright. "What—" Robby didn't recognize his own voice. It came out groggy, yes, but also a higher register. It sounded like it belonged to someone else entirely. "When did I get here? How? I don't remember anything except—"

He trailed off. Hadn't he been on his motorcycle, last he remembered?

Duke sighed without looking up. "You know, it's a damn shame you went into medicine. You had a face cut out for TV and you wore it out at the hospital instead."

Robby's face twisted. "What?"

"Take a look in the mirror." Duke said, nodding toward one that was hanging crooked over the workbench, stained and spotted from age. 

Robby pushed himself up. He felt dizzy, and his whole body was aching, but he made himself walk the few feet anyway.

When his eyes found his own reflection, a scream tore out of him.

Duke laughed. "Never gets old."

Robby's hands flew to his face. It was his face. Except it wasn't. The jaw under his fingers wasn't the one he'd washed at the bathroom sink a few hours ago. This was a different face entirely. His own, devoid of the wrinkles and fine lines he'd grown accustomed to.

He fell back down too fast. "W-what did you do to me?"

"Wasn't me that did it." Duke kept working on the motorcycle. "I just handle what comes after."

"What is going on?" Robby panicked. 

It had to be a dream. He didn't remember getting home at all. The last thing he remembered was riding on the way home, and then a blinding white light. White light. Was this death? Was he dead? He was young again, and wasn't there some scripture about that, about turning back into your younger self when you died? If that was true, why was the afterlife Duke’s garage? Was Duke God?

None of this made sense.

While he kept stretching the skin of his own face between his fingers, looking at his youthful hands, using them to pat his body all over, trying to force sense into the senseless, Duke spoke again. "You might want to check that folder you brought with you."

Robby’s eyes went to the manila folder being slid across the workbench toward him. So this was still real life… He doubted he'd have brought his goddamn divorce papers with him to the afterlife.

"This is the craziest dream I've ever had," Robby muttered, and opened it with shaking fingers. 

There were no divorce papers inside.

There were transcripts. A USMLE score report. A diploma from Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine. A residency transfer file. PGY-1, mid-year, stamped and countersigned by Dr. Gloria Underwood and Dr. Michael Robinavitch. A driver's license with his new face on it, smiling, fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger.

All of it under a name he'd never spoken aloud in his life.

"Who the hell is John Carter?"

Duke set down the wrench and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's you."

"Where did you get these?"

"Same place I got you a new face. Don't ask questions you're not ready to know the answers to. Now come on, let's go. I have to get you up to speed, you don't want to be late for your first day."

By the time morning came around, Duke had walked him through his new life over a cup of black coffee.

"So, what, exactly? I'm going to be at PTMC, and nobody's going to know who I am?"

"They will not."

"That won't work. They'll recognize me from pictures, from—"

"You overestimate people's retention for your face."

"My wife works there! She'll see me, she'll recognize me. This is the face I had when we met!"

"Ex-wife."

"Hey, I never signed those divorce papers." It was as touchy a subject for young Robby as it was for the older one. "We're still married."

Duke shrugged.

Robby—no, John, now—exhaled hard. "The whole point of the sabbatical was three months away from PTMC. Why would I go back?"

"You said so yourself, you were tired of the job. The responsibility. Figured you deserved one more chance to feel what it was like to be a doctor, before it started weighing you down. Away from being the decision-maker. And away from the old ball-and-chain."

"No, no. She was never the problem. I didn't need to be away from her."

Duke's eyebrows went up. "Well, I don't know that she's clear on that."

Robby went quiet and his breathing turned heavy.

"What is this?" he asked. "Is this some kind of end-of-life thing? Is this my second chance?"

"Wouldn't call it an end-of-life thing. You're quite literally back at the start." Duke finally looked at him. "Second chance? Well. That's up to what you make of it."

──

Duke dropped him off at the hospital. He had new clothes and one bag. He spent the whole drive pouring over the documents. Whoever this John Carter was, he'd clearly been a spoiled little prick. Penn undergrad, Northwestern med school. He had to be loaded. His clothes was all designer labels, and Robby scoffed as he strapped on the Cartier Tank watch he could only imagine had been passed down across generations of men in the Carter family. Was this guy even real or just a made-up identity? 

Robby’s cover was that he was a transfer resident coming in from an out-of-state program. He wondered what this would be like. He still had all his memories and all his training as Robby. He figured he could get away with claiming EMS work before med school, if  it got away from him and anyone picked up on the fact that a PGY-1 responded to traumas like he'd been doing it for the past thirty years. 

Because he had. 

When Duke finally dropped him off, he wished him lucky and all but kicked him out of his truck.

"So... were you my... spiritual guide all along?" Robby asked him, gripping the strap of the bag now slung over his shoulder. 

Duke laughed. "Do you feel spiritually guided?' With that, he rolled up the window, and left him there. 

Robby walked into PTMC without a clue who to talk to first.

"Patient or family?" a familiar voice asked, and he turned to find Dana walking toward him.

He tightened his grip on his backpack."Neither.” He extended his hand. “My name's John Carter, ma’am. It's my first day as an intern here."

“Ma’am? Call me that again and we’ll have problems, Carter.” Dana nodded, bypassing his extended hand, and started walking, expecting him to follow. "Welcome, Doctor. I was told we'd have a new intern joining us. Someone from admin will be by later to finish your onboarding, but for now, I'll introduce you around. Come on. You got a pair of scrubs?"

Robby came out of the bathroom a few minutes later in a pair that fit like a glove. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this size. In the mirror, the resemblance of John Carter to his younger self was uncanny.

Dana ran through the tour, rattling off names and locations, important information he needed to know. “You’re not asking questions, you sure you're following?” Dana asked.

“Yes, ma-”

Dana’s eyebrow arched.

He closed his mouth. “Yes, I got everything. You’re a great teacher.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Dana then tilted her head, studying him. "You know, you look like somebody I know… I can't quite place it."

He shrugged. Told her he got that a lot.

She gathered everyone at the Central for introductions. "Alright, gather up. We'll make introductions quick. We've got patients to see."

Dana went down the line, pointing and naming. He followed her introductions by nodding his head in the person’s direction, catching a few lingering stares, trying to come off as friendly and approachable as he could.

He was introduced to Mohan, Langdon, King, Javadi, Whitaker, Santos...

"Jesus, Dana," Langdon cut her off. "He's not going to remmeber anyone's names if you rattle them off like that." 

"Sure he will." Dana turned to look at Robby expectantly.

He didn't let her down, and shyly listed everyone's names in order of where they stood.

Dana smiled smugly, and then shrugged at Langdon, "See?"

Robby's chest began loosening as rapport was established. He was called “new guy” by everyone. He already felt like he could get along with this crew a lot better now, without the title of Chief Attending tarnishing the dynamic. He could be Michael Robinavitch, the intern from twenty years ago, with them. 

"You're good with names," Cassie McKay commented. "That'll help you. Come on, you're with me today."

He trailed after her through a run of easy cases, nothing too bad. 

He'd forgotten what it was like to be an intern. It was even more fun this time around, where he didn’t have the weight of having to prove himself. This time, he had no pressure to get the answer exactly right in front of an attending, because he already knew it, and nobody here expected him to. He also didn't feel the pressure a typical intern was faced with, to perform for the sake of leaving a good impression in the hopes of getting a letter of recommendation for eventual residency applications. 

McKay was thoroughly impressed with him, and Robby felt he had to fumble on purpose once she asked if he had eidetic memory.

It was also a struggle to pretend to not know where things were. He made a point to ask where certain supplies were, or get lost as he navigated the Pitt, pretending he arrived late because he couldn't locate South 10. 

But when it came to the medicine, his muscle memory started selling him out. And he was all too gleeful to let it. He reached for a chest tube kit before anyone mentioned they needed it. It led people to start to notice. And talk. 

But he hadn't picked up on that yet, on the murmurs surrounding John Carter, star intern. He was practicing medicine again for the pure love of it. He'd forgotten how it felt from the other side, being able to practice without calling the shots, and having to carry the weight of that responsibility after. 

However, he was also just an intern. And scut work was a natural part of it. He was starting to suspect he might've gotten on someone's bad side, perhaps by being too cocky, knowing too much too soon, and he was being humbled.

At least that's what he thought as he poured two inches of lube into his fingers.

Robby hadn’t performed a rectal exam in years. 

It earned him a straight-faced "It’s a great learning experience, Carter," from Frank Langdon. A phrase Robby had used on him way to many times as his attending. 

He followed around Langdon or McKay most of the time. He stood at the foot of rounds, fielding questions lobbed his way like distracted target practice. He had to bite back a laugh more than once, because he knew exactly whose teaching philosophy this was. His own.

But he couldn't complain. It was a good life, being an intern. He was having fun. He'd nearly forgotten there was something else he was supposed to be doing here, as the magically rejuvenated John Carter... Whatever that turned out to be, he was trusting he would eventually figure it out.

For now, he’d focus on rounds.

The first patient he lost as John Carter was an 81-year-old man with a ruptured aneurysm. Nobody could've reached it in time. Robby had known that the second the man came through the doors, it didn't matter.

He was in the room with Langdon amd Al-Hashimi when it happened. After Al-Hashimi- who now that Robby was distanced enough from the situation, he could admit had incredible control of a trauma room- called a time of death, they explained to him the practice of taking a minute of silence to honor the patient's life. 

Robby stood in the circle, hands clasped in front of him, the exact way he'd taught two decades of interns trained by him to stand. 

But it was bad timing. 

Because when he turned his head, through the glass, he caught sight of you. 

This might be his only shot for a while to see you up close, to catch your reaction, to see if anything in you recognized him.

The moment of silence turned into the longest minute of his life. His knee started bouncing. Then his whole leg. He caught sight of the door, of you, passing by the nuses station and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to bolt out of it. 

Langdon, across the circle, shot him a glare. 

He didn't say anything until the moment ended, but he leaned in and intercepted Robby before he made a run for the door. "Bouncing around like you've got somewhere better to be kind of defeats the whole point. Keep it in check."

Robby’s first thought was the irony of Langdon being the one to chastise him. What came out was, "Sorry. Nerves," as he moved past him. Langdon looked at him the way you'd look at something faintly pathetic, which, to be fair, coming out of his mouth, it was.

He didn't catch McKay's smirk at Langdon. "Remind you of somebody?"

Robby hadn't gotten to you in time. He let out a frustrated sigh when he realized you had already left.

"Admin dropped this off for you," Dana said. "Now that I have you here-" She proceeded to rattle off a series of patient details that had been assigned on him. He followed, as she talked with her hands, and sprinkled in details she felt would help him when he presented to residents or attendings.

“Make sure you highlight your typical current vital signs and lab trends, yes, but some doctors, like Doctor Mohan, for example, like it when you add in a little insight into the patient’s emotional state. Take note of that. Others like McKay, you'll have picked up by now, are expecting an action list, so make sure you—”

Robby hadn't realized that he was smiling at her. He couldn't help it. Dana was the heart of this ED. That hadn't changed in the past thirty years. It all ran smoothly thanks to her. It was nice to see she was the one constant in this place. Robby changed for the worse, while she never did. 

Dana stopped mid-sentence. "Why are you smiling, Carter?"

"No reason," he said, still smiling.

"Get outta here. McKay's waiting for you." She looked at him with a glare, shaking her head.

He was assigned next to South 10 and walked in to find Langdon and McKay already there. Langdon didn't look thrilled watching him glove up.

McKay rattled off the patient's vitals and intake. Then she asked Robby what they should do.

"Him?""Me?"

Robby and Langdon's voice clashed.

"We have to respond quickly. Patient is crashing." McKay nodded, "Carter, what should we do?"

Robby swallowed. It wasn't that he didn't know the answer, it was that he couldn't expect any good to come from passing off instructions as an intern. Still, he began to speak, "We need reliable access now. He's going to need vasopressors if fluids don't turn him around. I'd place an intraosseous line so we can start treating him immediately."

"We'll go with that. Langdon, could you please?"

Langdon's jaw tightened. "Sure."

He grabbed the IO driver and knelt beside the bed while the nurses continued hanging fluids and respiratory adjusted the patient's oxygen. The cardiac monitor shrieked another alarm as the blood pressure drifted lower.

Robby watched from the foot of the bed.

Langdon lined up the needle over the proximal tibia.

"You need to change your angle," Robby said before he could stop himself.

Langdon didn't look up. "I've got it."

"Your elbow's too high. Bring it down about eighty degrees. You're pushing across instead of straight into the bone."

"I am."

The driver whined.

Nothing.

Langdon frowned and tried again.

Still nothing.

"Stop." McKay stepped in immediately, taking the driver from his hand. S

he repositioned, and made one clean attempt. The needle seated with a distinct give.

"Flush."

The saline went in smoothly.

"Good flow," Mateo Diaz confirmed.

Langdon peeled off his gloves with more force than necessary.

Robby couldn't let it go. He followed him out the room."I was trying to tell you—"

"Hey," Langdon rounded on him, “I know it feels like you graduated med school and you know everything now, but we did what you said and it didn't work. Now, back off and let the residents handle it."

"Hey!" McKay barked out, "Why don't you both catch a break and come back when you're ready to get along."

Langdon bumped his shoulder against his as he passed by. Robby headed for the ambulance bay to cool off.

And here he was thinking they might finally get to do some bonding. 

"Hey," a voice called. Robby’s gaze moved to find Dennis Whitaker, sitting on the curb, working through a granola bar.

"New guy, right? Dennis Whitaker. First-year resident."

"John Carter. First-year intern."

"First-year? Huh. You seem to know a lot for a first-year. Where're you from?"

Robby recalled his documents. "Chicago."

"Nice. Nebraska, myself." Whitaker took another bite. "How's the first day going?"

"Was good, up until about ten minutes ago."

"Yeah, I heard Langdon rip you a new one. Don't take it personal. He used to be Dr. Robby's golden boy, and now he's got a lot going on."

Robby had to play dumb. "Dr. Robby?"

"Our chief attending. He's on a three-month sabbatical, but you'll meet him when he's back."

Right on cue, Robby's stomach let out an embarrassing growl.

Whitaker laughed and pulled a second granola bar out of his pocket, holding it out. "Good for when you're on the go. Recommend you start stockpiling, you'll need it."

"Thanks."

"Sure thing. And if you need anything, let me know." Whitaker dusted off his scrubs and headed back inside. Robby watched as he did.

He really had no idea how long this was going to last. Or what exactly he was supposed to be doing here. 

But he figured the smart move was to lean into whatever part of his personality he'd gotten back by not being his usual self. 

When he was an intern, he would come across problematic residents and attendings all the time. It was a talent he lost throughout the years, but it never hurt to turn on the charm. With everyone. 

So he would give that a try. He figured it wouldn't hurt to practice with Dana first. 

He already knew, without thinking about it, that Dana took her coffee with two sugars and a splash of oat milk. Which was exactly what he placed in front of her after a quick stop by the hospital's lobby coffee shop. 

"Kissing ass already, Carter?" she said when he set the cup down in front of her. "Hate to break it to you, bud I'm not the one who makes decisions around here."

"Figured I'd thank you for showing me around this morning. And for your extra tips. They really helped. Now," he leaned in conspriatorily. “Any tips on how to get into Frank Langdon’s good graces?

The irony of him being the one to ask that didn't go unnoticed.

She just shook her head, and then in that moment, he heard a familiar voice speak behind him.

“Hey Dana," you sighed, "Have you heard from Robby?” 

You'd come down to the ED for one reason. You needed to know if Robby had actually left for his sabbatical yet, because it meant there was a chance that the bastard left for a three-month vacation in which you had no idea where he would be or with who, doing god knows what, and you much rathered he didn't do it while still being legally married to you. 

Robby turned too abruptly at the sound of your voice, he realized. It was the only explanation for having collided with him hard enough that your hand shot out on instinct to steady yourself against his chest.

“Oh! I'm so-” Your eyes found his. 

He watched the apology die on your lips, letting out a gasp in its place, eyes widening as you came face to face. 

"Oh my god." He wasn't sure you were in control of your actions, as both your hands flew up to his face. The face that had no business being this familiar. "Michael?" 

Your mind blanked completely at the sight before you, because it couldn't be. He was identical. The same lean, and softly angular countenance you knew from years ago. Strong jaw tempered by gentle features. Warm brown eyes that peered down on you with an attentive, thoughtful expression beneath straight, dark brows. Short, tousled chestnut hair. Narrow nose, and lips resting in the hint of an easy smile. They looked like the same lips that had pressed against yours countless times over the past years. Only they couldn't be. He hadn't looked like this in years. 

From behind the counter, Dana had her eyebrow raised at you over her glasses. She realized then, who it was John Carter reminded her of. It was the Robby she met when she started working at the PTMC, thirty years prior. 

In that moment, you weren't thinking. That was the only way to explain your hands cradling this stranger's jaw, like you had some claim to it. Your thumbs were at his cheekbones, searching a face that had no right to belong to a man this young and still look exactly, unmistakably, like the one you'd woken up next to for the past ten years.

He let you. God help him, he stood there frozen and let you because it had been a long time since your hands had been on him, and he missed you. 

"It's, um— John, actually. Carter." He barely got it out.

Your mouth fell even more, and you retreated your hands immediately, having come to the realization of what you had been doing. 

"Sweetie—no —" Robby recognized Noelle Hastings’ hand closed around your wrist, gently prying you away. "We can't do that. We do not touch the baby doctors. What has gotten into you, are you trying to get sent to HR?"

She pulled you back by degrees, and you let yourself be pulled, but you couldn't stop looking at him. "Doesn't he look so much like Michael?" you asked her, like it was the most reasonable question in the world.

"Michael, your ex-husband Michael?" Noelle shot him a second glance. "God, he wishes." She checked her watch, "Okay. I've got fifty minutes of lunch left, because you made me take a detour to follow up on your divorce, and your ex already left for his motocruise trip through God-knows-where. And now I'm starting to worry you might actually be losing it a little. C'mon, honey. I want sushi." She looped her arm through yours and towed you toward the exit before you could look back a second time.

You did anyway.

Robby stood there grinning after you like an idiot. His grin was big, dumb, and puppyish. It cost him nothing to produce, because for the second you'd had your hands on his face, it felt like he was still yours. Because God, he was. 

Maybe this second chance could mean a second chance with you.

Dana's voice cut in. "Nuh-uh. Don't even think about it, pretty boy."

He looked at her. "What'd I do?"

She just shook her head and walked away, leaving him there, still smiling, watching the doors you'd disappeared through.

──

Robby tried to steer clear of Langdon's service for the duration of the shift. Not out of intimidation, just a preference for fewer problems while he still had no idea how long he'd be at the Pitt as John Carter.

Trinity Santos was tasked with showing him their charting system. Robby caught it incredibly quick, which pleased her. He was completing the chart for the patient that passed away earlier, when Santos commented, "Heard we’re both on Langdon’s bad side. Don't worry, happened to me on my first day too." She shrugged. "You'll learn who's worth listening to and who isn't. Stick close to Huckleberry, though, he's one of the good ones."

He appreciated the insight.

The rest of the day went by smoothly. The one real close call came when Jack Abbot walked in for his shift. Robby got paired with him on a case. They moved well together, as they always had. It went great, right up until Robby called him "Jack" to his face, in front of everyone, on his first day.

The silence that followed lasted a second and a half. 

"Sorry, Dr. Abbot. Heard one of the other interns call you that earlier. Figured it was a... vibe." He coughed up the word he'd heard Victoria Javadi say a handful of times before. 

Jack gave him a long look. Then, mercifully, let it go with nothing but a raised eyebrow. "Go give Dr. McKay a hand."

By the end of the shift, Robby grabbed his bag and fell in with the pack of day shift heading out. He hesitated at the ambulance bay, long enough that Whitaker noticed.

He paused. “Where you headed?” 

“I—” Robby hadn’t really established this with Duke. Was he supposed to crash with him? Or did he have access to John Carter’s place? Or Robby’s own? Well, those keys were in Whitaker’s custody right now. 

At Robby’s hesitancy, Dennis asked,"You don't have anywhere to go?"

"Not exactly. My, uh— landlord mixed up my start date."

Whitaker chewed his lip, weighing something. Robby watched when the decision landed on his face. "Okay, look— I really shouldn't do this. But somebody helped me out when I really needed it, and I figure that's the kind of thing you're supposed to pay forward. I'm staying at Dr. Robby’s place right now. He gave me the key before he left, since he's on sabbatical. I’m between that place, my girlfriend's, and my own, because I like to check in with my roommate every once in a while. You can crash at Robby's until you get your spot."

Technically, Robby could stay at his own place.

For the sake of decency, Robby asked, "You sure that's okay?"

"Yeah, man. Just—" Whitaker held up a finger. "You gotta swear you're not a party animal. Pretty sure I'd get kicked out of the program if Dr. Robby ever found out."

"I swear," Robby said, feeling lucked out by the opportunity to stay in his own apartment.

Readers POV

At two forty-three in the morning, The Pitt was not quiet. It was never quiet. It just changed volume depending on the hour. By midnight, the department had been loud in the obvious ways: stretchers rattling through ambulance doors, family members asking for updates every seven minutes, monitors chirping over each other, somebody crying in the waiting room because the vending machine had eaten their card. By two forty-three, it had gone into a different kind of noise. The tired kind.

The kind made of phones ringing too long, printers jamming, half-finished orders, low voices behind curtains, wheels squeaking over linoleum, nurses saying, "I'll be right there," in the exact tone that meant they had already said it five times.

You stood at the nurses' station with trauma shears clipped to your scrub pocket, two labels stuck to your wrist, and a computer frozen on the medication record. You tapped the mouse. Nothing. You tapped it harder. Still nothing. Jack stood beside you, looking down at the screen.

"Threatening it won't help."

You didn't look up. "I'm not threatening it."

"You're staring at it like you know where its children go to school."

"I do. They're all in radiology, refusing to upload images."

His mouth shifted. Not a smile. Almost. That was usually all anyone got from him at this hour. You reached for the keyboard and hit enter again. The screen stayed frozen.

"Brilliant," you muttered. "Love a machine with boundaries."

Jack leaned one forearm against the counter, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. "Try logging out."

"If I log out, I may never get back in."

"That sounds dramatic."

"This hospital once locked me out because I entered my password too emotionally."

"That explains several things."

You turned your head and gave him a look. Jack looked back, perfectly bland. The fluorescent light cut shadows under his eyes. His scrub top was wrinkled at the collar, and there was a smear of dried betadine near one cuff. He looked tired in that clean, contained way he had, like exhaustion had asked for permission before settling on him. Infuriating. You clicked the mouse again. The system gave one weak blink and unfroze.

You lifted both hands. "See? It responds to fear."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Disturbing management style."

"Says the man who makes residents apologize to CT."

"They should."

"They absolutely should," you said, and reached for the med scanner.

Across the station, Perlah was on the phone with lab, using her calmest voice, which meant someone was in danger. Princess stood at the counter with a tray of specimens, labelling each one with the focus of a woman who had entered a temporary spiritual agreement with order. A call bell went off. Then another.

From Curtain Three, a woman called, "Excuse me? My father still hasn't gotten his sandwich."

Princess closed her eyes for half a second.

You looked toward the curtain. "He's NPO."

"She says bread doesn't count if it's hospital bread," Princess said.

Jack glanced toward Curtain Three. "Creative."

"Medically useless, but creative."

Perlah hung up the phone and said, "Lab says they never got the green top from Bay Six."

Princess held up a bag without looking. "That green top?"

Perlah stared at it. Princess stared back.

You whispered, "Nobody move. It might be a trap."

Jack took the specimen bag from Princess and checked the label. "Bay Six."

Princess pointed toward the tube station. "It was waiting for the printer."

"The printer doesn't process labs."

"It had an attitude. I was letting it calm down."

Perlah came over and snatched the bag. "I'll walk it down before this place invents a new failure point."

She left with the grim purpose of someone going into battle.

Jack watched her go. "She's handling the night well."

"She threatened to divorce the tube system ten minutes ago."

"Healthy boundaries."

You scanned the medication and signed it off before the computer changed its mind. "You always this supportive of workplace conflict?"

"Only when it's justified."

"That's every night."

"Then yes."

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Jack looked at you. Only for a second. But there it was again. That almost-warmth. That almost-softening. The look that made you forget, briefly and stupidly, that you were at work. You looked away first. Safer. The problem with Jack was that most people saw the sharp edges and stopped there. The dry comments. The clinical stare. The way he could flatten a room with one sentence and no raised voice. All of that was real. But it was not all of him. You knew that now.

You knew because he remembered which patients made you clench your jaw. Because he put coffee near your charting hand on bad nights and pretended he had just "overestimated his own caffeine needs." Because he stepped in when a family member got too loud, not to take over, but to stand beside you while you handled it yourself.

Because he had a way of seeing too much and saying almost nothing. Tonight, he had seen Curtain Twelve. You had known he had. The patient had been septic, febrile, frightened, and strong enough to grab your wrist when you leaned over to adjust his line. It had lasted maybe three seconds before you got him to let go. Princess had been there. Shen had been called. The man had apologized afterward, confused and shaking. It was over. It should have been over. But Jack's eyes had dropped to your wrist three times since. You kept pulling your sleeve down without meaning to. Jack noticed that too. Of course he did.

You tried to ignore it by moving. That usually worked in the ED. There was always something else to do, somewhere else to put your hands, another task to fold yourself into until whatever awkward, tender thing had started to rise between you sank back down again.

You checked on Bay Five, who insisted his breathing was "fine now" while still requiring oxygen. Ellis adjusted his orders and gave him the kind of look that made him reconsider lying to women in scrubs. Shen finally got cardiology to answer by using Jack's name like an institutional threat. Princess found two missing saline flushes in a linen cart and declared it "evidence of collapse."

Normal. Annoying. Alive. By three ten, you were back at the station, rewriting a discharge instruction because the printer had decided to cut off everything after return immediately if— which felt medically bold. You reached for the tape dispenser and winced before you could stop yourself. It was small. Barely anything. The kind of automatic reaction you would have ignored on any other night, from any other bruise. Your wrist had twisted awkwardly when Twelve grabbed you earlier, and the movement pulled at the sore place just enough to make your fingers pause. You recovered quickly. Not quickly enough. Jack was three feet away, signing a chart. His pen stopped moving.

You looked at the papers very hard and pretended not to notice him noticing. That was usually the safest method with Jack. If you gave him an opening, he would walk through it with that quiet, terrible focus of his, the one that made patients confess symptoms they had planned to take to the grave and made residents suddenly remember protocols they had been ignoring. You reached for the tape again with your other hand. Jack said nothing. Which meant he was absolutely going to say something. You could feel him beside you, still and silent, while the department kept moving around both of you.

Princess passed behind the station with a stack of clean blankets and paused long enough to look between your wrist and Jack's face.

"Nope," she said under her breath, and kept walking.

You shot her a warning look. She ignored it with professional ease.

Perlah leaned around the corner from the desk phone. "Radiology says the portable chest from Four is 'in process.'"

You latched onto that like a life raft. "It's been in process for forty minutes."

Jack's gaze did not leave your wrist. "Did they define process?"

Princess, already halfway down the hall, called back, "They defined it as 'in process.'"

"That's circular," Jack said.

"That's radiology," you answered.

It almost worked. For about three seconds, the conversation went back to normal. You wrote another line. The printer coughed. Someone laughed down the hall. Shen's voice rose from Bay Six, calm but deeply tired. Then your sleeve slipped back as you reached for the discharge packet. The red mark showed again. Jack set his pen down. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you heard it. You looked at him. He looked at your wrist.

And then, quiet enough that it did not belong to the station, he said, "Let me see."

You glanced toward Curtain Three, toward Princess disappearing down the hall, toward Perlah still half on the phone. Nobody was watching directly. Everyone was probably listening a little, because this was The Pitt and walls were a myth, but no one was making it obvious. You could have told him no. Not because you wanted to. Because saying yes felt like letting him stand somewhere closer than either of you usually admitted he already did. But Jack did not reach for you. He just waited. A request. Not an order. That was worse, somehow. You turned your wrist over. Jack took your hand carefully. Not dramatically. Not like you were fragile.

Like he was trying very hard not to make you feel watched. His fingers settled around your palm first, warm and steady. Then his thumb shifted the edge of your sleeve back just enough to see the faint red mark circling the skin. It barely hurt. You had seen worse bruises from IV pumps and supply carts and the med room drawer that stuck every time someone needed something fast. Jack's jaw tightened anyway. You watched his face instead of your wrist. That was safer, and somehow not safer at all.

He did not look angry exactly. Not in the easy way. It was quieter than that. Controlled. Focused down into something small enough to survive at the nurses' station. If he had been another man, he might have made noise about it. Asked too many questions. Turned concern into a spectacle. Jack didn't. He just looked. That made it harder to breathe. His thumb did not press the mark. It rested just beneath it. Warm. Steady.

A point of contact small enough that anyone walking past could miss it, but you couldn't. You felt it all the way up your arm, under your ribs, in the place where your heart had gotten embarrassingly used to making bad decisions around him.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Quiet. Still not quite doctor. Not quite anything else either.

"No," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

You amended, because Jack had a gift for making lies feel useless, "Not much."

His gaze held yours for a beat. Long enough that the sounds around you seemed to thin out — not disappear, exactly, because The Pitt never allowed anything that generous, but fade to the edge of awareness. The phone ringing. The printer grinding. Princess saying something down the hall. Shen's voice from Bay Six, calm and deeply tired. All of it kept going. You and Jack didn't. His thumb moved once. Not over the bruise. Just beneath it. A slow, careful sweep against your pulse. You wondered if he could feel it jump. You knew he could. That was the problem with him.

He noticed everything and let you pretend he hadn't. Jack's eyes dropped to where his thumb rested against your skin. His expression stayed almost unreadable, but something in his face had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. Not clinical. Not anymore. There was no reason for him to keep holding your wrist. He had already seen the bruise. Already assessed the mark. Already confirmed you were not hiding anything worse under your sleeve. He should have let go. You should have pulled away. Neither of you did. Your fingers shifted once against his palm. Barely. An accident, maybe. Except Jack looked at them. Then back at you.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. His thumb stilled. For one dangerous second, you thought he was going to say something. Not a joke. Not a clipped instruction. Something real enough to make the station lights feel too bright. But Jack was Jack. And the room was full of patients and nurses and unfinished charts and every reason in the world not to cross whatever line the two of you kept walking up to and pretending was just part of the floor. So he said nothing.

He only turned your wrist a fraction more, checking the mark from the other angle with a care so quiet it almost hurt worse than words.

"You should ice it," he said at last.

There it was. A safe sentence. A clinical sentence. You almost smiled because it sounded so much like him and so little like what was actually happening.

"I'll add it to my glamorous post-shift plans."

His eyes lifted again. "You have plans?"

The question was too casual. You heard what sat under it anyway.

You shrugged lightly, because you were not brave enough to do anything else. "Sleep. Maybe laundry. Maybe staring at a wall until my soul comes back."

"Ambitious."

"Don't be jealous."

"I'm devastated."

His hand was still around your wrist. His thumb was still against your pulse. You looked down at it, then back at him. Jack noticed. Of course he did. This time, his expression changed before he could stop it. Not much. A flicker of restraint. The faintest tightening around his eyes. Like letting go had become a choice instead of a reflex. Like he knew exactly how long he had been touching you. Like he knew you knew too. Your mouth went dry.

"Jack," you said.

Not warning. Not question. Just his name. His fingers flexed once around your hand. Then, slowly, he released you. Not all at once. His thumb left your pulse first. Then his fingers loosened from your palm. Then your hand was yours again, and somehow that felt colder than it should have. You tucked it against your side before you could do something stupid, like reach for him again.

"Thanks," you said, because you had to say something.

Jack nodded once.

His voice was even when he answered, but quieter than before. "Tell Shen if Twelve gets agitated again."

"I will."

His expression told you he did not fully believe that. Your expression told him you knew. Neither of you pushed it. That was the thing between you lately. Everything unspoken, and somehow all of it too loud. For a second longer, Jack stayed where he was. Close enough that his sleeve nearly brushed yours. Close enough that you could see the tiredness at the corners of his eyes and the line his mouth made when he was keeping too much behind it. Then Princess's voice carried from down the hall.

"Radiology says the portable chest from Four is still 'in process.'"

The station exhaled around you. The moment broke. Not cleanly. Not completely. Just enough for both of you to pretend it had.

You frowned toward Princess. "That's what they said ten minutes ago."

"They have committed to the bit."

Jack reached for the chart you had been about to grab and handed it to you. "Bay Five needs reassessment before he negotiates another cigarette."

You took the chart. "He offered me three dollars and half a pack of gum earlier."

"Was the gum sealed?"

"No."

"Then no deal."

You smiled. This time, Jack almost did too. The station settled back into motion.

You checked on Bay Five again, adjusted his nasal cannula when he tried to claim oxygen worked better if it was "nearby," and reminded him that lungs were not spiritual. Ellis laughed into her chart. Shen finally walked past with a face that suggested cardiology had answered the phone and made him regret wanting that.

By three twenty, you were back at the station again, rewriting the discharge paper because the printer had cut off the final line a second time. Jack came up beside you with a chart in one hand and his good pen in the other. You looked at the pen. He looked at you.

"No," he said.

"I didn't ask."

"You looked."

"I admire quality stationery."

"You steal quality stationery."

"I prefer redistribute."

Jack handed you a different pen from the cup. You clicked it. It didn't work. You clicked it again. Nothing. You held it up. Jack looked at it, then sighed and gave you his.

You accepted it with great dignity. "That was very brave."

"It was a lapse in judgment."

"Still counts."

"Give it back."

"When I'm done."

"You've said that before."

"And yet here we are."

His shoulder brushed yours as he leaned closer to read the discharge paper. It was not necessary. The font was large enough. Neither of you moved away.

"You misspelled dizziness," he said.

You looked down. You had.

"You saw nothing."

"I saw malpractice."

"It's three in the morning."

"Dizziness still has two z's at three in the morning."

"Does it?"

"Usually."

You corrected it. Jack stayed there, close and quiet, his attention ostensibly on the paperwork. Your attention was on the warmth of him beside you. On the place where his hand had held your wrist. On how he had not said what he was thinking, and how somehow that made it worse. Then the ambulance radio crackled. The whole station shifted before the words even came through. Everyone heard the tone first. The clipped urgency. The incoming.

"Medic Seven to Mercy, inbound with trauma alert."

Jack straightened. You felt the change in him instantly. The warmth, the almost-smile, the quiet station version of him vanished behind something stiller. Sharper. The radio continued.

"Adult male, early twenties. Blast injury from unknown device. Penetrating abdominal trauma, burns to torso and upper extremities. Hypotensive en route. Altered mental status. ETA four minutes."

For a breath, nobody spoke. Blast injury. Unknown device. You looked at Jack. His face had closed. Not panic. Never panic. Something older than that. Something trained into the bones. You knew pieces of his army history the way most people knew pieces of Jack — incompletely, carefully, mostly through what he did not say. But you knew enough to recognize when certain words landed badly. This one landed. Then he moved.

"Trauma One," Jack called, voice cutting clean through the station. "Now."

The department snapped with him. Princess was already reaching for the blood cooler.

Perlah grabbed the phone. "Surgery and anesthesia?"

"Yes," Jack said. "Tell them penetrating abdominal blast injury, unstable, possible retained foreign body. Shen, airway side. Ellis, monitors and access."

Shen came out of the physician workroom, expression gone alert. "Unknown device?"

"Unknown," Jack said.

Just that. But it changed the air. You stripped off your old gloves and moved to the trauma sink. Jack turned toward you.

"Left side," he said.

Not a question. Not quite an order either. He trusted you there.

You nodded. "Already there."

His eyes held yours for half a second. Whatever had passed between you at the station was still there, pushed down beneath the incoming trauma, beneath protocol, beneath the part of both of you that knew how to work when the room got loud. Then Jack looked toward the ambulance doors. The sirens were close now. Growing louder. You pulled on fresh gloves, your wrist still warm where his hand had been. And waited for the doors to open. The ambulance doors opened hard enough to rattle the frame. Noise came with them.

Wheels over linoleum. Monitor alarms. A paramedic's voice cutting through the department. Rainwater hitting the floor from jackets and boots. The metallic smell that always seemed to arrive before the stretcher did. Blood. Smoke. Burned fabric. You had half a second to see Jack's face. Still. Not blank. Jack was never blank. There was always something moving under the surface with him, even when he didn't let it reach daylight. But this was different. The words from the radio had followed him into the trauma bay. Blast injury. Unknown device. For one breath, he looked like a man hearing something from a long way away.

Then the stretcher crossed the threshold, and Jack was back.

"Trauma One," he said. "Straight in."

The paramedics moved fast. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Hard to tell beneath the soot and blood and the harsh white light of the bay. His clothes had already been cut open in places, most of his shirt peeled away, the edges of it blackened and wet. Burns marked his chest and shoulder in angry red patches. His left arm was wrapped above the elbow with a tourniquet, blood dark around the torn sleeve below it. But his abdomen was worse. No. Not abdomen. Side.

Left flank, low and ragged, half-covered by an EMS dressing that had already soaked through. Blood had spread beneath the padding and down onto the sheet in dark, fast streaks. You moved to the patient's left side without needing Jack to point. That was where he put you. That was where he trusted you. Shen took airway. Ellis moved to the monitor. Princess came in with the blood cooler and set it where you could reach. Perlah stood at the threshold with the phone pressed to one ear, already calling surgery. The lead paramedic started report before the stretcher stopped moving.

"Twenty-three-year-old male, Evan Mercer. Found in a garage after reported device failure. Fire was still securing the scene when we left. Burns to torso and upper extremities, penetrating injury to left flank and abdomen, altered en route. Pressure eighty over palp, pulse one-forty, respirations shallow. One eighteen in the right AC, fluids running. Tourniquet left upper arm placed at zero-two-fifty-eight."

Jack listened without interrupting, eyes moving over the patient, over the lines, over the tourniquet, over the soaked dressing at his side.

"What kind of device?" he asked.

The paramedic shook his head. "Unknown. Fire said homemade. We weren't given details."

"Any concern he brought anything active in with him?"

"Not that they told us. They cleared him for transport once they got him away from the workbench. They told us not to pull any debris, minimize movement, get him here."

"Did anything shift during transport?"

"Not that we saw. Dressing stayed in place. Bleeding got worse in the last three minutes."

That mattered. You saw Jack file it away. The patient moaned beneath the oxygen mask. His eyes opened and rolled toward the lights.

"Mr. Mercer," Shen said, leaning in. "You're at Mercy. Stay with us."

The patient jerked weakly against the straps.

Jack stepped closer. "Mr. Mercer, I'm Dr. Abbott. You're in the emergency department. We're going to take care of you."

The patient's mouth moved beneath the mask. Nothing came out.

"On my count," Jack said. "Ready? One, two, three."

Everyone moved. The transfer was brutal and clean. The patient slid from stretcher to trauma bed in one coordinated pull. The monitor shrieked as leads were switched over. Ellis called out numbers while Princess snapped open blood tubing.

"Pressure seventy-eight systolic," Ellis said. "Pulse one-forty-six. Sat eighty-nine on non-rebreather."

"Shen?" Jack asked.

"Airway's not great," Shen said. "He's tiring. Burns near the neck, no obvious soot in the mouth. Voice weak."

Jack said, "Prepare for intubation. I want anesthesia in here."

Perlah called from the door, "Anesthesia's coming. Surgery too."

"Good. Two large-bore IVs if we can get them. Blood now. TXA. Burn dressings after hemorrhage control."

You cut away enough of the remaining fabric to expose the dressing EMS had placed. The gauze was soaked through. Not just stained. Saturated. Blood welled at the edges with each shallow, frantic breath the patient took.

"Dressing's saturated," you said.

Jack was there immediately. "Active bleed?"

"Looks like it."

"Hold pressure. Don't pull anything. Don't remove anything embedded."

That was standard. Normal. Trauma nursing, not surgery. Control the bleeding. Maintain pressure. Don't go hunting. Don't extract anything. Keep the patient alive long enough for the people with scalpels and better lighting. You placed both gloved hands over the dressing and leaned in with firm, even pressure. The gauze gave beneath your palms. Warmth pushed up between your fingers. Mr. Mercer bucked against the bed.

Shen caught his shoulder. "Easy. Easy."

Mr. Mercer's eyes went wide. He tried to speak around the mask.

"No—"

Jack looked at him. "Mr. Mercer, stay still."

"No," he gasped. "Don't— don't touch—"

"You're bleeding," Jack said. "She's holding pressure."

Mr. Mercer shook his head weakly, panic cutting through shock. "Don't move it."

Your hands stayed where they were. Pressure over dressing. Nothing more. But the blood kept coming. Too much. It slid hot under your palms, slicking the gauze until the pressure dressing no longer felt like pressure at all. It shifted beneath you, unstable and soaked, and the patient's pressure dropped on the monitor with a sharper alarm.

"Sixty-eight systolic," Ellis said.

Garcia entered then, gown half tied, hair pulled back, already gloving as she crossed the room. "What do we have?"

"Blast injury," Jack said. "Unstable. Penetrating left flank and abdomen. Active hemorrhage. Possible retained foreign body. Dressing's saturated."

Garcia stepped to the opposite side of the bed and looked down. Her face sharpened.

"That dressing isn't doing anything," she said. "We need direct pressure at the source."

Jack looked at the wound. Then at you. A single beat. A decision neither of you had time to make gently.

"Can you maintain pressure if we open the dressing?" he asked.

"Yes," you said.

Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Garcia's eyes flicked to Jack. "We don't pull anything."

"We don't pull anything," Jack said. "We expose only what we need to control hemorrhage."

Anesthesia came in behind Garcia, mask hanging around his neck, respiratory at his shoulder.

"I hear airway and hypotension," anesthesia said.

"You heard correctly," Shen said. "He's tiring."

Jack didn't look away from the wound. "Prepare for intubation. Hold until I say."

Anesthesia's hand paused, but he nodded. "Understood."

Jack looked at you. "Ready?"

You nodded.

"Slow," he said. "Only the dressing. Hands steady."

Garcia cut the outer wrap. You kept pressure until the last second. Then the dressing opened beneath your hands. Blood surged. Dark. Fast. Immediate.

"Pressure," Jack said.

You moved before the word finished. Not exploring. Not searching. Just following the bleed. Your right hand pressed deep into the torn opening at his side, fingers sinking past slick tissue and ruined fabric, down to the place where the bleeding seemed to pulse hardest. Your left hand braced over your own wrist to hold the pressure steady. The heat of it swallowed your glove. Mr. Mercer screamed.

Shen leaned close. "Mr. Mercer, stay with me."

"Pressure?" Jack asked.

You swallowed hard.

"Better," you said. "Not controlled."

Garcia leaned just close enough to see without touching. "You're tamponading something."

"I can feel resistance," you said.

"Debris?"

"I don't know."

You did not move your hand. You did not lift. You did not go deeper. You just held. That was the job. Hold pressure. Keep him alive. Let surgery get there. Mr. Mercer's hand jerked toward his side.

Ellis caught it gently but firmly. "No, Mr. Mercer. Don't grab."

His eyes fixed on you. On your arm. On where your hand disappeared into the wound in his side.

"No," he gasped.

Jack leaned over him. "Mr. Mercer."

"No. No, no, no."

"Listen to me," Jack said. "You're bleeding. She's stopping the bleed."

Mr. Mercer shook his head. Tears mixed with soot at the corners of his eyes.

"Don't move it."

The room tightened. You felt your own breathing change. Jack saw.

"What?" he asked.

You kept your eyes on him because looking at your hand suddenly felt impossible.

"There's something against my palm."

Garcia went still.

Jack's voice stayed controlled. "Describe it."

Your mouth had gone dry.

"Hard," you said. "Smooth edge. Not loose."

Anesthesia's hand stopped above the medication tray. Shen looked from the patient to Jack. The monitors kept beeping. Nobody else moved. Jack's face did not change. That scared you more than if it had.

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, voice low and controlled, "the foreign body in your flank — what is it?"

Mr. Mercer stared at him. His breathing hitched hard.

"I don't know."

"Mr. Mercer."

"My brother said not to pull it."

The words dropped into the trauma bay one at a time. You felt each one. Jack's eyes moved back to yours. Still calm. Too calm.

"What exactly did your brother say?" he asked.

Mr. Mercer's eyes filled.

"He said if part of it got stuck, don't pull. Don't let it shift."

Garcia's face changed. Anesthesia looked at Jack. Shen did not move. Princess stood by the blood cooler, suddenly pale above her mask. Mr. Mercer sobbed once, weak and terrified.

"He said it could still go."

The room lost all its air. Could still go. Your hand stayed inside his side. Pressed against blood and torn tissue and the hard, wrong shape beneath your palm. For one strange, awful second, your mind did not give you fear. It gave you details. The heat of the wound. The pressure of your left hand bracing your right. The ache already starting in your shoulders. The slick pull of blood around your wrist. The blood warmer humming. Jack's face. God, Jack's face. He looked down at where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then at the wound. Then back at you. The old stillness was there again. Not panic. Training. Memory. Calculation.

Something awful and familiar moving behind his eyes.

Garcia spoke first, very quietly. "Jack."

"I know," he said.

Anesthesia's voice was low and tight. "Is he saying there's an active explosive component inside the wound?"

"No one says that yet," Jack replied.

His voice was calm. Too calm. He lifted one hand slightly, palm down. A signal to the room. Hold. Stay. Do not react. Then he looked at you. Only you.

"Do not move your hand," Jack said.

Your throat locked. Your whole body wanted to nod. His voice sharpened immediately, not loud, but absolute.

"Don't nod. Don't shift. Don't do anything with your body except breathe."

You froze. Everything in you went still. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's side. Exactly where it was. Jack's eyes stayed on yours.

"Just keep looking at me."

So you did. The rest of the room blurred around the edges. Your right hand was buried in the wound. Your left hand braced over your own wrist. Your palms were warm with blood. Something beneath your hand might have been a piece of metal. Might have been nothing. Might have been everything. But Jack was in front of you, eyes steady, voice low and certain.

"Good," he said. "Exactly like that."

Your breath came too fast. You tried to slow it. Failed. Jack saw that too.

"Breathe with me," he said.

You didn't want to. Not because you didn't trust him. Because breathing felt like movement. Because your ribs moving felt dangerous. Because every tiny part of your body suddenly seemed capable of betrayal. Jack understood before you said it.

"You can breathe," he said. "Slow. Small. Nothing else moves."

You followed him. In. Out. Small. Careful. Your eyes stayed on his. Behind him, the room remained frozen in pieces. Garcia's hands were lifted away from the field. Anesthesia stood still near the airway cart. Shen held his position at the patient's head. Ellis had one hand hovering above the monitor controls but did not touch them. Princess stood near the blood cooler, face pale above her mask. Perlah was at the threshold with the phone still in her hand, eyes wide and fixed on you. Jack did not look away from you.

"Perlah," he said, voice still quiet.

Perlah startled, then caught herself. "Yeah."

"Call security. Quietly. Possible explosive hazard in Trauma One. No overhead page yet. Then get hospital command. Tell them we need police bomb squad."

Perlah swallowed. "Okay."

"Slowly," Jack said.

She moved. One step back. Then another. The room watched her leave like even the air had become tripwire.

Garcia's eyes stayed on your arm. "If she's tamponading the bleed and stabilizing the object, we cannot move her hand."

"She's not moving," Jack said.

"I know."

"She's not moving," Jack repeated.

The words landed harder the second time. Not harsh. Final. You were grateful for it. Terrified by it too. Because he was right. You could not move. Not your hand. Not your wrist. Not the fingers pressed against the hard edge inside Mr. Mercer's side. Not the wrist Jack had touched ten minutes ago when the world had been annoying and alive and ordinary.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then prepare. Don't proceed until security and command are in the loop."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer was crying now, silent tears cutting through soot on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. We didn't think it would—"

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, still watching you. "You're going to stay very still. You're going to let Dr. Shen help you breathe. You're not going to reach for the wound. Do you understand?"

The patient gave the smallest nod.

Jack's eyes flicked to him. "No nodding. Say yes."

"Yes," Mr. Mercer whispered.

"Good."

A sound left you before you could swallow it. Barely a sound. Almost nothing. Jack's attention snapped back.

"You're okay," he said.

You couldn't answer. He corrected immediately.

"You are doing okay," he said. "That's different."

That nearly broke you. Because it was different. Because you were not okay. But you were doing it. You were standing there with your hand inside a patient's side, not moving because Jack told you not to move, because a terrified patient said the thing beneath your palm might still go off, because the ED had suddenly become the centre of a blast radius and you were holding the middle of it against a stranger's body. You kept looking at Jack. He kept looking back. Security arrived at the trauma bay doors. Two officers. Both trying to look calmer than they felt.

Perlah stood behind them, phone still pressed to her ear. Jack did not turn fully away from you.

"Possible explosive hazard in patient wound," he said. "Restrict access to Trauma One. Quietly clear adjacent bays and the immediate hallway. Get hospital command here now. We need police bomb squad. No overhead announcement until command decides. Nobody runs."

One guard swallowed. "You want the ED evacuated?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "We don't know enough, and moving everyone at once creates more risk. Immediate area first. Then command makes the call."

The guard nodded and moved. The second stayed at the door.

"No one enters without my permission unless they are security, hospital command, or bomb squad," Jack said.

"Understood."

The door area cleared. The room felt smaller. Your hand did not move. Your arm was already beginning to burn. Not badly. Not yet. But enough to remind you that muscles were stupid, disloyal things. Jack saw your eyes flicker.

"Stay with me," he said.

"I'm here," you managed.

"I know."

His voice softened by half a degree. Not enough for anyone else. Enough for you.

"Keep looking at me."

So you did. The monitor alarmed louder.

Ellis read the number, voice strained but steady. "Pressure sixty-eight systolic."

Garcia cursed under her breath.

Anesthesia said, "Jack, we're running out of airway."

Jack's eyes stayed on you for one heartbeat longer. Then he looked at the room.

"Okay," he said, voice low and absolute. "Nobody moves unless I tell you."

He looked back at your arm. At the wound. At the thing beneath your hand. Then at you.

"Nobody moves."

Nobody moved. For three seconds, maybe four, the trauma bay held itself in an impossible stillness. The monitors did not care. They kept screaming. Mr. Mercer's pulse raced across the screen in sharp green spikes. His oxygen saturation hovered too low. His pressure sat in the kind of range that made everyone in the room want to do something with their hands. But nobody did. Not without Jack. Not with your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank, braced against a foreign body that might be harmless debris, might be unstable metal, might be the thing everyone in the room was suddenly trying very hard not to imagine.

You kept your eyes on Jack. That was the only instruction you could follow without thinking. Just keep looking at me. So you did. His face was steady. Pale under the trauma lights, yes. Sharper than before, yes. But steady. You hated him a little for that. You needed him for it more.

"Okay," Jack said, voice low. "We're going to slow this down."

Garcia's eyes flicked to the monitor. "He doesn't have much slow left."

"I know."

"Pressure's still dropping," Ellis said from the monitor. Her voice was tight, but controlled. "Sixty-four systolic."

Jack nodded once, like he had already built that number into the room.

"Blood keeps running," he said. "No one crosses her side of the bed."

Princess stood near the blood cooler, frozen with one hand hovering uselessly in the air.

Jack looked at her. "Princess."

She blinked. "Yeah."

"Blood tubing. Can you reach the pump without crossing behind her?"

Princess looked. Calculated.

Nodded once. "Yes."

"Slowly."

Princess moved like the floor might object. One step. Pause. Another. She reached the pump, adjusted what she needed, and backed away with the kind of care usually reserved for live wires and sleeping infants.

"Blood's running," she said.

"Good."

The word had weight in Jack's mouth. Not praise exactly. More like a rope thrown across the room. Everyone took it.

Shen stayed at the head of the bed, jaw tight, one hand supporting the oxygen mask. "He's tiring."

Mr. Mercer's breaths had turned shallow. Fast. Wet at the edges. Anesthesia stood beside Shen, meds ready but untouched, body held in the miserable restraint of someone trained to act and forced to wait.

"Jack," anesthesia said, "if he arrests, we lose every option."

"If you intubate and he bucks or we shift his torso, we may lose the room."

The words were quiet. No drama. That made them worse. Your fingers wanted to tighten. You did not let them. Jack's eyes moved back to yours instantly.

"Don't change pressure," he said.

"I'm not."

Your voice sounded thin.

His softened by a fraction. "Good."

Garcia watched your arm disappear into the wound. "How's your hold?"

You took a careful breath. Small. Jack's eyes stayed on you.

"Stable," you said. "I think."

"Bleeding?"

You did not look down. You couldn't. Jack looked for you.

"No major change," he said. "She's tamponading enough to buy us time."

"Not much," Garcia said.

"No," Jack said. "Not much."

That was the thing about him. He did not dress bad news up. He did not hand you false comfort and ask you to swallow it because it was easier for him. If Jack said something, he meant it. If he didn't know, he didn't pretend. Right now, that should have scared you. Instead, it made the floor feel a little more solid. You kept your hand still. Kept your palm exactly where it was. The foreign body stayed pressed against the heel of your hand, hard and wrong beneath slick heat and torn tissue. Security had begun moving outside the bay.

You could hear it in fragments through the glass and open doorway. Low voices. Footsteps. A stretcher wheel squeaking away from the adjacent trauma room.

Someone asking, "Why are we moving him?"

A security officer answering too calmly, "Maintenance issue in the trauma corridor. We're moving you somewhere quieter."

Maintenance issue. You almost laughed. The sound got nowhere near your mouth.

Perlah appeared at the threshold, phone still in hand, face pale above her mask. "Security is clearing the immediate hall. Hospital command's been notified."

"How long for police?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says units are close. Bomb squad is being requested through city."

"Estimate?"

"Not yet."

"Get one."

Perlah nodded and stepped back carefully, like even the doorway had become dangerous. A minute later, Lena Handzo appeared behind security. Night-shift charge. She did not enter the room. She stopped exactly where the security officer told her to stop, one hand braced on the doorframe, eyes taking in everything with brutal, efficient speed. The patient. Garcia. Anesthesia. Shen. Jack. Your arm. Her face did not change. That was how you knew she understood.

"Abbott," Lena said.

"Lena."

"Perlah says possible explosive hazard."

"Possible," Jack said. "Foreign body in the left flank. Patient reports it may be part of the device. Her hand is controlling hemorrhage and stabilizing it. She cannot move."

Lena's eyes came to yours. No panic. No pity. Only command. Only: I see you. Stay steady.

Then she looked back at Jack. "Adjacent bays are clearing. Security has both ends of the corridor. I'm moving ambulatory patients first, quiet and slow."

"Good."

"Waiting room?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "If the waiting room hears bomb, we get stampede risk."

"Agreed."

The administrator beside her — hospital command, suit jacket over a dress shirt, hair mussed like he'd been dragged from a sleep room or office couch — looked like he wanted to say something. Lena beat him to it.

"We stage evacuation," she said. "Immediate corridor first. Then the department in zones once police gives us routes. Nobody runs. Nobody says explosive in front of patients."

The administrator swallowed. "Hospital policy requires—"

"Hospital policy doesn't move sixty patients safely in thirty seconds," Lena said, not looking at him. "Give us three minutes and a plan."

Jack gave the smallest nod. You saw it. So did Lena. For a second, the two of them spoke the language of people who kept departments alive when the building tried to eat itself. Then Jack looked back at you.

"Stay in this room," he said.

You blinked once. Not too hard.

"What?"

"Not the hallway. Not the department. This room."

You realized your thoughts had started to follow the noise outside. The stretchers. The patients. The people being moved because of what was under your hand. You brought your focus back to him.

"Okay."

His gaze held yours. "Better."

The room narrowed again. Jack's face. Jack's voice. Your hand. The foreign body beneath your palm. Mr. Mercer made a small, broken sound beneath the oxygen mask.

"Am I going to die?"

The question hit the room differently than the alarms. You felt it under your hand. Not movement. Not pressure. Just the human awfulness of him being awake enough to ask. Jack's face changed as he looked down at the patient. Focused differently.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "right now you are alive. We are going to keep working from there."

Mr. Mercer's eyes rolled toward him. "I'm sorry."

"Save your energy."

"I didn't—" His breath hitched. "We didn't mean—"

"Mr. Mercer."

Jack's voice cut cleanly through the panic. The patient went quiet.

"You are going to breathe slowly," Jack said. "You are going to listen to Shen. You are not going to reach for your flank. You are not going to help. You are not going to apologize. Do you understand?"

Tears tracked through the soot on Mr. Mercer's face.

"Yes."

"Good."

Jack looked at Shen.

Shen nodded once and leaned closer to the patient. "Follow me. Small breaths. In. Out. That's it."

Your own breath tried to follow. Jack caught it. Of course he did.

"One breath at a time," he said to you.

You gave the smallest nod before you remembered. Your stomach dropped. Jack's eyes sharpened. Nothing happened. Your hand had not moved.

His voice stayed level. "You caught it."

Your mouth trembled once. You locked it down. Outside the bay, Lena had already started moving the department around you. You could hear her in pieces.

"Not that way. Use the east hall."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"No, do not say Code Black in front of the waiting room."

"Perlah, you're with security. Princess stays until Abbott releases her."

"Clear Trauma Two first. Then Curtain One through Four. Quiet."

Her voice stayed low. Firm. Unhurried. Exactly what the hallway needed. Exactly what you needed not to hear too much of. Because if you thought about the whole department, you would come apart. Jack seemed to know that before you did.

"Small room," he said.

You stared at him.

"What?"

He kept his voice quiet, pitched for you and no one else. "Make it small."

You swallowed. "The room?"

"Smaller."

Your fingers stayed locked in place. "How?"

"My face. Your hand. Mr. Mercer breathing. That's all."

That was almost funny. Almost.

"You make crisis sound like a mindfulness exercise," you whispered.

"I make crisis sound survivable."

You breathed once. Careful. Small.

"Okay," you said.

Jack nodded. "Good."

The administrator's voice carried from the doorway, lower now but still strained. "Do we need to evacuate the entire ED?"

Jack did not turn fully away from you. "Prepare for it. Don't initiate full movement until police arrive unless threat changes. Immediate zone first. Critical patients only if they can be moved safely. Everyone else stays calm."

"Can the patient be moved?" the administrator asked.

Garcia answered before Jack could.

"No."

No hesitation.

The administrator blinked. "No?"

Garcia's eyes were cold. "He's hypotensive, bleeding, airway unstable, and there is a possible explosive foreign body in his flank being manually stabilized by a nurse who cannot move. So no."

The administrator went quiet. Good.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then support ventilation. Prepare for intubation. Do not proceed until police and bomb squad are in the loop unless he crashes."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

The room moved in millimetres. Not inches. Millimetres. Shen shifted the seal on the mask with exquisite care. Respiratory adjusted tubing. Anesthesia watched Mr. Mercer's chest rise just enough. You did not look away from Jack. You could hear everything. You could feel too much. The patient's blood warm around your glove. The pressure of the foreign body beneath your palm. The careful brace of your other hand around your own wrist. Your arm had begun to notice the position. Not pain yet. Not really.

Just a growing awareness in your shoulder, a low pull through muscle and tendon that said this was not something a body was meant to hold forever. Not forever, you told yourself. Eight minutes. Or twelve. Or however long it took for someone who knew what they were doing to walk through the doors and tell you how to survive this. Jack's eyes flicked once to your shoulder. Then back to your face. He didn't ask if you were fine. Maybe he had learned. Maybe he knew better than to give you the opportunity to lie.

"Still with me?" he asked.

You breathed in carefully.

"Yeah."

"Good."

That was all. No speech. No softening that would make the room look too closely at either of you. Just the word. Good. You held onto it.

Lena reappeared at the doorway. "Police are coming through the ambulance bay. Bomb squad is being routed now."

"How long?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says at least twelve minutes."

Twelve. You tried not to count it. Twelve minutes sounded short until you were not allowed to move.

Garcia glanced at your arm. "How long has she been holding that position?"

Ellis looked at the clock. "Since zero-three twenty-three."

Only minutes. It felt longer.

Garcia's face tightened. "We need a plan before fatigue becomes part of the problem."

"It's already part of the problem," anesthesia said.

"Not yet," Jack said.

He looked at you when he said it. Not pretending. Not comforting. Assessing. You understood the difference. He wasn't telling them you could do this forever. He was telling them you were steady now. For some reason, that helped more than if he had told them you were okay.

Lena's gaze moved from Jack to you, then back again. "I'm opening the evacuation plan for the full ED. Quietly. We'll move by zones if police confirms route."

"Do it," Jack said.

"And Abbott?"

He looked at her.

"When the bomb squad gets here, this becomes their scene."

Jack's face did not change.

"I know."

Lena studied him for one second. Maybe two. Like she heard what he did not say. Then she nodded once and disappeared from the doorway. Mr. Mercer's eyes fluttered again.

Shen's voice stayed calm near his ear. "Stay awake if you can, Mr. Mercer."

"I'm tired," the patient whispered.

"I know."

"I'm cold."

Princess looked at Jack. Jack nodded once.

"Blanket from the warmer," he said. "No crossing her side. No touching the wound. Lay it from the legs up."

Princess moved with awful care. A warm blanket unfolded over Mr. Mercer's lower legs, then his hips, stopping well away from your arm and the injury. Normal nursing care in the least normal room in the world. Mr. Mercer cried harder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

You wanted to tell him to stop apologizing. You couldn't trust your voice. Jack did it for you.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "save your strength."

"Tell my mom—"

"No," Jack said.

The word was sharp enough that the room looked at him. Even you. Jack's eyes stayed on Mr. Mercer now.

"You are not giving messages right now," he said. "You are breathing. That is your job."

Mr. Mercer's mouth trembled.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep doing your job."

Then Jack looked back at you. Like there had not been a knife hidden in that sentence. Like he had not just stopped a dying man from doing the exact thing you would later need to do. Your throat tightened again. You did not know why that hurt. Only that it did.

Lena's voice came from the door. "Bomb squad ETA eight minutes."

Eight. Jack's gaze stayed on yours.

"Don't count backwards," he said.

You gave the smallest breath of a laugh, barely enough to move air.

"Bossy."

"Efficient."

Then he looked back to the room. "We use the time. We do not stare at the clock."

Garcia watched the bleeding. Shen watched the airway. Lena moved the hospital around the blast radius. Jack stayed in front of you. You watched him. And under your palm, the foreign body stayed exactly where it was. Eight minutes did not pass cleanly. Time in the trauma bay stopped behaving like time. It became numbers instead. Pulse one-fifty-two. Pressure sixty-two. Sat eighty-eight with assisted breaths. Blood running. Second unit ready. Police on site. Bomb squad inbound. Your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank. The foreign body under your palm. Jack in front of you. That was the shape of the room. Everything else moved around it.

Outside the trauma bay, The Pitt was being quietly dismantled piece by piece. Not evacuated all at once. Not at first. That would have been chaos. A stampede in a department full of chest pain, intoxication, fever, fractures, elderly patients with walkers, children with frightened parents, nurses pushing stretchers, doctors trying to decide who could move and who absolutely could not. So Lena moved it like she moved everything else. In zones. With a low voice and no patience for panic. You could hear her beyond the glass, firm and clipped and too calm.

"Curtain One through Four, east corridor."

"No, not that way. East corridor."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"Do not say bomb in front of patients."

"Safety relocation. That's the phrase."

"Who is with Bay Six?"

"Then find out."

Security stood at both ends of the trauma corridor. Police had come in through the ambulance bay and were keeping everyone back. Hospital command hovered near the doors with the anxious uselessness of someone discovering that a laminated emergency policy was not the same thing as an emergency. Inside Trauma One, no one wasted motion.

Princess had backed away from the blood cooler after setting up the second unit. Ellis stayed at the monitor, face pale, voice steady. Shen held airway support with the tight focus of a man trying to keep a dying patient alive without letting the patient move. Anesthesia stood beside him, ready for the moment the risk of not intubating outweighed the risk of movement. Garcia watched the wound. Jack watched everything. Not just you. That would have been easier and worse.

He watched the patient's pressure. The blood pump. Shen's hands. Anesthesia's medications. Garcia's body language. The doorway. The hall. Lena. Security. The place where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. And you. Always back to you. A check. A question. A promise he had no right to make. You had stopped trying to name what sat between you. There was no room for it now. No room for the memory of his thumb under your bruised wrist. No room for the almosts and maybes and silences that had been building for weeks. Except, somehow, that was all there was room for.

"Sat's holding at eighty-eight," Ellis said.

"Holding is generous," anesthesia muttered.

"It's the word I have," Ellis said.

Jack did not look away from the monitor. "Keep assisting. No intubation unless he loses respiratory drive completely."

Anesthesia's mouth tightened. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer made a thin sound beneath the mask.

Shen leaned closer. "Stay with me, Mr. Mercer. Small breaths."

The patient's eyes fluttered. "My brother?"

Jack's face changed by less than a breath.

"Police are speaking with him," he said.

That was new. Your eyes moved to Jack before you could stop them. His gaze caught yours. Yes, his face said. They had found the brother. They knew more than they were saying. A cold line opened down your back. Before you could ask, Lena appeared at the threshold again, one hand over the phone tucked against her ear.

"Police have the brother," she said. "Bomb squad is two minutes out. They're getting information from him now."

Jack's jaw flexed.

"Is he stable enough to talk?"

"Panicked, but talking," Lena said.

Garcia's eyes stayed on the wound. "If there's information we can use, we need it."

Lena nodded once. "They're relaying to bomb squad, not us."

Anesthesia looked up. "Why not us?"

"Because if it's what we think it is," Jack said, voice low, "they'll want the room cleared before they say it out loud."

The silence after that was worse than the alarms. You stared at him. He did not look away. The hallway behind Lena had changed again. There were fewer voices now, but more movement farther away. Bigger movement. Stretchers. Wheelchairs. Orders passed between staff. The wide machinery of a hospital trying to shift its own weight without collapsing. A security officer approached Lena from the side.

"Immediate trauma corridor is clear," he said. "Police are expanding perimeter. They want the whole ED evacuated."

Lena's face did not change. But the air did. The whole ED. Not adjacent rooms. Not the trauma corridor. Everything.

Waiting room. Curtains. Bays. Hall beds. Psych holds. Boarders who had been waiting upstairs for beds that did not exist. The old woman in Curtain Two who needed oxygen. The kid with the broken wrist. The man in Bay Five who thought oxygen worked if it was "nearby." The septic patient in Twelve. People who had come to The Pitt because something was wrong and now had to be moved because something worse had followed someone else inside.

Your stomach turned. Your hand did not move. Jack saw the change in your face.

"Don't take it," he said.

You could barely hear yourself. "They're evacuating the whole ED."

"Yes."

"Because of—"

"No," he said.

The word cut through the thought before it could finish forming. Your eyes burned.

"Jack—"

"No. Because of the device. Because of the risk. Because that's protocol. Not because of you."

Your throat worked. You wanted to believe him. You mostly did. It didn't help as much as you needed it to.

Lena looked toward hospital command. "We evacuate by acuity and mobility. Ambulatory to the east hall and outpatient corridor. Stretcher patients to radiology holding if police clears it. Criticals go to pre-op and PACU overflow. Psych stays with security escort. Anyone on oxygen gets portable tanks before movement."

The administrator blinked. "Can we move patients into PACU without—"

"Yes," Lena said.

He opened his mouth. She looked at him. He closed it. Good man.

"Call upstairs," Lena continued. "Tell them ED is unloading into every available monitored space. I do not care whose census sheet gets ugly."

Security spoke into his radio, then nodded. "Police cleared east hall and outpatient corridor. Ambulance bay is locked down. Incoming ambulances diverted."

"Not critical trauma," Jack said, still watching the monitor.

Lena's eyes flicked to him.

"If a critical trauma is ten minutes out, they can't circle the city," Jack said. "Robby or McKay can make that call outside. But no one comes through this corridor."

Lena nodded. "I'll route command through Robby."

"Robby's here?"

"Just arrived."

Something moved across Jack's face. Not relief. Not exactly. Robby meant backup. Robby also meant someone who could look Jack in the eye and say no. You saw Jack understand both things. He said nothing. The ambulance bay doors beyond the hall opened again, and a new kind of quiet entered with the people who came through. Bomb squad. You knew it before anyone said it.

Maybe it was the way the police officer near the door straightened. Maybe it was the way Lena shifted aside without being told. Maybe it was the shape of the two responders who stopped behind the marked line, one with a hard case, the other speaking low into a radio. The lead tech was a man in dark gear, hair cropped close, face composed in a way that did not belong to hospitals. Calm like roads blocked at midnight. Calm like wires and blast radius and choices made very slowly.

"I'm Sergeant Vale," he said. "Bomb squad. Nobody changes position."

Jack answered immediately. "No one has."

Vale's eyes moved across the trauma bay. Patient. Wound. Your arm. Garcia. Shen. Anesthesia. Ellis. Princess. Jack. Then back to you. He did not ask if you were okay. You were grateful.

"We spoke to the brother on the way in," Vale said.

The words changed the room again.

Jack's voice stayed level. "What did he say?"

Vale did not answer. Not yet. His eyes moved to the number of people in the bay.

"I'll brief essential personnel only."

Jack's expression hardened. "My trauma team is essential."

"Not all of them," Vale said.

Garcia stepped forward half an inch, then stopped herself. "This patient is unstable."

"I understand."

"With respect, Sergeant, if he bleeds out or loses his airway while you're clearing the room, the device won't matter."

Vale's gaze stayed level. "With respect, if that device functions the way the brother described, nobody in this room gets to use the airway."

Silence. No one breathed right for a second. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's flank. You felt heat. Blood. The hard, smooth edge pressed beneath your palm. For the first time since this began, the foreign body stopped being unknown. Not to them. Not to the bomb squad. They knew. And they were not saying it in front of everyone. That scared you more than the guessing had.

Jack looked at Vale. "Who stays?"

Vale answered without hesitation. "The nurse with her hand in the wound. Me. One medical lead outside the immediate radius to advise. Everyone else leaves until assessment is complete."

"No," Jack said.

Flat. Instant. Lena closed her eyes for half a second in the doorway. Like she had been waiting for that and hated being right.

Vale looked at Jack. "This is not negotiable."

"I'm the attending."

"You can advise from outside."

"The patient is unstable."

"And the device is unstable."

"You don't know that until you assess it."

"We know enough," Vale said. "That is why I'm clearing the room before I give details."

Garcia's mouth tightened. "I need to be able to control hemorrhage."

"You cannot operate around a live device."

"I'm aware."

"Then you are outside until I tell you otherwise."

Garcia looked furious. She also looked like she knew Vale was right.

Anesthesia spoke next, low and tense. "If he crashes while we're outside—"

"I'll call you back if I need you," Vale said.

"If you need us, it may be too late."

Vale's eyes flicked briefly to Mr. Mercer. "I know."

That was the first human thing in his voice. Not softness. Not comfort. Just the truth. Jack did not move. His shoulders had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. You had seen him calm all night. You had seen him controlled. This was different. This was refusal settling into his bones.

"I was in the army for years," Jack said, voice low. "I've seen devices in bodies. I've seen what happens when people move wrong."

The room seemed to hear everything under that. Blast trauma. Blood in places blood should not be. Rooms that did not stay rooms. Vale's expression changed by the smallest degree. Not softened. Understood, maybe.

"Then you know why you can't stay," Vale said.

Jack's eyes stayed on him. "Then you know why I won't leave."

Not her. He did not say that. He did not need to. Everyone heard it anyway. Then Mr. Mercer's monitor alarmed again, high and shrill. Ellis flinched but did not touch anything.

"Pressure fifty-eight," she said.

Garcia looked at Jack. "He needs more blood."

Princess shifted automatically toward the cooler.

Vale's voice snapped across the room. "Stop."

Princess froze. The blood pump clicked steadily.

Jack's eyes cut to Vale. "You cannot freeze all care."

"I can freeze movement until I know what's safe."

"He dies if we do nothing."

"He may detonate if you do anything."

The sentence landed like a physical thing. You heard someone inhale. Maybe you. Jack's face turned hard enough to frighten you.

"Then tell me what it is."

Vale looked at the room again. At all the people. Too many.

"No."

Jack took one step toward him. Small. Controlled. A movement with no wasted motion. Vale did not flinch. Lena stepped into the doorway. Not into the room. Just enough.

"Jack."

He did not look at her.

"Not now," he said.

"Yes," Lena said. "Now."

His jaw tightened.

"Abbott," Vale said, "you have ten seconds to step out before I have security remove you."

Jack almost laughed. There was no humour in it.

"Good luck."

Lena moved then. She crossed the threshold carefully, hands visible, her eyes locked on Jack rather than the bed. She did not come near you. Did not come near Mr. Mercer. She stayed on Jack's side of the room, outside the path Vale had claimed.

"Lena," Jack warned.

"No," she said.

One word. Charge nurse voice. Not loud. Immovable. Jack finally looked at her.

"You need to leave," Lena said.

"I'm not leaving."

"You are."

"I am the attending physician responsible for that patient."

"You are a body in a blast radius."

His eyes flashed. "Don't."

"I will not let you dress this up as medical necessity if it isn't."

The room went still around that. You felt the words hit him. Because they were true. Because everyone knew they were true. Because you knew they were true too. Jack looked at you then. For one breath, everything else dropped away. Not the patient. Not the bomb. Not the blood. Just the noise around it. Jack looked at you like if he held you there with his eyes hard enough, he could make the next five minutes survivable. You wanted to let him. You wanted to be selfish. You wanted to say, Stay.

Instead, you heard yourself say, "Jack."

His face changed. That soft version of your voice had always done something to him. You had seen it before in smaller rooms, over smaller wounds. Not like this. Never like this.

"Don't," he said.

You swallowed. Your hand did not move.

"I need you to go."

His eyes sharpened with something almost like betrayal.

"No."

"Yes."

"You don't get to ask me that."

"I'm not asking."

Lena went very still. Jack stared at you. You forced yourself to keep looking at him because if you looked anywhere else, you would break apart. Your voice shook once and then steadied.

"You told me to keep the room small."

His throat moved. You kept going.

"I can't do that if you're arguing with the bomb squad."

His mouth pressed into a hard line.

"That's unfair," he said quietly.

"I know."

"You're using my own instructions against me."

"Yes."

A tear slipped down your cheek. Still, your hand did not move.

"I need you outside," you said. "Where I know you're not standing next to me if this goes wrong."

Jack's eyes flashed. "Do not say that."

"Jack."

"No."

"If you stay, I'll be thinking about you."

The words came out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too late to take back. His face went still. You breathed in carefully. Small. Shallow.

"I can't think about you," you said. "I have to think about my hand."

For a second, no one moved. Then Jack closed his eyes. Just once. A blink too long. When he opened them, something had changed. Not acceptance. Never that. Understanding. The terrible kind. Outside the room, the ED evacuation widened again. You heard Lena's radio crackle from her shoulder.

"All units, full ED evacuation is active. Repeat, full ED evacuation active. Move by zone. Maintain east corridor. No patient traffic through trauma."

Full ED evacuation active. The words made your stomach turn cold. Jack heard them too. So did everyone.

Vale glanced once toward Lena. "Now, Dr. Abbott."

Jack looked at your arm. At the wound. At the place where your hand disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then back at your face.

"You listen to Sergeant Vale," he said.

You almost nodded. Caught yourself.

"Okay."

"You do exactly what he says."

"Okay."

"You do not improvise."

Your mouth trembled. "That's rich, coming from you."

For the first time since Vale arrived, Jack's mouth almost moved. Almost. Then it vanished.

"I'll be right outside."

You wanted to say that wasn't enough. You wanted to say it was too far.

Instead, you whispered, "I know."

Lena stepped closer to him.

"Jack," she said softly.

He did not move. She put one hand on his arm. Not yanking. Not forcing. Just contact. A reminder that he had a body and it needed to leave the room. Jack looked at her hand like he might argue with that too. Then he let her pull. Only Lena could have made it look like she wasn't dragging him. Only Jack could have made being dragged look like a tactical retreat. He stepped back once. Then again. Every inch looked carved out of him. At the doorway, he stopped. Vale's patience had clearly reached its edge, but he held. Jack turned his head. Not fully.

Just enough to look at you one more time. You held his gaze. There was so much in his face now that it hurt to see it. Fear. Fury. Helplessness. Something else too. Something neither of you had said, but which had been living between you so long it almost had a pulse. You did not say it. Not yet. Not with him there. Not when it might make him step back into the room. So you gave him the only thing you could. You kept your hand still. Jack saw. His face broke for half a second. Then Lena pulled him across the threshold.

The security officer closed the trauma bay door behind him. The sound was soft. Final. For a moment, Jack stood on the other side of the glass like he had forgotten how to exist there. Lena stayed beside him, her hand still wrapped around his forearm. Not because she could hold him if he truly decided to go back in. Because she would try. Behind him, the hallway was no longer The Pitt as you knew it. It was evacuation. Security. Police. Stretchers disappearing around corners.

Staff moving patients away from the room where you stood with your hand inside a man's body and the centre of the disaster under your palm. Jack did not look at any of it. He looked only at you. Vale stepped closer. Not blocking him completely. But enough that your world had to change shape.

"Okay," he said, voice calm in a different way than Jack's. "Now I can tell you what we're dealing with."

Your stomach turned cold. Outside the glass, Jack went utterly still. Vale set the hard case down with careful precision.

"Look at me," he said.

Can't wait to read the rest, read the entire story here now.

⋆ ꩜ ⋆

"What would you say to a date?"

You turn to find none other than Dana Evans being the one with the absurd question. You're not even entirely sure where she came from. Suddenly she's propped up, hip against the desk, crashing your peace with that certain gleam in her eye that means trouble. 

This wasn't the first time Dana's complained about your singleness. The way your life consisted of the commute to work, the commute home, a cheesy romance movie, and bed. On the occasional wild day maybe you'd take a trip to a coffee shop, or an in-person trip to the grocery store instead of DoorDash. That is if you were feeling really adventurous. Somehow in those times though you've never managed to have some rom-com meet-cute like in all the movies you watched. 

"As flattered as I am, I was under the impression you were married!" You dodge not only the question but also her. Turning on your heels, you walk to the leftmost side of the desk, keeping your eyes down. 

Sure, a date sounds nice in theory. The same way a leading man chasing you through an airport seems nice in theory. But, if it actually happened you'd most likely pepper spray him. 

"Not me." She says dryly. "Maybe in my younger days though." 

You give her a sideways glance, which she's already giving you. The thought intrigues you more than you care to say. What you would give to know more about Dana's college days!

"I've got a guy for you."

"Dana, really I'm good. I don't have time to even fantasize about a date right now."

To you, a date was never a fantasy. They just never turned out right. Men would speak over you, or you'd intimidate them and it's a night full of awkward silences and bad company. 

However, you find the occasional times to fantasize about Jack Abbot.

Your crush on Abbot started slow and accidental really. A night off work for the first time in months. Which of course you spent doing the one thing you love most: turning off the lights, drinking wine in your pajamas, and watching whatever rom-com popped up first in your recommended tab. This night just happened to be Two Weeks' Notice. You'd seen it a thousand times and could probably quote half of Sandra Bullock's monologues. 

But, there was something different about it this time. Something about the way she was falling in love with her charmingly sarcastic boss. It seemed less like something you'd laugh at and instead it started making perfect sense to you. 

I mean Sandra Bullock is falling in love with her boss. Why can't you?

Somehow by the second glass of red, Hugh Grant's face somehow started to morph into Jack Abbott's. 

But, most of all it was the mistake of falling asleep during the fourth glass and the dreams that followed, guest starring a sexy doctor. 

As quick as this crush started, it was anything but quick to leave. No matter how much you willed it away. 

Sandra Bullock-esque rom-coms don't happen to people like you. Hot boss or not. 

"It won't kill you." Dana's arms thud against the counter as she lays them down with purpose. 

"It might." A voice that belongs to Shen interjects into the conversation you already wish you weren't having. "Have you seen how awkward she gets when hot dads bring their kids in?"

"I do not!" You half-yell. "I'm a professional. I don't think about things like that at work."

"Yeah, and that's why you eye fuck Abb-" 

"OKAY!" You yell. Prying eyes are on you immediately as your voice cuts through the ED. You give an awkward thin-lipped smile and apologetic wave to the strangers. "Okay. Point received." 

Now the only fantasy you're having at work is ripping the Dunkin cup from Shen's hand and drenching him in it. 

"Ignore him." Dana shoos Shen away. He slinks off slurping what's left of his melted iced coffee. 

You can't miss the small glint in Dana's eye as she bites back a laugh at Shen's accusation. Which is totally false!

"Dinner. That's all I'm asking." Dana pries once again. You shake your head, not even bothering to verbally answer anymore. "An hour, two max."

"Dana when I'm not here I'm sleeping or trying to get all my shit done before I have to be back here. I don't have time." 

"You have time." She responds insistently. 

It's almost impressive how she hasn't budged. 

"Fine. I don't want to make the time then."

"You don't want to go out and just have a free dinner with a handsome guy?" Dana's eyebrows shoot up.

Unfortunately, the idea intrigues you somewhere deep down. That same part of you that smiles and rewinds when the movie finally crescendos with a dramatic declaration of love. But, in reality, the movie would end differently for you. A terrible date with a guy who went to a doctor a few times and now feels confident in his ability to mansplain medicine. No love at first sight for you. 

"Sounds like hell."

You can't even remember the last time you looked at a man that wasn't on your TV. Well, I mean besides the ones you're forced to see every day. Abbot… Who apparently you REALLY look at.

Your mind trails off as he moves from room to room in front of you. That quiet confidence radiating off of him like it always does. UGH, and he's wearing those camo pants tonight. OH. You totally are eye-fucking him aren't you?!

You snap your eyes from him back to Dana immediately. "Tell me about this guy." 

No part of you really wants this, but you've got to get your mind off Abbott. Fully. You one hundred percent, unequivocally, cannot be crushing on Jack Abbot. 

"It's a guy I know. He's been single for too long. Like you." She says pointedly. "I think you'll like him. He's good people." 

"You sure you wanna do this?" It's a genuine question, not a threat. Introducing you to someone could be a bad move on her part. You're not exactly revered as a charmer. "Because, if I don't like him, I'll leave."

You we're strong willed and didn't enjoy wasting your time. There was nothing wrong with it, but some men would disagree. Apparently you could be a quote, "a real ball buster" as your college boyfriend so eloquently wrote in the very text message he dumped you with. 

As time went on, you came to realize you liked love more in theory or in dreams. You were not cut out to be a rom-com star. 

"I know." Dana draws out her words, rolling her eyes at you. "But, I have a good feeling."

"What's his name?" You give a defeated sigh. 

Dana's face lights up with that cocky closed-lip smile she gets when she's won something. She's beaten you down enough and she knows it. Success!

"No names." Leaving no room for rebuttal, she claps her hand flat against the counter to make her point. "I don't want you looking him up."

"Come on-"

"No. You and Santos do that cyber stalking thing and you'll try and find him." She's already turned on her heels before you can get another word out. 

 "It's not stalking!" You yell after her. "It's the way the world works. Get with the times Dana!"

Well, looks like you just got yourself a date you didn't really want to go on in the first place. But if all goes well you'll fall in love and never think of Jack Abbot as anything more than a boss ever again. 

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

"Jack, c'mere I gotta talk to you." 

Dana surveys the floor, making sure you're nowhere in sight. Luckily for her, you're tied up in a trauma room with a very chatty guest who, based on their facial expression is not very happy with you. 

His face turns confused for a second, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening before he falls in step.

"You need a date." She says simply. 

For once in his whole life he's actually speechless. He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is an offended scoff. 

"When's the last time you've been on a date?" She asks, crossing her arms over her chest. 

The offended sound comes out once again as he blunders for a second. "I don't know. A year…?"

He tried once, maybe twice after his wife passed. Someone who asked him out both times. He'd never actually pursued anything himself. It wasn't exactly that he was resisting, there was just never anyone who caught his attention first.

Then came you. But to him, that was forbidden.

"That's sad."

"I'm doing just fine for myself-"

She holds up her hand for him to stop before he says anything further. "I didn't ask about that. And, I don't believe I want to know that."

Robby laughs from somewhere behind her. Of course, listening in on the conversation. Somehow his ears seem to be everywhere at once. There's no conversation he misses in this hospital. 

"What?" Jack asks him. The tone of his voice would almost sound offended if he wasn't chuckling. 

"No, nothing." Robby shakes his head. He clasps a friendly hand on Dana's shoudler. "He's doing fine Dana. Just this morning Myrna offered to flash him." 

Alright, now they're just being mean. 

"Tell him he needs a date." Dana elbows Robby. Before Jack can interject, Robby's response is immediate. 

"Ohhh, you need a date brother."

Jack's outnumbered and somehow they're also beating him at his own game. He has no defenses left. No sarcastic comments that'll stop them 

"You know what? Fine." Jack tosses his hands up. "I'll start looking for someone." 

His eyes rake across the hospital floor like he's looking for someone and before he's even made any conscious effort, they land on you. 

One day you were a thorn in Jack's side, a new resident he had to get acclimated to. But, very, very quickly you became something else. The worst part was it wasn't even because you were attractive - which you absolutely were. No, it was the first time you yelled at him during trauma. You, a resident, yelling across the table at your attending.

He was gone. 

Robby and Dana side-eye each other at Jack's obvious stare. He was never a subtle man and even less so when it came to matters of the heart. The number of times Dana's caught him acting like a giddy school boy around you was absurd.

That time you complimented his technique for a chest tube and he walked around like a God for the rest of the night. 

Or, even worse, that time he let his beard grow and asked you, Dana, and Ellis for your opinions. They both agreed it was fine. - not that they cared much either way. - But, you weren't a fan. The next day he was shaved. 

It was just something about you. Something he had never seen in someone else. You had no angle, you didn't play games or hospital politics. You came in to work every day, yelled at whoever needed yelling at, and fixed whoever needed fixing. No ass-kissing or pride involved.You had no ego; it was refreshing. If you thought he was acting like a dick you'd tell him. If you thought he was right you'd tell him. Though maybe a little awkwardly because nice feelings weren't really your thing.

"No need!" Dana says with a satisfied grin. "I've got someone for you."

Robby howls a laugh at how perfectly Dana manipulated Jack into this. 

"Who?" He asks. 

"Someone I've been wanting to set you up with."

"Set me up with? Like a date?" He says emphatically. "Like I'm twenty?"

"It'll be fine. You'll like her."

"Well, who is it?"

"You don't know her." Her face gives nothing away but for a fleeting second Jack would almost swear that seemed like a lie. 

"She's smart and beautiful, you'll like her."

"Well, I can't say I don't like those two things." A small smirk creeps up his face. Smart and beautiful was great but he knew someone who fit that description already. Doesn't much matter though, Jack can't remember a time he's seen you show interest in him. And, he was the furthest thing from a pushy man.

Plus, if you wanted him surely you would've said something by now. 

"She's a little young," Dana trails off. "That okay with you?"

Jack finds himself calculating in his head how old you were. Would that be weird? Wait. First, why would he care? Second, why would it matter? 

"I mean how-" 

"Okay, great." Dana claps her hands with a loud boom, ending his sentence for him. 

She's already exited the conversation before he can ask more of the many pressing questions he has. "What's her name?" He calls out, Robby still beside him, happy to be a non-involved third party to this shitshow. 

"Secrets." She hollers back not turning around, her hands doing most of the talking. 

"Looks like you just bought yourself an appearance on the Dating Game." Robby claps Jack's shoulder with an overjoyed smile that crinkles the skin around his eyes. 

Hopefully she isn't that young because God, they really are old. I mean the Dating Game, really?

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

"What are you up to?" Robby asks, narrowing his eyes onto Dana once he's managed to find her alone. 

"Just think he needs someone." She shrugs sounding a little tender, strangely. 

"Uh huh." Robby clicks his tongue. "And I'd swear I heard you giving that same advice to one of our residents earlier.

Dana gives nothing away, just a shrug. 

"Not saying it's a bad idea. Jacks clearly got it bad. It's just ballsy."

"So you'll help me?" Dana asks. 

"Whoa, no." Robby lets out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. "I didn't say that."

"All I'm asking is that you keep them away from each other tonight so they don't find us out."

"There's no us here Dana." He tosses his hands up in surrender. Always the dramatic. "I've got a hospital to run and this is your master plan." 

She gives him a look over the rim of his glasses. He knows he's too grown to be scared into submission by Dana but damn if it doesn't always work. 

"I'll see what I can do."

"Hey, why don't you ever set me up on dates?" He can't help but ask as he's already halfway leaving. 

"Because I've seen you in relationships."

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Somehow as if by miracle, the ER was the Q word you'd never dare utter. So, for now you'll just say slow. It seemed brighter without so many people clogging the place up, not such a terrorizing place to spend your nights. But, on the other side of quiet and peaceful meant all you could think about was this stupid date with some (probably) stupid guy you don't even want to meet. 

Even if it was a leisurely night, there was no such thing for Dana. She paced around the giant hospital centerpiece that was the nurses' desk, doing a million jobs that somehow all belonged to her. 

You came out of nowhere, suddenly popping up on the other side of the desk. "I don't like mansplainers." 

"Okay, and I don't like the Ravens. What're you telling me for?" It always seemed like her accent had a way of getting thicker when she was stressed or angry. 

"For the date." You tap your finger to your temple in a duh fashion. "If they start mansplaining anything to me, I'll leave."

Dana doesn't give you a response, just a curt nod. Because she was definitely going around the city looking for the perfect asshole mansplainer to force you into a date with. 

"And they need to be politically sound. I can't deal with someone who doesn't care about the issues I do." 

As much as you loved Maid in Manhattan, you always found yourself disliking the leading man just a little too much. That was not a rom-com you wanted to star in, alongside a right-leaning politician. 

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Dana snaps her head up, shutting you up immediately. It's terrifying when she starts cursing in catholic. "He's a non-mansplaining registered democrat. Does that satisfy you?" 

"Yes." You answer quietly tucking your lips into a thin line apologetically. 

She reaches over the desk, gripping your arm and guiding you somewhat forcefully until you're standing under the track board. 

"Work." 

Looking down at the iPad in your hand, you said your patient's name to yourself over and over again. You had this terrible habit of knowing everything you needed to know about someone and then coming face to face and forgetting everything, even down to their name. You've done this with friends and patients alike your whole life. 

"Janet Lawson." You mutter on a loop, scrolling through to see what the nurses had already done for her. 

"Janet Law— Ow." 

Your forehead is suddenly rebounding off a black T-shirt; underneath it is a weirdly muscular back that's actually managed to rattle your brain around. Of course. Who else wears a black T-shirt and camo pants to work and has this muscular of a build? 

"Doctor Abbot! Sorry." You laugh to mostly yourself, running a few fingers over your forehead. Why'd that come out like a giggle? You laugh. You don't giggle. 

"My fault. I should've known better than to stand here when you're running around." He grins.

He's so charming. 

You drop your eyes back down to the iPad, looking at him made your chest pinch. Why does it feel like you're cheating on him by going on this date tonight? He's your boss! People don't usually feel like they need to divulge their dating life to their bosses right?

"You off this weekend?" He asks, tilting his head to be able to better to see your downcast eyes. 

"Yep. Played my cards right and got two whole days."

"Got any plans?" He crosses his arms over his chest casually. He always asks about your life. This isn't weird, this is just the only time you've thought about keeping it secret. 

"Not much." The lie comes out before you can stop it. 

"Me neither."

"Cool." 

Jack Abbot could befriend a brick wall and somehow you've just managed to have an awkward interaction with him. 

"Jack!" Dana's voice echoes between you too. It's so loud and desperate-sounding that he whips his head around immediately. 

"Yeah?"

"I need you in room 3."

He looks to the whiteboard, eyes scanning over it twice. The hospital's calm tonight, what could possibly be this critical?

"No one's in room 3…"

She doesn't even turn to the whiteboard herself to double-check. "Room 4 then."

"Okay…" He agrees. "Catch you later?" He turns back to you with a sympathetic frown, waiting for your confirmation. Once you nod at him, he pulls himself and his lingering eyes away.

Like clockwork, Abbot finds himself in your orbit once again. He's nearly convinced you have some kind of magnetic force he's not aware of because there's no rational reasoning for him to be trailing after you all the time. 

Your shift is officially over and if you're not going to fall asleep behind the wheel you're desperately going to need a cup of coffee. As your hand rests flat against the break room door, you feel a much bigger and stronger hand just inches above yours.

"Together again." He laughs. He's so close behind you, you swear you feel the vibrations in your own chest. He pushes the door open, just enough that you have to duck under his arm to step over the threshold. 

"How was everything with that patient?" You ask, hoping your voice is even and trying your best to keep your face away from him until the heat in your cheeks die down. 

"Fine. Just cut and dry stress hives. Not sure what the big emergency was."

You plop down in the chair around the small table, the one leg that's off kilter shakes it back and forth for a second. "Weird." You stretch your legs up onto the second chair in front of you, resting until he's done making his coffee. 

As the coffee maker percolates in the background he considers mentioning the fact that Dana is setting him up on a date. Do attendings and residents ever share that much personal information with each other? Probably not.

What was he even hoping to achieve? That you'd imagine him out with some (probably) hot nurse friend of Dana's and lose your mind with jealousy that he's never once seen you have. 

It felt weirdly offensive to share his weekend plans with you. He's wanted to ask you out since the second week you worked at this hospital and never has. He couldn't, as the superior here and the man twice your age he wouldn't even let himself think about you too long if he thought it would be disrespectful. It'd be too weird to sit here and talk about his dating life like this. So, he opts for silence. 

You push your chair out once Abbott's done using the coffee maker, groaning from the pain that's popped up in your spine from standing all day. 

"Here ya go." He extends a full cup to you just as your feet hit the ground. 

You stare at the drink for a second. He made you coffee? Coffee you didn't even ask for. He pushes the cup towards you once more, urging you to take it instead of staring at it.

You wrap both hands around the thin cup, feeling the warmth seep through to your palms. "You know how I take my coffee?" You ask, noting the color difference in your cup compared to his. 

"Yeah, milk and two sugars. I've seen you make it enough times." Wow, the world really was never going to let this crush ease up was it? "I didn't give you any vanilla though. Keep taking it like that and you'll end up in a coma." You laugh, noticing the wide smile on your face in the reflection of your coffee. 

"Thanks." Your voice loses the harsh edges it usually has. 

He shrugs as if this was a small gesture and not something that made your entire body feel like it was on fire. He sips the coffee but never takes his eyes off yours. They have a darker look to them as the cup puts a shadow over his face. 

"Heading out?"

"Yep." You toss your bag over your shoulder. "I'm caught up on all my charts from tonight."

"Yeah, I trust you." His words come out smooth. 

You know you're so far gone when these upcoming two days off start to feel like punishment more than a much-needed break. Two days without seeing him might be bordering on eternal torture. 

This is the last time you'll see him until your date with some stranger. You're being so dramatic but it literally feels like you're some Wild West movie heroine seeing her one true love for the last time before heading to her arranged marriage.

Maybe it's just because your fantasy had to end now. You had to live your life, date (annoyingly so), and you could keep falling asleep at night and having Jack Abbot's face pop up in your dreams. It was a fantasy, that's all it was. 

Abbot likes people, not you. He liked to be friendly, wink at nurses, and flirt with the old ladies who were frequent fliers. Even if you weren't his resident, people like you didn't end up with people like him. 

Plus, if he wanted you surely he would've said something by now.

"Want me to walk you out?" He asks, always the gentleman. 

"Sure."

He reaches over and slides the bag from your arm, throwing it over his own shoulder. His arm stays on the small of your back as you pass through the crowded triage area, only dropping when you make it to your car. A small, beat-up Civic you're embarrassed to tell people the year of. 

"Have a nice vacation." He grins, setting your backpack in your backseat for you.

"Yeah, two days is one crazy vacation." 

"Well, either way don't miss me too much."

You laugh, your head lulling backwards as the sound reverberates outside in the quiet parking lot. "Might be too hard. Living in a cold, cruel Doctor Abbot-less world." 

He leans over, enough that you can tell he's not wearing any cologne as the smell of antiseptic wafts off him. And the worst part is, somehow it works. The click of your car door opening is the only thing that draws your eyes away. 

"Be safe." He says, carefully shutting the car door once you're solidly inside. "Come by if you start missing me too much." He speaks a little louder so you hear him through the sealed window. 

You give him a thumbs down as your reverse lights come on. 

He watches you pull out of the parking lot and imagines what that sight would be like more often. Your taillights pulling out of the driveway of his house every day, waving you away while drinking his morning coffee, knowing you'd be back that night. 

Oh yeah He's going on a date with another woman tomorrow. 

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This is horrible

You stand in front of the mirror in the third outfit of the night. You pull at the fabric, like a toddler. It clings to everywhere you don't want it to. You've got to have help for this.

Where's your quirky best friend sidekick that everyone in the movies has?

To: Santos From: You what do you wear on a date?

To: You From: Santos show up naked power move 

Unhelpful. 

A dress feels like too much, but dress pants make you feel like a politician. The place is way too nice for jeans. As Dana specifically told you. You don't even own anything you'd consider a blouse. And to make matters worse, you're beginning to notice you have very little color in your wardrobe. 

This is agonizing. 

The outfit you have on will have to suffice, if only because you're running out of room on your floor for discarded clothese.

The long skirt feels less dramatic than a dress but less stiff than pants. This is the nicest shirt you own and the closest thing you'd associate with fancy. All in all, you clean up pretty well. Everything is black like all the other items in your wardrobe. But, Dana requested you wear black since she told your date that's how he'd recognize you. Your mystery man will be in white tonight 

Your body collides with your bed as you toss yourself onto it like an angsty teenager. You haven't been on a date in months and the last one you went on lasted an hour before you faked and emergency and left. 

Katherine Heigl's voice blares through your apartment as 27 Dresses begins auto-playing after whatever you threw on to begin with. 

What the hell is with these movies and falling in love with your boss?

Rolling onto your back, you're fingers start typing Jack Abbot into the Instagram search bar before you even know what you're doing. It only takes the letter J for his account to come up. You've for sure done this too many time. Maybe Dana's right. This is totally stalking. 

He has three posts and none of them are his face. He's got a picture of Robby and Dana at some fancy hospital event and two pictures of some scenic locations he visited. He's such an old man. The only thing you can see him in is his profile picture. Much to your dismay, you screenshot and zoom in. 

He's so handsome and this is such weirdo behavior.

The more you zoom in, the blurrier the photo gets. Right now, you're essentially looking at pixels that vaguely resemble Jack Abbot and even then he's otherworldly handsome. Some selfie from a terrible angle that he no doubt took the moment Instagram prompted him for a profile picture. 

You scream as the name pops up on the top of your screen, tossing the phone on your bed like it burned you. For a second you actually believe he somehow knows your cyber stalking him right now, but there's no way. On your feet now from the scare, you timidly reach over and in one quick motion flip the phone face up. 

Abbot: Have fun on your vacation while the rest of us are working our asses off. 

You've got to stop reacting to everything he does like some school girl experiencing their first crush. You're more giddy from this stupid text than you are about this date. This is what you're actively trying to avoid!

You click the side button stuffing the phone into your skirt pocket. Yeah, the skirt has pockets. You give yourself one more look in the mirror, closing your eyes and taking three deep breaths to clear your mind. 

No more Jack Abbot tonight. 

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

This place is nice just like Dana described. An Italian restaurant that you had to take a taxi to reach. The outside has a deep maroon awning where people waiting on tables are congregating. It's not crowded but there's way more people here than you want to experience a first date in front of. 

The inside is even nicer. Dark walls and romantic lighting. There's even a band playing from somewhere you cant see, but you recognize the sound of live instruments. The tables are all covered in white cloths. This is far from the restaurants you usually eat at where children color on those paper table runners. 

"Hi," You approach the hostess more timid than usual, clearing your throat. "I'm meeting someone…"

Your eyes scan over the many people in the room. Theres way more people seated than you'd hoped. Great, all these people may witness your biggest humiliation tonight. Theres a small, even fancier dining room that's walled in and you wonder if your mystery man is in there. 

The maitre d responds but your ears are suddenly filled with nothing but the sound of your own heart beat. Your eye's zero in on someone, someone sitting in front of the giant burgundy curtains that drape from floor to ceiling. 

A very familiar face.

No. Fucking. Way. 

"Doctor Abbot?" You say standing beside the empty chair at this table for two. 

His eyes shoot up so fast you're afraid he's going to hurt himself. He looks like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out of his barely parted lips. You're mirroring the same expression back to him. Shock and horror. 

He stands up from his chair so fast, the table rocks and sends ripples through the expensive water glasses. "What are you doing here?" He asks, hands flat on the table like he needs to prop himself up. 

"Me?" You say back, clutching the purse strap over your shoulder. "What are you doing here?" You want to dissolve into dust in the huge fancy restaurant that suddenly feels much smaller. This can't be happening. 

"Oh fuck." 

You both speak at the same time. Your sentiment is much more verbal than Abbot who had the decency to whisper under his breath. 

You two go back to staring at each other for another moment. Completely still except for the twitch around Abbots eye. You know your eyes are wider than usual and probably frighteningly so, but you can't make them close. To make matters worse the trumpet crescendos into something romantic from wherever they're playing from. You're a little too busy to look right now. 

How could this happen?

"I think Dana uh—" The words die in your throat as soon as they start. You gesture vaguely hoping to fill in the blanks. 

"Yeah." He speaks gruffly. 

"Yeah." You parrot the same word back, unsure of what else there even is to say. "I could go." You gesture back to the grand entrance of the restaurant. 

That's all it took to shake Jack from the shell shocked state he was in. He reaches out before he even thinks much about it. Not a pull, just his palm flat against your forearm making sure you don't bolt.

"No. Were already here." He shrugs like it's simple. "Plus, I need you to stay and help me plan on how to get Dana fired."

You laugh, your shoulders easing finally, dropping from where they were pulled up so tight. The immediate horror of this situation is beginning to dissipate between the two of you. Despite the knot in your stomach, you actually feel a little giddy. I mean, you've dreamed about this for a long, long time. Maybe it wouldn't be awful of you to at least try and enjoy yourself. 

"We might as well stay and eat." He picks up his menu and gestures to the chair that's meant to be yours. 

"Might as well?" You repeat back with a sarcastically sensual tone. "Well, with an offer that romantic how could I refuse?"

He walks around the table, eyes on you the entire time. He pulls out your chair without even looking at it. When he puts his arm on the small of your back to guide you onto the seat, your actually worried your knees might buckle. 

"You know what I meant." The breath from his nose tickles your ear as leans in close to tuck your chair in. 

"Can I get you two started with anything?" The waiter appears from the kitchen, dressed just as nicely as half the patrons in here. Jack gives him a polite just a second gesture. You've both been far too distracted to look at the menu.

"You want wine?" He asks, flicking his eyes from the menu to you. "I mean… we are on a date." Theres a small smile in the corner of his mouth when he says it, almost humorous like he's enjoying saying that in the presence of the server.

A date. Officially a date.

"Yeah, I'll do a glass."

"A bottle of the house red." Jack speaks to the waiter. A bottle? Big spender! 

The wine the waiter returns with is in expensive glassware. The stems are crystal thin and make you feel like you're back in the OR holding a delicate medical instrument.

Jack makes a polite declining gesture as the waiter goes to fill his glass. "None for me, thanks."

"You're not having any?" You ask, lowering the glass from your lips, suddenly feeling embarrassed of the large sip you've already taken. 

"I've got work tonight. Not everyone has the weekend off like you." He laughs. Oh yeah. It was only 5:30 of course he'd be heading to work after this. Always saving lives. 

"You didn't need to order all that then." You gesture to the still mostly full bottle the server left behind. "I'm not gonna drink a whole bottle myself." Not in front of him at least!

"Take it home then." He shrugs. Damn that's sexier than it needed to be. He orders one of the nicest bottles of wine, doesn't have any for himself, and then tells you to keep it. "I know how much you like your wine. 

"You look nice." He crosses his arms on top of the menu resting on the table so there's nothing that could possibly distract him from you. His words are genuine but a little stiff. He hasn't complimented someone on anything outside of a medical context in a while.

"Thanks " You actually smile. looking down at the fancy outfit you were so hyper critical of in the mirror. "I wouldn't get used to it though."

"You clean up nice yourself." You force out. Not because it wasn't true, it very much was. But, it's always felt awkward to you to compliment someone. 

"Feels weird." He tugs at the black tie resting on top of his white dress shirt. It was quite the site. Under the warm lights of the dining room, at certain angles the muscles under his shirt were highlighted perfectly, especially his arms.

Jack however is more caught of guard by your new look than you are of his. Your hair is fixed and resting on your shoulders in waves instead of pulled back and frizzy from a scrub cap. I mean, you looked beautiful the other way, but he didn't know this was an option. And your clothes. It was few and far between that he saw you in anything but scrubs and certainly never anything fancy like this. Your scrubs were loose and unflattering. These clothes were tight and highlighted all your features well. You'd been hiding all this? But, maybe that's for the better because he wouldn't be able to survive this look day to day. 

"Would you judge me if I had another glass?" You have a small smile just on the corner of your mouth. Your stemware was getting emptier and emptier as the conversation went on.

"I'm not your boss tonight." He chuckles, filling up the glass for you. He holds your eyes when he says it, like it's important to him that you remember that.

"Alright. Let's be honest with ourselves." You finally laugh out, shaking your head. "This is weird." The wine coursing through you is making it a lot easier to say whatever you're feeling. Plus the small drink you had back home to pre game that you're not going to bring up. 

Thankfully, he laughs too. "Yeah. I didn't imagine I'd be sitting in front of you tonight."

"Yeah. I certainly wasn't expecting Doctor Abbot." You gesture widely towards him. "… I should probably drop the "Doctor" on a date right."

"Yeah probably." He nods. "Just Jack is fine." 

You're stomach flips. It's silly, something as simple as a name change getting you this worked up.

"Jack." You test it out, turning the name over in your head a few times. It just felt so intimate for some reason. You've known him as Doctor Abbot for so long, now you get to learn Jack.

"So, Jack" You laugh, using the name one more time now that you've been awarded the permission. "I was expecting Dana to set me up with an Orthopedic surgeon I'd hate or something." You laugh. If your relationships with the Ortho team at work was anything to go on, that date certainly wouldn't have gone well. 

He laughs loudly in the dining room full of people talking softly below the music. "Yeah, God help us all if she did that. I was expecting a nurse or a lawyer or something. Not my resident."

"But, I'm glad she didn't." He says at a lower register.

"Wait!" You completely skip over the romantic thing he said, your brain already locked onto a minute detail you just thought of. "You texted me before I left the house." 

"Yeah? So?"

"So?!" You scoff at him, but you're laughing too much for it to be perceived as upset. "So, you texted me before you thought you we're going on a date with some woman."

He just shrugs. "I was thinking about you."

Your cheeks burn hot and you have to roll your eyes to try and get some of your cool demeanor back. "That's crazy."

"Well, it doesn't matter now does it."

Being on a date with Jack is even nicer than you imagined it could be. You've barely lifted a finger tonight. He pulled out your chair for you, he refills your glass for you. 

Yes, you're now a quarter through your third.

From anyone else, you'd probably get a little annoyed with this, but there's something romantic about the way Jack does it. He's not smothering or chauvinistic about it, just someone who wants to care for you. 

He really is like a man from a movie. 

By the time they drop your food off at the table, you're enjoying yourself more than you ever have on a date. He cuts into the steak while telling you the story of the first patient he ever had, which actually makes you snort. 

"My first patient at PTMC bit me." You laugh, nodding emphatically as you do. The third glass of wine has definitelyloosened you up. Enough to even reach across the table and put your hand on his arm when you laugh.

"Oh yeah! The one with the suppository." He points the end of his fork in your direction as he remembers. 

You make a sound of dissatisfaction between your teeth, scrunching up your face. "Let's avoid saying suppository on a date."

"Fair enough." He laughs, covering his mouth with his napkin. "Man, I thought you were gonna kill that guy." 

"I remember telling Robby when you first started, you we're gonna drop the night crews patient satisfaction scores by half." He shakes his head fondly.

"What?!" You laugh, dropping your mouth open with a jokingly offended expression. 

"You have a real mean streak to you." He shrugs truthfully, but he smiles when he does. He loves that about you. 

"I do not." You roll your eyes, the mean streak showing through clearly. "And, I could say you're not as charming as you think you are." 

He doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah I am." 

Yeah he is. 

You pretend to care about his accusations some more, but he can see the smile you can't wipe off your face. "I can't believe you talked shit about me to Robby." You shake your head. "And to think I actually liked you when I first started. You were my favorite Attending." 

"Yeah?" He quirks his eyebrow up, somehow looking even more handsome with that smug sideways smile. 

"Yeah I did."

"Did it wear off?" He asks, leaning back, tilting his head as he looks at you. 

"Nope."

The words hangs there a moment too long. You expect him to make a joke, tell you that you have good taste, or that he was the obvious choice, but he doesn't. Instead he just looks at you, his smug grin changing into something much softer. 

"Good to know." His voice is maybe as tender as you've ever heard it. Like your statement meant more to him than he's letting on. 

Jack's already reaching into his pocket for his wallet before the check hits the table cloth. In fact, he doesn't even let it sit there. He takes it from the waiters hand so there's no argument about who's paying. 

"I can cover my half." You offer anyways, hand digging around in your purse under the table. This would not be the first date a man expected you to go dutch on.

"No you can't." He rolls his eyes. He knew you'd offer no matter how obvious he made it that you weren't paying this bill. It was just in your nature to be fiercely independent. But, he was here now. "I don't make a habit of asking women out and making them cover the bill."

"Technically you didn't ask me out… Dana did." You raise your eyebrows in a challenge. 

He makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a laugh. "Either way, you're not paying."

Jack opts for cash, pulling out a few bills that you try and count up so you total how much he's spent on you tonight. You can't make out if a few pieces are twenties or fifties, but based on the wad alone it must be a lot. 

"Fine. I'll get the next one." You're eyes widen a little as you catch what you said, your words coming way too freely with your tipsy-ness. "I mean… not, or, If- you know." You flubb, your hands moving quickly in front of you.

"No you won't. But, you can offer, again."

He stands first, extending his arm to you like the gentleman he's been all night. The sleeve of your jacket catches the chair as you stand making you wobble on your already slightly uneven footing. "Alright, let's get you out of here before you hurt yourself." He laughs. His reassuring hand stays flat against the small of your back, guiding you through the beautiful dining room and into the cool night air. 

Jack stands under the awning with you, shoulder to shoulder as he waits for your ride to arrive. Before he has to drag himself back to work and away from you. Through the window, you can still hear the bands instruments playing, on the high notes it rattles the glass just barely. 

"I love this song." You gasp, leaning against the wall and physically feeling the song course through you. Jack listens intently for a second, making out what you're hearing. He jogs his memory and remembers having heard the songs a few times. Something by Louie Armstrong; there was no mistaking that voice. La vie en rose that was it!

Jack stays silent, listening to the song alongside you. He doesn't close his eyes like you do. To be honest, he's far more interested in you than the song. This was what he's thought about so many times. Not this exact scenario, but things like it. You in domestic situations, calm, happy. With your eyes still shut, he roams his eyes over every part of your face without fear of being caught. 

The slope of your nose, down to the curve of your lips. You had a prominent cupids bow that made your lips look sharp in a way he could never stop thinking about. Your eyelashes that now fluttered along your under eye. He wasn't sure in this moment if you've ever looked more beautiful. 

"You know," He says quietly, making sure you we're still able to hear your song over this words. "all thing's considered I think this was a pretty good date." 

You peek one eye open, flickering it over to him with a smile. "So we are calling it a date?"

"Yeah." He grins back at your silly looking one-eyed expression."I mean that's what it was wasn't it?"

"Just making sure." You relax again, back to closing your eyes. You can hide the gleam in your eyes by shutting them, but you can't hide the smile on your face. 

"But," Jack starts his sentence quietly, devoid of that usual sarcasm he carries through every word. "I was always under the impression good dates usually end with a kiss."

Both your eyes open now, quickly. You stay leaned against the wall, putting a few fingers over your mouth to try and cover the stupidly giddy grin. You coyly nod, eyes looking back and forth like you're thinking hard. He crosses his arms over his chest as he waits for whatever response this could possibly lead to. 

"That does check out." You laugh, one finger tapping on the side of your mouth in fake thought. "That's usually how all the movies end."

"Yeah?" He mutters close to your mouth, settling his hands on either side of your face. You floss your lip in between your teeth, not even that hiding the grin. "Yeah." 

La vie en rose crescendos in the background as Jacks lips finally connect with yours. It's perfect. It's like a movie. Like a really perfect rom-com. He's not careful, but he's not aggressive. You can feel how long he's wanted to do this in the way he swallows every breath that leaves your mouth. Your hands trail up his arms, finally feeling how toned they actually are after wondering what they'd feel like under your fingers every time they flexed in the OR. 

You're sure you're getting stares from a few concerned citizens along the sidewalk but you couldn't care less. You feel that same smile grow on his lips as you press a hand to his chest. You're reminded of the scene in The Princess Diaries and swear your leg almost kicks up just the same.

He pulls back for no other reason than breathing which he's almost sure he could live without if he could do that a few more times. But, before he can go too far you chase him for one more peck which he reciprocates with just as much enthusiasm. Your hand is still on his chest and now white knuckle gripped against his tie.

"Yeah pretty good date." You repeat the sentiment, any ability to form new thoughts left your head the moment he kissed you. You smooth down his tie with one hand, straightening out the wrinkles your fist caused. He stops you, enveloping your one hand with both of his, pressing his lips along your knuckles. "I'm glad it was with you."

Once your taxi pulls up, you feel like lying and claiming you never called for it. But you have no choice, Jack's got work and you're under strict doctors orders (Doctor Jack Abbot) to rest and enjoy your one weekend off. 

"Text me when you get home." He says, shutting the taxi door with you on the other side, painfully. "And, swing by the hospital if you have any more wine. We may need to get you on a saline drip." You laugh way too loudly in the enclosed space of the cab. You hold the wine bottle by the neck, showing it off. 

"Goodnight Jack." You say elbow resting on the sill of the rolled down window, smiling up at him. Jack. Not Doctor, just Jack. 

You're phone vibrates in your pocket a few minutes down the road into the silent cab ride. The notification disrupts your staring out the window with a smile that was starting to hurt your cheeks. You figure it must be Jack, way too worried about you commuting home alone and already checking in, but it's not.

Then

Jack had surprised you, waking up early and the 3 hours from campus to your appartment to be let himself into your appartment. He stripped quickly in your bedrom when he realized that your shower was running, grinning when he let himself into your steaming bathroom.

"Jack," you shout when you see him. You slump against the wall, hand over your chest, "What the fuck dude, you scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Sorry," he grins, slipping in behind you - not an ounce of remorse on his face, "Missed you. Got any plans for today?"

You nod, wrapping your hands around his neck and threading your fingers in his curls.

"Cancel them," he grunts, pushing you up against the wall, "Wanna spend the whole day in bed."

"Mm, demanding."

The warm spray washes over you as Jack hikes your leg over his hip. He grips his cock, through your folds. You rock your hips forward when he catches on your rim for the 3rd time, whining for him, unused to the lack of control. He laughs into your panting mouth.

You jolt, eyes shooting wide as his cock slaps against your clit.

"Where did you learn that?" you groan, toes curling when he finally pushes past your entrance.

"Told you, missed you lots this week," he kisses your neck, "Lots of time for research."

Now

You let out a sleepy groan. You feel your husbands broad chest against your back while his strong arm wraps around your midsection. You suck in a breath as a little prick of electritcy runs through your body while his fingers rub circles on your clit.

"Morning," he says, voice still heavy with sleep in your ear, "You up for a quickie?"

"What time is it it?" you ask, unable to see the clock on Jack's bedside table from here.

"6," he kisses your shoulder, "Got a little bit before the kids wake up."

You feel his cock pressing against you, waiting for your go ahead.

"You already ready for me, pup?" you laugh as his cock twitches between your folds.

"Been awake for awhile."

"Go ahead, baby," he buries his head in your shoulder.

He pushed the bedroom door open hard enough for it to rebound against the stopper. “What happened?”

His eyes swept the room automatically, searching for whatever had frightened you. There wasn’t any blood, nor was there anything overturned, and no signs of broken glass.

But then he saw you.

You were standing on the bed, barefoot, clutching a pillow tightly against your chest. Your breathing came in quick, uneven breaths, and your eyes were fixed on something across the room with the sort of panic that made his own pulse pick up.

He followed your line of sight, and he also had the instinct to do a double take at the sight of the spider in which was clung to the wall above the dresser. And it was a big one that’s for sure, bigger than most.

“Jesus honey, i thought something serious happened.” Jack really tried to be serious but he just couldn’t, especially with the way he saw you so terrified of such a thing.

Your widened gaze snapped at his in a second, bewilderment at what you had just heard come out of his mouth. “You cannot be serious! Does this not seem serious enough for you Jack, it’s massive, all i know is that it may bite me then i’ll have to be admitted to the hospital then—“

“Calm down, love.” His gaze drifted back towards the spider, watching it remain perfectly still against the wall before looking at you again, somewhere between amused and genuinely baffled. “I think he’s more scared of you.”

The words had barely left his mouth before he realised he’d chosen the worst possible thing to say.

Your eyes widened impossibly further, your grip tightening around the pillow until your fingers ached. “Excuse me?” you breathed, staring at him as though he’d completely lost his mind. “Jack, that thing has eight legs.”

“So?”

“So?” A disbelieving laugh escaped you as you pointed frantically towards the wall. “It has eight opportunities to sprint at me.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder, half expecting the spider to have grown fangs or doubled in size during the conversation, but in reality it hadn't moved.

When he looked back, you were still rooted to the mattress, refusing to let so much as a toe hang over the edge, your entire body tense like the floor itself had suddenly become lava.

“You know…” Folding his arms loosely across his chest, he tilted his head, his lips threatening to curl into a smile. “I’m having a hard time figuring out which one of you is more terrified.”

Your mouth dropped opyen. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“Jack.”

“I’m serious.” He nodded towards the wall. “He’s been there this whole time i’m assuming, and yet you’re the only one making all the noise.”

“I screamed because I wanted you.” The words slipped out before you had a chance to think about them.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. For a brief second, neither of you said anything. “Well…” The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself as he held your gaze. “Can’t really argue with that.”

You caught yourself almost smiling before you quickly schooled your expression. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He pushed himself away from the doorframe, already crossing the room with the same calm confidence he carried through the emergency department. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“No,” you replied, watching him inch closer to the spider with growing horror, “you just happened to be the nearest pest control. Unfortunately.”

That drew a proper laugh from him. “Oh, unfortunately?” He looked back over his shoulder, feigning offence for all of two seconds. “That’s harsh. I’m willing to bet pest control aren’t nearly as handsome as I am.”

You stared at him, thoroughly unimpressed, “you’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And incredibly humble.”

“I’ve got my moments.” He shrugs without looking back at you.

You groaned into the pillow, though the sound was quickly swallowed by the fabric. Jack only shook his head, unable to stop smiling as he turned his attention back to the spider.

“Jack,” Your voice softened the closer he got to it, every ounce of confidence you’d managed to fake disappearing. “Seriously.”

“Hm?” His eyes remained fixed on the wall.

“It better not jump.”

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s a spider.”

“Exactly.” You bite back instantly.

He let out another laugh, one that sounded far more amused than he was willing to admit, before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned a moment later with a drinking glass in one hand and an unopened electricity bill in the other, absolutely nothing had changed. You were still standing exactly where he’d left you in the middle of the bed, the pillow hugged protectively against your chest as your eyes followed him across the room without blinking once.

“You planning on living up there permanently?” he asked, slowing beside the dresser.

“Seems like the safest option.”

“Yeah?” He spared you a glance before looking back at the spider. “Think we can fit a bathroom up there?”

You shot him a look.

“Mock me all you want, I’m not getting down until that thing’s gone.”

“I wasn’t mocking you.”

“Jack.” You say for the hundredth time this evening. His smile finally won. “Alright… maybe a little.”

Without another word, he stepped closer to the wall, placing the glass carefully over the spider in one smooth movement before sliding the electricity bill underneath. The whole thing took less than five seconds.

You blinked, confusion written all over your face. “That’s it?”

Jack held up the glass, the spider now safely trapped inside, nodding at you. “That’s it.”

Your shoulders visibly sagged in relief, though you still eyed the glass suspiciously. “Please don’t drop it.”

He looked at you as though you’d just insulted his entire career. “I’ve got you.” His voice was easy, reassuring. “I think I can manage one spider.”

“And if it escapes?”

“It won’t.”

“But if it does?”

Jack sighed dramatically, already heading towards the front door. “Then I’ll apologise to you…”

He reached for the handle, opening it with one hand while keeping the glass steady in the other, “and to him for having to listen to you scream a second time.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.”