Summary : Jack Abbot had promised you a date. And if he wasn't gonna follow through, well, you had no problem showing him exactly what he was missing.
Warnings: Smut, suggested bisexual reader, hair long enough to grab, not cannon compliant (i guess?) 18+ , Age gap (Mid 20's - Late 40's)
Part 1 - can probably be read as a stand alone, first time ever writing smut so sorry in advance, let me know what you think!!
It was an official, Jack Abbot was ruining your life.
At first, it was just by his mere appearance. Salt and pepper curls, freckled skin, bulging biceps, and an ass that wouldn't quit. He had haunted your dreams, both wet and regular, for as long as you could remember.
And if pining after him at work like a lost puppy wasn't bad enough, the man had promised you the world and disappeared over night.
You had gone home from that shift a few weeks ago with butterflies in your belly at the idea of going on a date with Jack. You had missed him at handover, but you couldn't blame him really. You had been rushed off your feet all day, and were confident that the next time you saw eachother, he would make good on his promise to take you out.
But it quickly became apparent that you hadn't missed him at all. No, he was avoiding you. At the sight of you, Jack was either turning away completely or making himself so busy that you had absolutely no chance to talk to him.
Hurt and confused, you had planned to corner him on a break, prepared to ask him what had changed. Did he regret it? Was there someone else? God forbid, did he hate the new perfume you were trying out? (Unlikely, it was Chanel, but it was good to cover all bases).
Turns out you wouldn't get chance too, and everything boiled over when you heard him talking to Dr Al-Hashimi a few days later, You weren't even meant to be in the room, only popping in to tell Dr Robby that Dana needed him quickly.
"We should get a drink, share war stories over a beer."
This bitch!
You could hardly believe the audacity. What? Was this his thing, asking out any woman he could find on a date and then leaving them high and dry?
You couldn't blame him for being attracted to Dr Al. Hell, you would ask her on a date if you thought she would accept, but that wasn't the point!
Absolutely full of it, and now completely over the edge, you could barely stop yourself for what was coming next.
"Amazing idea, Dr Abott! Actually why don't we all go, we all need a good night out right? Aren't we off tomorrow? Let's get together, i think we all, have a good war story to share"
Not true, the closest thing you had to a war story was the time you passed out in the middle of hot yoga. Turns out a vanilla matcha was not enough to sustain 40 minutes in a hot tent doing various ridiculously hard poses.
But fuck it, he wasn't getting away with this.
Turning swiftly on your heel, you refused to even look at him, "Santos! I trust you to organise a time and place and put it in the group chat."
"On it!" she had already pulled out her phone and was typing furiously, Whittaker looking over her shoulder and nodding slightly.
"Great!" You turned and looked him now, he was wide eyed and mouth slightly ajar, completely for words, the first time he had looked at you in days.
You strutted towards the doors, hips swaying completely inappropriately considering you were in front of at least 3 of your superiors.
You gripped the handle and tossed your hair over your shoulder, throwing a bitchy half smile in his direction, before making your exit,
"See you all there!"
....
Walking into the bar that night, you were armed with vengeance and the lingering smell of Chanel N.5.
You were absolutely determined to show off exactly what Dr Abbot was missing out on. The mini skirt was a risk, you'll admit. What with this technically being a work gathering, but the looks you were currently getting from said colleagues confirmed in was in fact, worth it.
Santos had let out a wolf whistle loud enough to gain the attention from just about everyone in the stuffy bar, whilst whittaker had knocked over at least 2 drinks, none of which his own.
"Damn, Girl! Who knew you were hiding all of that underneath those scrubs!" Trinity had stood up now, giving you a hand to twirl you around. The action causing you to go up on your toes, and the skirt now dangerously riding up to reveal a delicious hint of your ass.
Dennis was now bright red, and Javadi was graciously beating him on the back.
"Ah, you know me," raising your shoulders up in faux nonchalance "any excuse to dress up!"
You turned around and lifted a foot, showing off the famous red bottom heels to the group, hearing gasps of awe from the girls. And Dennis.
"Yep," Javadi nodded, "definetely worth all that credit card debt".
Giggling, you made your way along the group, hugging them and expressing your gratitude that they had actually turned up.
Refusing to acknowledge Jack, you pulled away from your hug with Langdon, his hand still resting on your lower back. You dared to glance at him briefly, Dr Al wasn't even with him, instead engrossed in a conversation with Robby that you would grill him about later.
His hand was gripping the beer bottle tightly, and he was staring at you now with so much intensity there was heat pooling in your lower belly. Glancing at him up and down once, you looked away with feigned disinterest.
"Shots, anyone?"
Trinity whooped, already pulling you half way across the bar to put in a hefty order.
The next hour or so was a complete blur, the tequila doing a great job at getting your mind off jack, and simultaneously lowering your inhibitions. Your hands were up in the air, tangled in your hair and only coming down to brush against your body. Trinity's arms were loosely across your waist, guiding your swaying body into hers in time with the music, only leaving to swig at the beer bottle in her hand. Leaning down, she whispered in your ear, she told you she was leaving for a smoke break, confirming if you would be okay for a few minutes alone.
Smiling and nodding prettily at her, you were barely alone for 10 seconds before a different pair for hands gripped your upper arms and you were being pulled back into someone's chest.
"You, are coming with me, now"
You would know that deep, gravelly voice and built upper chest from anywhere.
Hook, Line, and Sinker.
...
Jack all but pushed you into the bathroom stall, saving you from falling flat on your ass with a bruising grip on your hips. He held you tight against him now, gripping your hair in one hand and pulled your head to the side. Staring at you both in the mirror, there was a few seconds of silence with only the sounds his hot breathe against your neck filling the silent stall.
"You think this is funny? Huh?" he pulled your hair back now, you gazed at him with your eyes half shut, hardly believing the situation you were currently in. "Showing everyone in this bar what's mine? Like you're nothing but a filthy slut."
The remaining hand that was on your hip reach lower now, gripping a fist full of your ass and crudely shaking it up and down
You arched your back into the touch and let out of breathless moan. You should have been disgusted really, at both the derogatory name and the crude groping.
But god, did you love it.
"Yours? You promised me a date and avoided me for a week." Taking a breathe, then,
"I'm as good as Santos' as i am yours".
Silence, for at least ten seconds, the music blared outside, accompanied by sounds of muffled talking. It could very well as been any of your coworkers outside that door. Then Jacks lips lifted in into a delicious, wicked smile.
He twirled you around quickly, so fast you lost your bearings. He stared at you, eyes filled with pure jealousy and unadulterated desire. He shook his head slowly, and walked you back to rest you on the bathroom sinks ledge.
"We'll talk later. Right now, all i'm focused on is getting my mouth of that sloppy little pussy".
Gripping the back of your thighs, you were lifted till you were perched right on the edge. Hands lifting instinctively to his broad shoulders. Your skirt was scrunched around the very top of your thighs now, revealing just about everything to the man in front of you.
His thick fingers trailed up your legs, dipping underneath your skirt, ready to pull off whatever scrap of fabric you had hiding underneath. You barely had time to get your warning out,
"Shit, Wait -"
Jack made no contact with any underwear, instead, his fingers were covered in your slick. Stinging together across his fingers, Jack could barely believe what was happening. Rubbing it crudely between his fingers, he gazed up at you with hooded eyes.
"You are a bad, bad girl."
You couldn't speak, chest heaving up and down now. You could only watch as his stuck his fingers in his mouth, groaning at the taste of your pussy and closing his eyes in pure pleasure.
"I'm going to ruin you, baby"
He wasted no time, shoving your skirt up completely and diving face first into your sopping cunt. You sent a quick prayer of appreciation about the fact the ledge was high enough that jack only had to bend at the waist.
That was the last coherent thought you could make, as Jack spread your legs far apart, and sucked at your clit so hard you could feel your soul leaving your body.
"Fuck, oh my god" you gripped a hand in his salt and pepper curls, showing him even deeper. "Yes, baby! Eat that pussy."
You would blush at your words tomorrow, for now, you were appreciating what you had been waiting months for.
He was groaning now, encouraged by your high pitched moans and filthy words. Stiffening his tongue, he shook his head from side to side. Alternating between flicking and sucking on your clit. He barely took any breathes, only stopping briefly to lick broadly up your centre and muttering even nastier comments.
"Yeah you like that? Fuck my face baby, just like that"
"Nasty little slut, so fucking wet for Daddy"
"Take it, yeah, take it like the nasty slut you are"
His fingers were in you now, barely giving you any chance to adjust, thrusting them in and out at a brutal place. He curled them in a "come here" motion that had you seeing stars and letting out desperate little "Uh, Uh, Uh"'s into your hand in a desperate attempt not to get too loud.
You knew your orgasm was approaching quickly, your hands gripping is hair now so hard it had to hurt him. He began to push you over the edge as he rubbed small circles in your clit, joining his tongue as he flicked at it in tandem.
Pressing a delicate to your pulsing clit, he stood to full height now. Pressing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss and wrapped a spare hand round your throat. Not squeezing, but in a show of possessiveness, as if eating you out in a bar bathroom wasn't enough.
"You gonna come baby? Come on, come all over my hand baby girl".
You threw your head back with a loud, desperate moan, your head against Jacks hand instead of the mirror, as if he anticipated it. Your stomach siezed, and you felt white hot pleasure from your head to your toes as you finally released and gushed all over him, drenching his hand all the way down to his wrist.
The next few moments were a blur of hot pleasure, barely registering him tugging your skirt down, wiping the tears that had collected at the corner of your eyes, and smoothing down your hair.
He rested his head against yours, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of your nose.
Taking a deep breathe, he looked you in your eyes now as your continued to try and calm your own breathing.
"I'm sorry, there's no excuse, I got in my own head about you being so young. I didn't know what to say, and instead I acted like all those stupid boys you'd been dealing with and avoided you". He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, ashamed.
"I just wanted to do it right, and believe me, i wasn't flirting with Dr Al, i was just trying to piss off Robby enough to act on his own feelings".
He brushed his fingers against your temple gently, "If you'll have me, i'll do it all right this time, i've looked at your schedule, i've already booked us a date on your next night off," his eyes were dancing now with amusement at his own stupidity, overjoyed at the small smile now on your own face, "was just trying to find the balls to bring it up."
Truthfully, you were barely in the room, but you believed his words, trusting his character enough to believe he just had a moment of sheer stupidity, he was still a man, after all.
"Fine, but you aren't done making it up to me."
He chuckled lowly under his breath, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.
"Sweetheart, i'll spend the rest of my life in between your thighs, if that's what it takes."
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At the Pitt and you bend over to pick something up only for Jack to see your pretty pink thong.Â
Word count: 0.5k mdni. Brief mention of wedgie kink.
âMaâam weâre gonna have to take a sample of your blood for testing if thatâs okay?âÂ
âHuh?âÂ
You watch as Jack stands near the bed, maybe you did act a little clueless about this old ladyâs porphyria cutanea tarda just so you could get a good glimpse of him.Â
The attending youâre not so secretly hooking up with, possibly (hopefully) going to date sooner rather than later.Â
âWeâre going to take a sample of your blood!âÂ
Jacks voice raises deeper and louder so the old lady can hear. She smiles and nods.Â
âOh! Yes. Feel free. Might take a little while though, Iâm a hard one to stick.âÂ
Jack shakes his head in that effortless kinda way and rolls a chair closer, hand between his legs as he sits down. Mindful of his prosthetic.Â
âNot with me maâam. Iâll make sure to find the best vain and get it first try.âÂ
She laughs all surprised like and looks up to you. You know the feeling. Getting flustered under abbots compliments.Â
âMissing a syringe, there should be one in that cupboard can you grab it for me?âÂ
Jack gestures to a cupboard and you nod, probably not looking nearly as flawless as him while looking for supplies.Â
But Jack begs to differ. Really he didnât mean to do a double take on your ass. But itâs just there when you bend over and venerable. Plump and memories of gripping at it floods his mind.Â
Just as he was turning to look away, he caught somethingâ a flash of hot pink when your shirt drew up while bending over.Â
AÂ fucking thong.Â
Thin strings on either sides of your hips and Jack can imagine the fabric wedged between those perfectly rounded cheeksâ what were you thinking wearing that into work?
When you stand Jack mourns the loss of the spectacular view. Grabbing the syringe you offer with less than steady hands.Â
âAre you trying to kill me?âÂ
Your brows furrow, heâs whispering now and looking intently into your eyes. Lust blown and surprised.Â
âExcuse me?âÂ
âBecause hot pink thongs are what you wear when youâre trying to kill a guy.âÂ
You gawk. âJack.âÂ
The patient is right in-front of you, eyes darting between the pair.Â
âI meanâ you were practically asking for me to pull at them, I could have given you a wedgââÂ
âIt is laundry day. I had nothing else.â Your face starts to feel like itâs heating with embarrassment. Hissing through your teeth like a viper.Â
âMmm⌠very likely. How come Iâve never seen this pair before?âÂ
And before you could snap back something about him being a very presumptuous asshole your patient speaks.Â
âHuh? What are you saying to the poor lass getting her all flustered!? I canât hear anything!âÂ
Jack lets out a little breathy laugh. Shaking his head and finally getting the syringe ready.Â
âOhhh donât worry about her, sheâs in good hands.â
Hands that want to sneak down the front of your pants apparently.Â
What is jack abbots problem and why do you like it?
summary: thirty-nine hours without joel feels like forever... luckily, he might just know exactly how to make it up to youâĄ
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, no outbreak, age gap (reader age not explicitly stated but is significantly younger than joel), abandontmend anxiety, emotional dependency, needy reader, slight daddy issues kink, size difference, spitting, little bit o cryinn, heavy praise kink, dirty talk, protective!joel, unprotected piv sex, fingering, creampieeee
a/n: i loooved looved writing this!! i love soft!joel so much it hurts</3
i have so much free time now that i'm done with classes so please if you have any requests, mine are open(;
now playing... needy - ariana grande
Itâs been thirty-seven hours, twenty-four minutes and fifteen seconds since you last heard from Joel.
Not a call. Not a text. Not a single damn thing.
He usually doesnât do this. Not to you.
Joel was always extra considerate when it came to you. If he couldnât make it over, heâd always let you know. A quick call, his voice low and distracted, telling you heâd been caught up at work.
 âCanât swing by today, baby girl. Tomorrow.â Or âBusy as hell today. Call you tonight.â
Just enough to keep you from spiraling.
You hated the days when you didnât get to see him. You always did. But at least he never let you sit around waiting. Never let a whole day pass without reminding you that you were still on his mind.
Lately though, heâs been⌠distant.
In the past month youâve only seen him three times. And one of those barely counted â he just came by to grab the tool belt heâd left on your kitchen table and barely stayed ten minutes. Thatâs it. Three measly visits when you used to get him at least three times a week, sometimes even twice on the weekends.
Now youâre counting hours.
Minutes.
Seconds.
You were already missing your movie nights â where youâd force him to sit through some awful chick flick you loved, only for him to grumble the whole time before you both ended up dozing off halfway through, your legs draped over his lap. Or the nights heâd pick something scary with too much blood on purpose to watch you squirm, your face eventually burying itself in his chest, his big hand rubbing slow circles on your back while he pretended not to laugh at how tightly you clung to him.
You missed the lazy mornings when heâd take you out to your favorite diner for breakfast. He always ordered the same thing â eggs over easy, bacon crispy, hash browns â and still let you steal bites off his plate like you didnât have your own. Afterward heâd take you for ice cream, even if it was barely ten in the morning, and youâd end up eating half his cone and yours while he shook his head and wiped the mess of it off your chin with his thumb.
Or the late nights when you were fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, shouting his name from across the hall to come to you. Youâd sit on the floor in front of the bed in between his legs, hand him a brush, and beg him to braid itâtwo pigtails, every timeâbecause he always said you looked pretty like that. His thick fingers were clumsy with the strands, and the braids usually came out a little crooked and uneven, too tight in some places, too loose in others, but you loved them anyway. You loved them because he did them â because for those few minutes he was only focused on you, jaw tight in concentration while muttering under his breath about how damn stubborn your hair was.
And most of the time? He didnât even fuck you.
No matter how much you begged.
 Heâd look down at you with your head in his lap, your bottom lip pink and puckered and begging, his head tilted to the side and ask, âYou ainât sore?â
And thatâs the thingâyou usually were.
He was big. Almost too big, to the point where the first few times were almost too much for you, and even after that, it never really got easier. Your body never fully got used to it. He tried to be careful; he didâ he wasâbut the two of you always got so wrapped up in each other that it didnât always end that way. And youâd feel it the next day, and the day after.
But you never complained, not once, but he could always tell anyway â the limp in your walk the next morning, or the way your legs would shake after he pulled out.
Still. It wasnât enough.
Youâd tuck your lip back in and shake your head, the back of your head brushing back and forth against the zipper of his jeans. âYou havenât touched me since last week.â
Heâd laugh, shake his head, and squeeze the hand resting on your thigh, his thumb pressing into the inside of it. âIâm touchinâ you now, ainât I?â
But thatâs not what you meant, and he knew it.
A part of youâno, most of youâwas sure he felt guilty every time he fucked you. Thatâs why he tried to keep it so infrequent, like he thought wanting you made him a worse man.
You were over half his age, and even though you never cared, he did.
He never said it outright, but you could see the way it ate at him sometimes â the way his eyes would travel over you once the need had passed, taking in your swollen mouth, your bare thighs, the marks his hands would leave behind. His face would change then.
 Not regret exactly. He never made you feel unwanted. It was worse than that. It was guilt, heavy and stubborn, sitting behind his eyes while he pulled your shirt back down, kissed your forehead, and held you close as if he were trying to make up for wanting you in the first place.
It bothered him. You knew it did.
But not you. If anything, the age between you made the ache worse.
There was something about being wanted by him, chosen by him, cared for by him, that dug into you in places nobody else ever reached.
Maybe because the first man who was supposed to stay had made leaving look easy, and Joel did the opposite.
Until now.
Youâre trying to not be pathetic about itâyou really areâbut the silence is loud.
It fills up the room, presses in on you the longer it goes on. And every minute that passes makes it worse â that low, restless ache that wonât leave you alone. The kind that has your checking your phone every minute, replaying the last time you saw him, picking it apart for any sign of distance you might have missed.
Anything that would explain this.
Maybe he got caught up at a sight, too busy to check his phone. Or maybe he dropped it in the sink, ruined it, hasnât had a second to replace it.
Or maybe thatâs not it at all.
Maybe he met someone. Someone his age. Someone easier to be around. Someone who doesnât sit around counting hours, who doesnât need to hear from him every day just to feel okay.
Because maybe it is you.
Maybe you pushed too far. Wanted too much. Let it show in ways he just couldnât ignore anymore.
Because you are needy.
For him. For his voice, his hands, his attention. For the way he looks at you like he just wants to take care of you even when he knows he shouldnâtâŚ
So you try to take your mind off it. You tell yourself youâre not going to sit around waiting,
You get up and start moving, needing something to do with your hands, with your body, with all of it. The place is already clean, but that doesnât stop you. You wipe down the counters again, rearrange things that donât need rearranging, pick up a shirt from the back of the chair just to fold it and put it right back where it was.
Your phone stays within reach the whole time.
Face up.
Silent.
You check it anyway, but still nothing.
You try not to let it get to you. Try to act normal, like this isnât eating at you the way it is. Like youâre not counting every second that passes without his name lighting up your screen.
It doesnât work.
You end up in the shower longer than you need to be, standing under the spray, letting the water run over you while your mind drifts right back to him. The last time he had you in here, his hand braced against the tile, his voice low in your ear telling you to stay stillâ
You shut the thought down, pressing your forehead against that same tile for a second before you turn the water off.
Afterward, you sit on the edge of your bed like Joel would, hair still a little damp, and braid it into two pigtails the way Joel always did them. Your fingers arenât nearly as big or clumsy as his, so they come out neater than his do, but you still pull the strands the same way he does, trying to chase the memory of the way his hands moved in your hair, of the way he tugged and pulled on them.
You pace the living room in nothing but the thin tank top and the soft pink cotton panties he bought you a couple months back â the ones you only wear when you need to feel him on you somehow. One hand keeps twisting the end of a pigtail around your finger while the other scrolls through every text youâve sent him in the last day and a half.
All delivered. All unanswered.
You stare at them, thumb hovering over the screen, fighting the urge to delete half of them, to take them back somehow.
But you cant.
So you just sit there, rereading them over and over, trying to figure out where it went wrong.
Where you went wrong.
You check the time again. Thirty-nine hours now. The throb in your chest keeps growing, pressing harder with every lap around the room.
Finally you grab your phone again and hit his name one last time before you force yourself to go to bed.
It rings.
And rings.
Straight to voicemail like all the others.
You decide to wait for the beep this time. Maybe if he hears your voiceâ
The beep interrupts your thought.
You clear your throat and loop another strand of hair around your finger.
âJoel...?â you hum. âIs everything okay?â Your voice is barely above a whisper, though youâre not sure why; you just canât bring yourself to make it go any higher. âYou havenât answered any of my texts or calls and Iâmââ Your voice cracks on the last word, but you clear it again and keep going.
âIâm just startinâ to get a little worried. I know youâre probably just busy with more important things,â you add quickly. âOr at work or... whatever. You donât have to tell me if you donât want to. I justââ
You loop another strand around your finger.
âI havenât heard from you and itâs just... I miss you.â You sniffle a little through your nose, not because you're crying, though you feel like it. âThatâs all... and I just donât know what to do. I feel likeââ
The voicemail beep cuts you off mid-sentence.
You drop the phone from your ear and just stare at it for a long second, heart hammering. You hadnât even finished your thought â the one about how empty you feel without him here, how you donât know what youâd do if this is really it.
You sit there for a while after the call ends, phone still in your hand, staring at the screen like it might light up if you wait long enough. Your thumb hovers over his name again, tempted to call back, to finish what you were trying to say. You think about texting instead, something simple, something a little more casual. You type out a few words and stare at them, but you delete them just as quickly. Nothing feels right. Nothing sounds like youâre not asking for too much.
And you hate that.
Hate how this sits in your chest, refusing to go away no matter how many times you tell yourself to calm down or that youâll be alright.
You press your lips together, exhale through your nose, and force yourself to set the phone down. Youâve done enough. More than enough. If he wanted to answer, he would have by now.
Thereâs nothing else you can do.
That thought doesnât bring you any comfort, but itâs the only one that sticks.
Eventually, you drag yourself into your room and crawl into bed, still in your tank top and pink panties, your braids falling over your shoulders as you tug the covers to your chin. You turn onto your side, facing away from the door, one hand tucked under your pillow, the other resting loosely in front of you.
You toss and turn for a while, secretly hoping youâll hear that familiar ring and find Joel on the other end of it. But it never comes, and eventually your body gets tired of waiting, sleep pulling you under despite your mind wanting something else entirely
âââââââ
Your phone is face down on the nightstand, silenced. You donât hear the first call come through. Or the second.
Joel hears your voicemail while heâs driving home from a late job. The crack in your voice hits him square in the chest, especially the way you cut off âI feel likeââ He plays it again. Then once more. The unfinished sentence loops in his head the whole drive, making his grip tighten on the steering wheel.
He calls you back immediately. Once. Twice. Nothing.
That silence is what does it.
Itâs a little after one in the morning when his truck pulls up outside your building.
When he makes it to your door, he knocks a little harder than he means to, three sharp taps against it.
 âBaby girl?â His voice barely carries through the wood, thick with worry. âOpen the door.â
You donât stir right away. Youâre fast asleep when you think you hear a knock.
âCâmon,â his voice follows. âOpen up.â
Your eyes stay shut as sleep keeps you under.
He waits maybe ten seconds, then pulls out his key â the one you gave him months ago. He fits it into the lock, already turning it, but it doesnât catch.
The doors already unlocked.
A flicker of unease and something else hits him hard. Not reliefâfar from itâif anything, it puts him more on edge, his grip tightening just slightly before he pushes the door open and lets himself in as quietly as a man his size can manage.
The apartment is dark except for the faint glow from your bedroom. He locks the door behind him and heads straight to you.
When he makes it to your room, all he can do is stare, just taking you inâcurled up small under the blankets in nothing but your tank top and underwear he bought youâhe frowns a little at that. The pigtails you did yourself are a little crooked now, one strand loose across the back of your neck. Your phone still sits on the nightstand, screen still half lit with his missed calls. The whole scene â the way you clearly spent your entire night wrapped up in thoughts of himâwrecks something deep in his chest.
He swallows hard and steps just inside the doorframe.
âHey...â His voice comes out a little rough and low, gentler than the knocking. âYou awake, baby?â
Your lashes flutter, but your eyes barely open. Your mind is too far behind, still caught somewhere between sleep and everything youâd been thinking about before you drifted off. It doesnât feel real. It feels like your brain filling in the silence, giving you what itâs been stuck on for days just so you can finally rest.
The bed dips as Joel finds his way to the edge. His hand settles on your blanket-covered hip as he gives it a gentle squeeze. âWanna talk to you, câmon.â
His touch sends your eyes fluttering all the way open as everything comes into focus. Heâs really here. Your eyes open wider as you turn on your side toward him, blinking hard, still half-lost in a sleepy haze. âJoelâŚ?â
âThere she is,â he whispers. He reaches out and brushes one of your messy pigtails behind your shoulder, his fingers lingering on your neck for a second.
You blink up at him for a while; the sight of him sitting there starts to flood you with so much relief you almost launch yourself at him. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face there. But you stay put, tucked tightly under the covers. Youâre happy to see him, but still a little upset. Still hurt from all those days of silence. You want answers first.
And Joel notices.
He watches you closely. Sees the hesitation in your face, the way your thoughts are racing behind your sleepy eyes. His hand stays on your neck, his thumb stroking slow lines across it.
âYou scared me half to death with that voicemail,â he sighs. âHeard you cut off and couldnât get you back on the phone.â
Your face falls a little. âI didnât mean to,â you mumble, your voice still sleepy and small.
âI know, baby,â he nods, his thumb moving under your jaw, eyes still fixed on you. âI know you didnât.â
And for a second, he just looks at you, his jaw working, worry still written all over his face. Then his eyes drift toward the hallway, toward the front door of your apartment.
âAnd you left your door unlocked,â he says, firmer now. âYou canât do that. Not when youâre here by yourself. Not ever.â
You rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand, guilt curling in your stomach.
âMâsorry,â you hum. âI was just waiting on youâŚâ
Joelâs face drops at that, the firmness in his voice cracking the second he hears that sleepy little confession. His hand stays at your neck, thumb caught against your skin, but his shoulders drop as his eyes move across your face.
He shakes his head, dropping it a little.
âNo,â he sighs. âIâm sorry,â he says finally, voice thick with guilt. âThis week got away from me. Had a bunch of jobs stacked up one after the other, days runninâ into nights,â he shakes his head a little. âI know it ainât an excuse. Shoulda made time.â
You watch him for a second before you sit up, your back hitting the headboard. The covers fall a little in the process, revealing the tops of your panties and thighs.
âItâs okay,â you murmur.
You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on the loose skin there. âItâs just⌠you could have texted,â you say finally, voice still sleepy. âOr called? Just to say you were busy⌠I was worried.â Your fingers twist together in your lap, fidgeting.
His eyes drop to your twiddling fingers in your lap, and he reaches forward in response, gently catching both of your hands in one of his, stilling them. His palm is warm and roughâjust what youâve been shamelessly missing.
âI know,â he says, voice low. âWorks just been busy, baby. Long days on sites, back to back. Barely even had a second to sit down. By the time I got home, I was wiped. I didnât wanna wake you callinâ so late.â
The weight of everything thatâs been pressing down on you these past few days suddenly feels much lighter â so much lighter you swear you can feel it leaving your body.
Because it was all in your head. He didnât forget about you. He wasnât pulling away because he got tired of how much you needed him. He didnât meet someone else who was easier, quieter, less⌠you.
The ugly thoughts that had been gnawing at you for almost two full days start to loosen their grip, but they donât disappear completely. Your brain is still trying to catch up from the thought of being abandoned. Your chest feels lighter, but the ache is still there.
You stay quiet, staring down at your hands in his.
Joel noticesâof course.
He scoots a little closer on the bed, his thigh pressing against yours now, and squeezes your hands a little tighter in his.
âI know that ainât good enough,â he says, voice low. âShouldâve checked in anyway. Iâm sorry.â
You look up at him through your lashes, bottom lip poked out a little, searching his face.
He looks genuinely sorry. Sorry that he made you feel abandoned. Sorry that he made you feel like you were so much that he had to pull away. And he looks so tired. Tired in a way that makes your chest hurt. Eyes heavy, little dark circles under his eyes, shoulders carrying more than just a dayâs work.
And you hate it.
Hate that youâre the reason he looks like this right now, even if a part of you still feels a little raw from the silence.
âI hate seeinâ you like this,â you mumble.
 You reach up with your free hand and brush away the gray strand thatâs fallen in his face. âYou look like you havenât slept at all.â
He lets out a sigh, his thumb brushing against your wrist. âLong week, baby girl. Ainât your fault.â
âI know,â you say, but it comes out a little wobbly. âBut it feels like it is.â
You glance down at your hand still caught in his, fingers fidgeting. âYouâve been running yourself ragged with work... and then I go and dump all this on you.
You bite the inside of your cheek, still feeling a little embarrassed, but you keep going.
âI just hate needing you this bad. It makes me feel so pathetic,â you add. âI tried to keep busy â cleaned stuff that didnât need it, braided my hair the way you like, put on the clothes you got me just to feel a little bit of you... nothinâ worked.â
Joel keeps your hand firmly in his, thumb stroking slow circles over your wrist, his other hand comes up to gently cup the side of your face, tilting your chin so you meet his eyes.
âDarlinâ... listen to me,â he pleads. âYou ainât pathetic. Not even a little. I love how much you miss me. Makes me feel wanted in a way I ainât felt in a long damn time. Hell, it makes me feel good knowinâ youâre sittinâ here thinkinâ about me when Iâm gone.â
He leans in and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose. âIâm sorry I made you feel like you had to sit in that all alone. Shouldâve checked in. Sâon me.â
You feel the knot in your chest loosen a little more. Not all the way â the ache is still there, raw and nagging â but it loosens enough that you can breathe again. You smile and lean in, whispering that you forgive him, already leaning into his touch.
After a second, his hand slides from your cheek and into your hair, his fingers tugging gently at the ends of one of your messy pigtails.
âThese look a lot better than the crooked ones I usually do.â
You huff out a small, embarrassed laugh and reach up to grab the other pigtail, giving it a little shake. âYeah... theyâre okay, I guess. But itâs not the same when I do âem.â
He lets out a chuckle, still toying with the end of one braid. âI think they look fine. Real pretty.â
You hum softly, eyes dropping as you keep fiddling with the end of the pigtail between your fingers. A small stretch of silence passes, the strands twisting slowly in your hand. Joel shifts a little, like heâs about to speak, probably to tell you itâs getting late and you both should sleep, when you finally look back up at him.
âWill you fix âem for me?â
He laughs a little at that. He shakes his head and lets go of the braid. âThose look just fine,â he says, a hint of sleep in his voice. âAinât like youâre goinâ anywhere but to sleep.â
You tilt your head, blinking up at him through your lashes, your fingers still occupied. âI know...â you say softly, almost like youâre agreeing with him. âI just... like it better when you do it.â
He stares at you for a second, eyes narrow and slightly curved at the corner of his mouth, like heâs trying to decide if youâre just being cute or if you actually mean it.
You try again, raising your voice an octave. âPlease?â
Thereâs a small pause, but itâs not long. He exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his scruff as he shakes his head.
âYou ever hear the word ânoâ?â
You shake your head, your lips twitching into a small smile.
He shakes his head again. âRight. âCourse you ainât.â
He huffs something close to a laugh, his head tipping back for a second like heâs already given up the fight.
âAlright then,â he says, more to himself than you.
His hand comes down, giving your thigh a light pat, just enough to get your attention. He tips his chin toward the end of the bed.
âCâmon,â he adds, eyes flicking back to yours. âOn the floor.â
You press your lips together, fighting back a smile, cheeks warming at the way he gives in.
You push the covers off you the rest of the way and lean forward onto your hands, crawling toward him. Halfway there, you pause just long enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
âYouâre the best,â you murmur against his cheek.
He leans into it, a low hum leaving him, his mouth tugging at the corner like heâs trying not to smile too much.
You donât wait around after that. You keep moving, crawling the rest of the way to the end of the bed while he gets up and steps around to sit behind you. By the time you slide off the mattress, your braids are brushing your shoulders, swaying with the movement as you drop down and sit back on your legs.
He comes back down behind you, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed with a groan, hands bracing on either side of him for a second.
You scoot back into him, fitting yourself right between his knees.
His hands find your hair right away, gathering the ends of your pigtails, undoing them one at a time, fingers working through the strands as he pulls them apart.
 âDonât know why you like this so much,â he mutters, more to himself than you.
You laugh a little at that, tipping your head back an inch to look at him. âI like anything you do.â
That earns a quiet chuckle from him as he keeps going, his fingers dragging through your hair again as he works through a small knot.
His fingers catch on it for a second, sending your head back a little with an accidental tug.
âSorry, darlinâ,â he mutters, his hand smoothing over that same spot.
Thereâs a gentleness to it that doesnât match how big his hands areâhow big he isâthe way he takes his time working through your hair, careful even with the simplest of tasks.
He parts it down the middle, a little off the first time, then fixes it with his thumb before starting in on one side. His fingers work through the strands, crossing them over each other in a way thats not quite evenâstill too tight in one section, looser in the next. He finishes it off with a small tug, then moves to the other, working through it the same way before tossing them over your shoulders.
âAll done.â
You reach up right away, catching the ends of them in your fingers, twirling each one absentmindedly as you glance down at them. A small smile pulls at your mouth before you turn on your knees toward him.
Your eyes flick up to his as you lean in just enough to press your lips against his cheek again. âYou always do âem better,â you hum, not quite a thank you but close.
His hand comes up to your cheek. âMm.â
You scoot closer on your knees, rising up just a little so youâre level with his legs as your elbows come up to rest on his knees. Your fingers fidget together for a second before you glance up at him again.
âAre you gonna stay?â
He nods in response, his thumb dragging across your cheek. âI can,â he says casually. âIf thatâs what you want.â
You nod right away. ââ Course it is.â
That earns you another pass of his hand along your cheek, slower this time. âThen thatâs what you got, baby.â
You smile at that, a small one at first, then a little bigger as you lean further into his hand, your cheek pressing into his palm. Your fingers come up and wrap around his wrist, keeping his hands on you.
âGood,â you murmur, your thumb brushing over his skin. ââCause I missed you. Missed you a lot.â
âI know,â he says, looking down at you. âMissed you too, darlinâ.â
That makes you perk up a little.
Your eyes lift to his right away, wider now, a spark there as your lips part just slightly. âYeah?â you ask, a little brighter. âHow much?â
Joel lets out a quiet breath that turns into a laugh, shaking his head just a little. âCâmon,â he mutters, not really answering, his hand sliding from your cheek to the side of your neckâprobably just trying to get you off your knees and into bed. âYou ask too many questions.â
You tilt your head and furrow your brows a little, not satisfied.
âProbably not as much as me,â you say, a little teasing now.
His eyes flick back to yours, clearly amused. âSâthat right?â
âMhm,â you hum, your grip on his wrist tightening a little. Bet I could prove it to you too.â
That earns another quiet laugh from him, softer this time, his head dipping slightly. âCan you now?â
You nod, eyes locked to his as you lift his hand from your neck and press a kiss to the center of his palm. Then another. You dot kisses from there down to his wrist before you duck your head and start pressing more along the top of his thigh, mouth warm through the denim.
Joel drops his head and his brows start to crinkle in the middle.
âWoahââ he starts. He shakes his head a little, his hand coming down to your shoulder, not rough, just enough to slow you. âWhatâre youâ whatâre you doinâ, baby?â
You glance up at him through your lashes, your hands still resting on his thighs, fingers curling a little into the denim.
âProvinâ it to you,â you murmur like itâs obvious, already leaning back down for another kiss.
Joel exhales, a little louder this time, his hand dropping to catch your wrist. âThat ainât what I thought you meant,â he sighs again, shaking his head. âYou ainât gottaââ
âBut I want to,â you cut in, looking up at him with wide, needy eyes. Your hands leave his grip, fingers moving to his belt, working at it clumsily but determined. âI missed you so much. I just... I wanna make you feel good. Please?â
He watches you work at his belt for a second before he stops you again, his hand coming back to grip your wrist. âDarlinâ, itâs late. Youâve been upset all night. You donât have toââ
Typical Joel. Always cautious. Always so damn careful with you, like if he doesnât watch himself, he might do too much, take too much, even though youâre on your knees, literally begging for it.
You shake your head, bottom lip pushing out as you stare up at him, eyes glassy and pleading. âI do have to,â you whine. âIâve been missing you for days, Joel. Please let me? I want this. Wanna taste you... wanna feel you in my mouth,â you murmur, reaching for his belt again. âPlease?â
Joel stares at you for a second after that, and for one tiny, dangerous moment, you think he might actually give in.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then to your hands at his belt, then back to your face. Your knees are pressed into the rug between his boots, your fingers still curled around the leather, your eyes big and wet and pleading.
You know he wants to.
You can see it in the way his chest keeps pulling under his shirt, in the way his jaw keeps flexing under his scruff, in the way his hand stays wrapped around your wrist but doesnât pull you away fast enough.
But then he exhales, long and tired, and shakes his head.
âBaby,â he sighs again. âWe canât.â
Your face falls and you feel the disappointment hit you square in the chest. Your shoulders drop a little as you look down at your hands still hovering near his belt.
You know heâs right â he looks worn out, and youâve been an emotional wreck for the last two days â but it still stings. You wanted to show him how much you missed him. You wanted to make him feel good.
And Joel sees the look on your face. Of course he does.
âHey.â His hand leaves your wrist and cups your cheek instead, tilting your face back up before you can look down. âDonât do that.â
âIâm not doinâ anything,â you mutter, even though your voice gives you away immediately.
âYeah, you are.â His thumb drags under your eye, catching the moisture gathered there. âYouâre poutinâ.â
âIâm not.â
He cocks his head to the side and raises a brow.
You shrink a little under that.
âWell,â you swallow, trying not to sound as pathetic as you feel. âYou said no.â
âI did,â he says kindly, his face softening in that tire Joel way, all furrowed brow and guilt he doesnât need to carry. âBecause Iâm beat, and you are too, even if youâre tryinâ real hard to pretend you ainât.â
His thumb presses to the space under your eyes.
âCan see it in your face, darlinâ.â
You open your mouth, ready to argue, but he gives you a look.
A very Joel look.
So you close it again.
He sighs through his nose, his hand sliding from your cheek to the side of your neck. âYou been cryinâ tonight. Been upset for days. Ainât want you on your knees for me when youâre like this.â
âBut I want to,â you say, smaller now.
âI know you do.â His thumb moves once along your neck, and his voice drops a little lower. âAnd I want you too. Donât think I donât.â
Your eyes flick up.
He gives you that look again, the one that makes your stomach dip even when youâre trying to be hurt.
âAnother time,â he says finally. âWhen you ainât all vulnerable and tryinâ to prove anything.â
âIâm not tryinâ to prove anything.â
He cocks his head again.
You huff, looking awayâcaught.
That gets the smallest laugh out of him, not enough to make you forget the rejection, but enough to dull it a little.
He stands then, and holds his hand out to you.
âCâmere.â
You glance at his hand first, then up at him. Youâre still a little hurt. Still a little embarrassed too, which is worse, because you know he means well and that makes it harder to be upset with him. But you take his hand anyway, letting his fingers close around yours.
He nods toward the bed. âGo head.â
You go where he tells you, crawling onto the mattress on your hands and knees, your braids slipping forward over your shoulders as you make your way toward the pillows.
You can feel him behind you. Not touching you, not saying anything, just watching.
Trying not to, maybe.
Joel is decent enough to tear his eyes away when you glance back at him, but not fast enough. You catch the quick dip of his gaze, the way his attention catches on the hem of your tank top and the lace on the pink panties he bought you. It makes your face hot, even after he just told you no.
You donât make a show of it. Not really. But you donât rush either.
âBed,â he says again, his voice a little gruffer now.
You bite the inside of your cheek and finally slip under the covers, turning onto your side.
You hear him start to undress behind you, the flannel rustling and sliding off his shoulders before he tosses it over the chair. Then his shirt comes next, probably pulled up and over his head and it makes you want to turn around.
You donât though.
Even though youâre picturing it anyway, his bare skin, the messy hair from pulling his shirt over his head in the dark, the way his shoulders must look in the dark little glow from the lamp.
His belt comes next, the buckle giving that sharp metal click, then the drag of denim as he pushes his jeans down and steps out of them.
The lamp clicks off a second later and the room goes dark except for the thin wash of light coming in through the window. Another second later, the mattress dips as Joel climbs in beside you, his hand drawing you back against his bare chest.
Your hand finds his wrist under the covers, fingers closing around them to keep him there.
And even though you didnât get what you wantedâdidnât get what youâve been wantingâthis was always your favorite part.
The part where he came to bed with you, the part where he pulls you in without a word, where his arm finds your waist like it belongs there, where you can feel his chest rising and falling against your back.
You loved the sex âof course you do â you loved his mouth and his hands and his cock and the way he takes care of you after it. But this part always got you in a different way the sex couldnât.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder.
âMad at me?â
âNo,â you mumble.
âYouâre lyinâ,â he sighs.
You press your cheek into the pillow a little more. âA little.â
He kisses your shoulder again. âI can live with a little.â
You sink a little deeper into him, pulling his arm closer around your waist. âYou promise another time though?â
His fingers flex against your stomach. âPromise.â
âSoon?â
He presses another kiss to you, this one lower, where your shoulder meets your neck. âGâto sleep.â
âJoel,â you whine.
âI said soon,â he says finally, his mouth still close to your skin.
You nod, believing him, even though heâs probably not telling the full truth, because the way he says it gives you just enough to hold onto.
At first you think youâll stay away from wanting him. You think youâll lie there staring into the dark, replaying the almost of it all, the way his face changed when he admitted he wanted it too. But his body is so solid behind yours, his breath brushing your neck, and your hurt starts to loosen a little, your fingers going slack against his.
The first thing you notice when you wake is the scrape of his beard.
It drifts across the side of your neck in an absent-minded kiss, enough to pull a sleepy sigh from somewhere deep in your chest without opening your eyes.
For a second, you think youâre still dreaming. Your body feels impossibly heavy, tucked beneath blankets that have twisted around your calves sometime during the night, your thoughts moving through syrup.
Then his hand slips beneath the hem of your tank top.
His palm glides over the bare skin of your stomach with maddening patience, still warm from being tucked against you, calluses catching just enough to make your breath falter.
âJoel?â
A sleepy rumble comes from behind you.
âMhm.â His mouth finds your shoulder again, lingering. âIâm here.â
Your eyes flutter open to a room washed in blue-gray dawn. The curtains glow faintly, everything else is shadow.
Joel hasnât moved far at all. If anything, heâs closer than he was when you fell asleep, his legs tangled with yours, his chest fitted against your back like heâd spent the night trying to erase every inch of space between you.
You shift just a little, trying to adjust your body, when you feel how hard he is.
You suck in a quick breath, your body going still under his arm.
For a second, youâre confused, still half asleep and trying to figure out if youâre feeling him right, if that hard press against your ass is what you think it is.
His thumb keeps moving in absent circles against your ribs as he pulls you in more, the hard line of him becoming even clearer now.
And your body answers for you â even half asleep â you press back into him with a tiny sound you donât even mean to make.
âYou awake, baby?â
Your lips part, but it takes a second for the answer to find its way out. Your brain is still half buried in sleep, but your body is wide awake, every place he touches wired and alive.
âMm,â you moan.
His hand slips higher under your tank top, his palm spreading wider over your ribs. The fabric bunches over his wrist, trapping his arm against your skin, and the calluses on his finger catch when he cups one of your breasts.
Another tiny little sound slips from your throat â barely audible â but Joel hears it. Of course he does. He always notices the little betrayals your body gives him first.
He presses another kiss to the back of your shoulder. âTell me yes.â
That wakes you the rest of the way.
Your thighs press together on instinct, already trying to keep the ache contained, but Joelâs hand is already leaving your chest, traveling down the slope of your stomach. His fingers dip under the waistband of your panties and pause there, not moving yet, just waiting.
The room feels so still around you. The pale light at the window, the twisted sheet between your knees, the damp heat of his breath at your neck, his cock hard against the curve of your ass, patient only because heâs forcing himself to be.
âY-yes,â you breathe. Then, because it doesnât feel enough, because one word could never hold how badly you want him, you push your ass back into him and say it again. âYes, Joel.â
His teeth scrape your shoulder, a barely there bite that sends a jolt straight through you again. âSâmy girl.â
His fingers slide lower, only to find the mess youâve made of yourself.
He groans against your neck, low in his chest, and it does something awful to you. You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed by how wet you already are, the slick mess he finds with barely any effort, by the way your body has clearly been waiting for him, even while you slept.
He doesnât laugh. He doesnât tease you. His fingers just start moving, moving through you with a kind of sleepy hunger, dragging through the stickiness between your thighs, learning what the night did to you.
He circles your clit once, just enough to make your knees draw up, then he dips lower, spreading your folds open until you hear the obscene little sounds your body makes for him.
He presses another kiss to your neck. âYou been dreaminâ about me?â
You could lie... if your hips werenât already chasing his hand.
âM-maybe.â
His mouth curves against your neck. You feel the almost-smile there, tucked into the scratch of his beard and the press of his lips. âMaybe,â he repeats, his voice still a little hoarse from sleep. âThat all I get?â
Your answer breaks into a gasp when his fingers rub you again, firmer this time, exactly where you need him. Your hand flies down over his wrist, not stopping him, just needing something to hold onto. The tendon beneath your palm moves each time his fingers work over you.
âJ-Joel, please...â
âI know, baby girl.â He presses a kiss behind your ear. âI know, baby.â Then another one, lower, to the place where your neck meets your shoulder. âBeen thinkinâ about you all night.â
âBut you said, n-no,â you whine.
âI did.â His arm pulls you closer against him till you can feel every breath he takes against your back. âChanged my mind.â
You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder, but he meets you halfway and catches your mouth before you can. The angle makes it clumsy in the best way, his lips dragging against the corner of yours before he finds you fully, his beard scrapes your cheek, his breath spills hot over your tongue, and when you moan, his mouth opens wider, taking the sound right out of you.
He keeps finger-fucking you, lazy and deep, curling his fingers inside you, the heel of his wrist working your clit in messy circles while he kisses you, making your jaw go slack, making it hard to kiss him back with any kind of sense.
Spit starts to gather between your parted lips, slicking the corner of your mouth when he pulls back just enough to breathe, then he comes right back in, stronger, hungrier, licking into you as if he cant decide whether he wants to kiss you or swallow you whole.
âNeed you,â he mutters against your damp lips. When he pulls back fully, a string of spit connects your lips before it breaks, and he presses another wet kiss to the side of your mouth while his fingers drag more broken sounds out of you. âCan I have you?â
The question tears through you worse than if heâd just taken what you were clearly already offering. You nod too quickly, your cheek rubbing against the pillow.
âMhm,â you moan. âP-please, Joel.â
His hand leaves your panties the second you answer.
You make a tiny protesting sound as he huffs against your shoulder, half amused, half gone over you, then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs. The cotton peels away from you, damp enough that you feel it cling before it gives. You help him, clumsy under the sheets, kicking them off with one foot until they disappear near the foot of the bed.
Joel lifts your top leg and draws it towards your tummy, opening you for him from behind without ever letting the covers fully leave you. They stay tangled around your calves, caught between both of your bodies, half-covering your thighs while leaving just enough of you exposed for him to touch.
The cotton drags against your skin when he moves you, brushing over the wetness there and making you shiver. He feels that too. His hand splaying farther across your tummy to keep you close, while the other moves behind you.
You hear the rough push of his boxers down his thighs, then the wet sound of him spitting into his palm.
âJesus,â he breathes into your neck, stroking himself behind you. The sound of his own arousal and spit is slick and awful in the blue-gray dark, his hand moving over himself with no patience left. âYou hear what you do to me?â
You push back into him instead of using your wordsâsearching for him, impatient now, sleep completely gone, want sitting heavy in your stomach, between your legs, in the back of your throatâŚ
âMmm, Joel... Iââ
He interrupts you with the slide of his cock between your thighs, dragging the fat head through you once, and your hips jerk at the first brush over your swollen clit.
He does it again, lower this time, rubbing through the mess he worked out of you until the head of him catches at your entrance and slips away.
You gasp, frustrated enough to push back harder, but his arm locks across your waist and holds you there.
âBeen all wound up for me,â he says, mouth at your ear. âCouldnât sleep it off, could you?â
âNo,â you breathe.
âI know,â he coos, his thumb stroking your tummy still. âI know, baby. Gonna take care of it for you.â
He rubs himself through you again, making himself slick with you, with his spit, with the wetness already leaking down your thigh and onto the sheets. You feel him coating himself in it, feel the blunt head of him drag over you until your hips twitch and your fingers curl into the sheets.
Then he eases in.
The angle makes you cry out right away. He fills you from behind, thick and heavy, your body still too tender from days of wanting him, from the ache from a few hours ago, from being held by him while he made you wait.
The first press of him steals the air out of your chest, the swollen head of his cock sinking in, and even though youâre soaked, the sheer size of him is undeniable, that sharp little burn blooming between your thighs as he works himself in.
The stretch burns almost immediately â a deep, almost painful pressure as your walls have to yield around his girth. Itâs not unbearable, but itâs intense, intense enough that your eyes start to prickle with tears. Your walls flutter and resist against him, struggling to take the sheer width of him, like your body still hasnât learned how to handle all of him even after all the times heâs fucked you.
Your mouth falls open against your pillow in a silent gasp, caught between wanting him deeper and needing one more second to take him.
And he gives you that second.
Then another.
His hips stay behind you, his cock pulsing where your body is wrapped around him, the pressure so intense you feel a tear run down the side of your face and bleed into the pillow.
âJoel,â you whimper.
âI got you,â he whispers as he presses another kiss to your shoulder. âGonna make room for me, yeah?â
You try to answer, but the only thing that comes out is his name again, so you nod, the fabric damp against your cheek from the few tears that slipped out.
Only then does he give you more, inch by little inch, rocking forward in tiny movements, giving you just a little more each time, letting your pussy slowly open around him.
âAtta girl,â he hums into your neck. âDoinâ so good for me. Gonna fuck you nice and deep once you let me all the way in.â
The burn lingers, raw and pulsing, but little by little it starts to melt, melt into that heavy, overwhelming fullness you absolutely crave. Every shallow rock of his hips pushes him deeper until he finally sinks all the way in, his hips barely flushed against your ass, almost buried to the hilt.
You let out a broken moan, your fingers twisting in the sheets again. He feels impossibly big like this â stretching you, splitting you open, pressing against every inch inside you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
For a second, he just stays there, twitching inside you while he kisses the side of your neck, letting you adjust to the way your pussy is stretched around him.
Then he starts to move.
Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, dragging the line of his thick cock in and out of you in long, lazy strokes. The wet, filthy sound of him sliding through your soaked pussy fills the quiet room with every thrust. He keeps one arm locked around your waist, holding you tight against his chest while he moves.
âFuck,â he groans into your ear. âYou feel so damn good.â
You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet his thrusts, the slight sting from his size fading into pure, aching pleasure, your body taking him easier now. He leans in closer, turning your head just enough so he can kiss you â deep and messy, tongues sliding together while he keeps fucking you with those long, unhurried strokes.
Every time he bottoms out, you let out a little whimper into his mouth, your body rocking with the motion. He swallows every sound, his beard scraping your cheek as his tongue licks into your mouth while he keeps that same, slow rhythm, grinding into you on every thrust so you can feel him pressing against that same spot inside you over and over.
You moan louder against his lips, trying to get him to move faster, but he stays patient, fucking you sluggishly, savoring every wet slide of you around his cock.
âJoel,â you whimper, breaking the kiss with a shaky plea. âC-can you go faster?â you moan, grinding up into him again. âNeed it f-faster.â
âYou sure?â he murmurs, still pressed close to your mouth. His hips barely move, just enough to keep himself buried inside you, enough to make you feel every vein inside you. âYou want me harder?â
You nod frantically, pushing your ass back against him, but he doesnât give in from that alone. His fingers stay at your jaw, holding you where he can see part of your face over your shoulder, where he can hear the answer when it comes out of you.
âNeed you to say it.â
âPlease,â you breathe, your voice shaking. âP-please, Joel. I need more.â
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second, dark and blown, the he kisses the corner of it again, rougher this time, spit sticking to your lip before he pulls back. âI got you pretty girl.â
He gives you one deeper thrust, testing it.
And your body jolts around him, a sharp cry breaking out of you as your fingers clutch at the sheets. He does it again, a little harder, then pauses when his hips finally press flush to your ass, letting you feel how deep he is before pulling back.
He doesnât go fast. Not yet. He makes you take the change inch by inch, giving you time to feel the pressure build, time to hear the wet drag of him leaving you and the louder sound when he pushes back in.
Your mouth falls open against the pillow.
âSâmy girl,â he grits out, giving you another thrust. âKnew you could take more. Just needed me to give it to you right, huh?â
The sound you make is small and embarrassing, more cry than an actual sound. Your back arches under his arm, your body flinching first, then asking for it again without a single word.
He starts working into it, each thrust heavier than the last, the mattress dipping under both of you. Your body rocks forward, then back when his arm drags you onto him again. The sheets are twisted under your knees and the cotton of your tank top keeps riding up, your breast shifting with every push of his hips while his hand stays locked around your waist.
And It gets louder before it gets faster.
The slick sound of him inside you, the slap of his hips meeting your ass, your breath breaking into little cries you physically canât hold back. His balls brush against you with each thrust, a little cold and damp from the mess between your thighs, from the spit he used on himself, from how much your body keeps giving him.
You press your face into the pillow, still embarrassed by the sound of it, but Joelâs hand comes to your jaw again.
âDonât hide from me, darlinâ. Wanna see that pretty face while I fuck you.â
You whimper, turning your face, just enough for him to see you. He slips two fingers past your lips before you can respond, pressing them right onto your tongue. They taste a little of you and the skin and salt and slick he dragged through you. And all you can do is yelp at the taste of it.
Joel groans, his hips stuttering once against your ass.
âGood, baby,â he coos, pressing another kiss to your neck. âThatâs it. Let me hear you with my fingers in your mouth.â
Your answer comes out muffled, barely more than a needy noise against his knuckles. Your eyes water a little, not from the pain, but from the fullness of it all. Him finally inside you, the taste of him on your tongue, his chest moving heavy against your back, his voice in your ear, rough and pleased because he can hear exactly what this does to you.
You suck on his fingers without being told, lips closing around them for one greedy second before your mouth falls open again on a moan. It comes out wet and ruined, caught around his hand, vibrating against his skin.
His hips hit harder.
âThere,â he rasps, breath breaking near your ear. âThat sound right there. Keep makinâ that sound for me.â
He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wet and shining, thin slides, that same hand down your body, past your throat, past your chest, and over your stomach, leaving a wet trail across it all. Your skin jumps beneath his palm when he reaches between your legs, using that same spit from your mouth to rub over your clit.
The first touch nearly sends your knee out from under you.
âJoel,â you cry, your hand flying to his wrist.
âI know.â His mouth presses to your cheek, his beard scraping there while he keeps rubbing you. âI know. Keep that leg up for me.â
He keeps driving into you, his finger circling that same swollen spot when he changes his hold.
The hand on your stomach slides down to take over, his palm pressing low, his fingers finding your puffy clit again. His other hand leaves you just long enough to hook under your thigh, dragging your leg higher against your body and keeping you open for him.
The new angle leaves you helpless beneath him, your body split open around his cock, your clit trapped under his wet fingers. Every thrust goes deeper in this way, punching up into a place that makes your vision blur at the corners of your eyes.
You try to push back. Try to meet him halfway. Try to take it the way he asked.
But this angle ruins you.
Your nails rake down his forearm, your back arches against his chest, your mouth opens, but for a second nothing comes out, only a broken breath as the pleasure gathers low, too much pressure in too many places at once.
âOh, baby.â His voice breaks against your ear, rough enough that it almost sounds clawed out of him. âYouâre close.â
You nod your head, brushing it up and down against the pillow, because thatâs the only sound you can manage.
His fingers move faster over your clit, slick from your mouth and from you, rubbing in short, firm circles, while his hips keep that deep, grinding rhythm. Heâs not pounding; itâs worse than that, heâs keeping you pinned open, making every thrust count, dragging himself almost all the way out before filling you again, making your body hear it, feel it, answer it.
A broken ground leaves his mouth when you start moving around him.
âFuck,â he mutters, his breath hitting the back of your neck. âThatâsâThatâs it...â
You keep moving, chasing his hand, the feeling of him inside youâ
And then it starts in your thighs.
A tremor you canât hide. Your stomach pulling taut, your hips bucking into his hand, your body pulsing around him in quick, helpless waves. Your moan breaks into his name once, twice, then disappears into a cry that gets trapped against the pillow.
And Joel feels every bit of it.
Your thighs shaking around his arm, your back arching as much as his hold will allow. More wetness spills around him with each pulse, making the sounds between you louder, slicker, impossible to ignore. Joel swears into your neck, his thrust turning uneven, his voice cracking on your name when your body squeezes him tighter.
âMm,â he moans, his hips stumbling. âDo that again. God baby, do it again.â
You do. Your hips keep jerking into his hand, little aftershocks, making you flutter around him, even as he keeps moving. Tears start to prickle out your eyes from how hard it hits, from the weight, from the pleasure that keeps breaking up every time he rubs your clit and drives right back into you.
Your fingers lose their grip on his wrist, then tighten again because you need somewhere to put it, need something to hold onto while your body starts to give.
Joelâs forehead presses hard to your shoulder as his rhythm finally snaps.
âI canâtââ he drags out, his breath hot on your shoulder. âYouâre gonna me meââ
He grips your hips and gives you exactly what you asked for now, harder, heavier, each thrust, shoving the air out of you while youâre still pulsing around him. The bed knocks against the wall, and his breath turns harsh at your ear, breaking into sounds he canât swallow back. His hand flies to your stomach, pressing it closer so he can bury himself deeper.
âInside,â you plead, tears brimming in your eyes. âP-please⌠wanna feel it inside me.â
Behind you, Joel grips your leg higher against your stomach. His palm flattens low over your belly, fingers spread there, holding you in place while his cock throbs inside you. For one single breath, he doesnât move. You feel him fighting it in every part of him, the strain in his chest, the shake in his grip, the shaky drag of air through his teeth.
âSay it again,â he groans.
Your lips barely work against the pillow. âWant it. Want you to finish in me,â you cry out.
The sound he makes is half curse, half surrender.
After that, he stops trying to keep himself pretty for you. He pulls out just enough to make your body chase after him, then drives back in so deep you feel it in your stomach.
The next thrust punches your hips into his hand. The one after that makes the bed knock hard enough that the pillow jumps beneath your cheek. Heâs not moving quick; heâs moving heavy, buried, greedy with it, using the angle of your bent leg to push into the deepest part of you over and over until you canât take any more.
âJoel,â you choke out. âI canât take itâ Iâmââ
âYou can,â he drives in again. âYouâre takinâ it so damn good right now.â
His mouth opens on your skin, not a kiss anymore, just breath and teeth and the sound of him losing the last of his control. His hand slips from your stomach to your hip; his fingers digging into the damp crease there, hauling you back onto him with each stroke. You can feel yourself leaking around him, feel the slick drag where your bodies meet, feel the mess smear against your inner thighs every time his hips grind in.
You tried to say his name, but it comes out as nothing more than broken little noises. Blindly, you reach back and catch the back of his head, fingers sinking into his hair, pulling him closer until his mouth is harder against your neck.
âP-please,â you whine, louder now. âIâm gonnaââ
Joelâs whole body jerks into you.
The sound that tears out of him is loud and helpless, his teeth catching at the damp skin on your neck as his hips falter once, then drive in deeper.
He buries his face against you, his breath breaking over your shoulder, and the hand on your hip grips hard enough to keep you locked against him.
And that does it.
Joel buries himself all the way and stops there, his hips pressed tight to your ass, chest locking against your back. His groan breaks low into your shoulder as his cock kicks inside you, once, then again, thick ropes of cum spilling inside you. He holds you through it with a grip that almost hurts, breathing hard through his teeth while his body gives in behind yours; the mess of both of you leaking around him, slipping down your thigh in a sticky trail.
For a few seconds, neither of you move.
You canât.
He still has you pinned close, one hand spread over your stomach, his mouth open against the back of your neck as he tries to breathe. Every tiny pulse inside you makes him twitch, and every twitch makes more of him spill out around where heâs still buried.
Itâs too much. Youâre too full. Too sensitive. Your fingers curl weakly in the sheets, but you donât want him to move yet.
He presses a slow, wet kiss to the back of your neck, then another, gentler this time. His hand slides back up your body until he cups your jaw, turning your head just enough to reach your mouth.
This angle is awkward, and you can barely move your head with it, but he doesnât seem to care, and neither do you. He kisses you long and sweet, his tongue sliding lazily against yours while heâs still inside you, while the mess between your thighs keeps spreading into the sheets
âTell me youâre okay,â he murmurs into your mouth.
You can barely talk right now.
Your body still hasnât come back to itself, your thighs trembling, your chest pressed too hard into the mattress, your breath catching every time he moves even a little.
All you can do is make small, sad excuses for a sound.
He pulls back a fraction. âBaby.â
You drop your hands and reach behind you, your fingers wrapping carefully around the base of him to keep him from slipping out as you turn in his arms.
It takes nearly everything in you. Your body protests at the movement, sore and overly sensitive, but you need to see him. Need his face. Need his mouth without twisting for it.
Joel catches on fast. His hand slides under your thigh, helping lift your leg over his hips so you can roll toward him without losing him, and the movement makes both of you gasp.
But once youâre facing him, you wrap an arm around his waist and pull him in, keeping him there as your chest presses to his.
âIâm...â you breathe into his mouth, fighting for the words. âMâperfect...â
He groans into the kiss, broken and relieved, one big hand, copying the back of your messy pigtails while the other moves over your lower back in careful circles. He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he believes you, but still needs to feel it for himself.
He stays inside you the whole time, heavy and intimate, the mess between you only growing as your thighs press together around him.
When he finally pulls back, itâs only enough to look at you. His eyes move over your face, searching for any trace of pain, regret, anything you might try to hide from him.
You blink up at him, dazed, mouth swollen, still holding him inside you with one hand at his waist.
âMâperfect,â you whisper before he can ask again. âSwear.â
He presses a kiss to the top of your sticky forehead.
Theyâve been together for a lil, reader is experienced but vanilla. up to u how u on plot (i say theyâve done it a few times but reader never finishes) UNTIL now. idk how to write it⌠and u r so much better with words.
But like spicy af. I say dif positions until one works⌠I just need some freak nasty stuff.
special girl ŕźâ§âË.
pairing: andrew cody x f!reader
summary: andrew makes you cum.
content: +18 MDNI, established casual relationship, oral f!receiving clit stimulation, fingering, size difference, nipple sucking, secretly possessive!andrew, marking, dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, unprotected piv, multiple positions, intimacy, praise, down bad kinda awkward!andrew, begging, creampie, mention of alcohol consumption
note: god i need him so bad!!!!! this started off as me challenging myself to write a fic 1.5k words or less but it's yap city over here </3
wc: 3.1k
"never?"
it doesn't make sense to him. you're too pretty, too desirable.
andrew knows you've been with others both before and after him. the two of you have never been exclusive, but it's always been...different with you. has always meant more. has always felt as close to love as he's been allowed. an intimacy bordering on worship.
so when you make your confession, he almost doesn't believe it.
but there's so much sincerity in your eyes as you shake your head and say, "nope, never."
he moves just slightly from where he sits on the edge of his bed. you're laying on top of the sheets, head on his pillow, looking like you belong in it far more than andrew ever has. "so you just...what? ...fake it?"
a sound leaves you. not quite a laugh but something close. "not...exactly?" you pick at the tab on the can of your seltzer. "well, i guess sometimes, yeah. it depends on the person."
"and what about..." andrew shrugs, blinking. "what about with me?"
you purse your lips and your eyes narrow the smallest bit. "don't do that," you say.
"what? it's a reasonable question, isn't it?"
for a second, you say nothing. you just stare in that way you sometimes do, attention stuttering over his features. the shape of his mouth, the curl of his lashes, the freckle just above his left brow that you've claimed as your favorite.
"no," you admit softly. "i've never faked anything with you, andy."
"but you've still never finished, right?"
you shake your head in dismissal and set your drink on his nightstand. "it's not about just that, though. not with you."
his brows furrow, and he tries to understand but can't quite wrap his head around it. he wants to ask for clarification, but there's a part of him that fears the answer.
but you see it, even without a word spoken. you see him, the way you always do. the way you always have. "i just like being close to you," you explain. "you always make me feel...i dunno. special."
"you are special," he says. it's not meant as a compliment. rather just truth. but it makes you smile, and pope finds himself wanting to say it again.
he lifts his hand from where it sits at his side, not much more than a twitch, nearly reaching for you out of instinct. but then he puts it back down again, unsure of himself, unsure of...this.
the space between you feels precarious. a new layer of naked truth stripped bare. another curtain pulled back.
you notice, but you don't push.
andrew tries again, heart racing fast as he sets his palm on the inside of your knee. âwe couldâŚwould you want toâŚto try?â
a smirk pulls at the corners of your pretty lips, glossy and strawberry flavored (andrew knew, because he paid for that lipgloss at the beauty store you dragged him to a month ago). âyou wanna try and make me cum?â
he shrugs and strokes his thumb across the top of your thigh. âif you want. i mean, no pressure anything like that butâŚit just feels wrong. like, unfair or something.â
âyou actually want to?â this time it is a laugh that escapes you. a pretty, heartwarming sound heâs adored for as long as he can remember. âlikeâŚhere? now?â
craig and deranâs party thrums with life just outside popeâs bedroom door. youâd come here for a little bit of peace, some respite. only to make a confession that unsettled him more than the noise. âwhy not?â
âwhat if i, likeâŚyou know. canât.â
a crease forms between andrewâs brows. âwell you have before, right? like, by yourself?â
your smile grows. âuhmâŚyeah. yeah, i have. i mean i can, but what if i canât today. like, here.â
âthen we try again later,â he answers simply. and then quickly amends, âi mean ifâif you want.â
for a moment, you sit in the quiet together. youâre considering, pope knows. weighing the offer. his thumb still rubs tiny circles into your thigh casually. itâs an intimate touch but not sexual in nature, not suggestive.
not until you nod and say, âokay, yeah. we can try.â
and then he moves his hand upwards, slowly snaking his fingers between your legs. he presses against your hip, pushing you onto your back, and feels the metallic button of your jeans.
pope nearly pops it open on instinct but forces himself to slow down. tells himself he needs to take his time with this.
so he slips his hand beneath your top instead, cracking a small smile when you squirm as his fingertips ghost over that ticklish spot just a few inches below your rib. he finds the swell of your breasts and massages gently over the fabric of your bra.
you lean forward just enough to pull your top up and over your head, discarding it on the floor at his feet.
andrew reaches around your side and unclasps your bra, albeit a little clumsily, before adding it to the growing pile of your clothes.
when you lay back down, he follows you. presses his soft lips against the corner of your mouth first, a quiet asking for permission.
you turn your head to kiss him fully, lips parting to let him inside. andrew has never really felt good at much, but kissing you, specificallyâhe feels confident in. he's had a fair bit of practice, and knows just how you like it. messy and a little frantic, a clashing of tongues and lips and teeth.
you moan into his mouth and it feels like a victory. andrew bites harshly at your bottom lip, but he's quick to soothe the ache with his tongue.
he crawls further onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and moves his lips just a little lower. laying wet, open mouthed kisses down the curve of your pretty neck, over both of your collarbones, and sucks a blooming bruise at the side of your breast. easily covered, but still a tangible claiming. a mark of his possession.
he laves his tongue over each of your nipples, licking and sucking until your spine bends off the mattress. and then he moves even lower, littering kisses down your abdomen, breathing the scent of your soft skin deep into his lungs.
only now does he allow himself to unbutton your jeans, pulling the zipper down with his teeth. you're wearing a pretty, blue pair of panties beneath, and he presses a chaste kiss to your pubic bone over the fabric.
"god, andrew," you say, kicking your sneakers off at the end of the bed. "i love when you touch me."
he pulls away just a little, enough to turn his eyes up at you. you look so beautiful from this angle, he thinks. eyes glassy and pupils dilated, breathing unevenly. "m'gonna need you to talk to me. tell me what feels good and what doesn't," he explains. and then for good measure adds, "and don't lie to me. i'll know if you lie."
you give him the prettiest smile and then nod. "yeahâŚyeah, okay."
he doesn't waste any more time, hooking his fingers around the waistband of your jeans and underwear and tugging them down your legs.
pope is already hard as stone, but the moment you're bared to him everything changes. you're so beautiful, and all he wants is to make you feel good.
he presses a gentle kiss to your clit first, pushing your thighs apart to spread you open. then he drags his tongue through the seam of your cunt, tasting all the sticky wetness he's created, unable to quiet the groan that rumbles through his chest.
you let out a dreamy sigh and your head falls back as your hands come to tug at the roots of his hair.
pope takes his time; there's no hurried movement to be found. he lets his tongue grow familiar with every hill and valley of the shape of you, the stubble of his day-old facial hair catching on the inside of your thighs.
when he sucks your clit into his mouthâno teeth, just all tongue and lips and softnessâyou gasp for air and he can't help the pride that wells in him.
his fingers flex around your thigh, a silent urge.
and like the special girl you are, you quickly say, "good. feelsâŚs-so good. that's perfect."
he takes it a notch higher, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerve endings.
this time it's not a gasp you give him but a sultry, real moan. so pope stays there, circling your clit with his tongue, spelling his name and yours and hoping it does something in the cosmos to seal the two of you permanently together.
the crease between your brows is telling. he squeezes again, a little harder this time, and pulls away only long enough to order, "talk to me."
"can youâ" he seals his lips around your clit again, drool and slick coating his chin. "oh god. can youâŚyour fingers, too. can youâ?"
pope untangles his limb from around yours, finding your opening with practiced precision. he carefully slides his index finger inside you, humming in response when the intensity of your moaning grows.
he adds his middle finger in beside the first. you're already so wet that he encounters no resistance, pretty pussy taking him greedily. andrew curls them inside you, feeling and pressing against different spots, different angles, untilâ
"fuckâjesus christ, don'tâoh my god don't move just stay right there, please."
he wants to praise you, to comment on how good you're being for him, how perfect.
but pope does exactly as you ask insteadâhe stays right where he's at, fingers moving inside you, tongue circling your pulsing clit. he can feel the silky walls of your cunt constricting around him, squeezing tight and pulling him in deeper.
you're trying. chasing it. but he knows it needs to happen organically. knows that if you try too hard, you'll get in your head about it and never fall over the edge like he wants.
the words vibrate against your clit when he speaks. "stop thinking."
you let out a dramatic groan. "but i don't know if i can," you whine. "i'm soâhmâi'm so close, butâŚ"
pope pulls away completely now, because though spoken in frustration, your words are still direction. and he heeds it like a dog called to heel. "let's try something else, then."
he leans back on his knees and pulls his shirt up and over the back of his head. he flushes beneath your acute attention, eyes unashamed as they drink up his bare chest.
andrew unbuckles his belt and starts to shove them down his hips. "do you have a favoriteâŚway? something that feels the best."
"oh, uhmâŚfromâfrom the back, i guess?"
"you guess?"
"well, that's what feels good for me but it usually meansâŚ"
you hesitate, embarrassment shining bright in your eyes.
pope urges, "means what?"
"people don't typicallyâŚlast very long when weâ"
andrew playfully clicks his tongue, grips you around your thighs, and wrenches you down the mattress. he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee and says, "don't worry, i'll last. now turn over."
he says it with confidence because this is a task for him. and a man like andrew cody? he's thorough.
but that confidence wavers when you arch your back, hands extended beneath the pillow in front of you. the slope of your body is mouth watering. graceful and feminine and yet still so sultry and sinful.
and when he pulls his cock out, lines himself up at your entrance, and pushes in real slow?
he starts to get it.
it's almost too much. too good. you're so tight and wet around him and with his hands on the decadent curve of your ass and the sight of you laid out before him?
yeah.
he understands.
it doesn't take him long to find a good rhythm, thrusting his hips forward and burning himself deep. he settles on his knees , finding an angle that elicits a moan he likes. "how's that, hm? there?"
you nod with your face pressed against the pillow. the next instruction is a single word and spoken in a quiet exhale. "harder."
pope obliges. adds a little more force behind his hips, grunting low to fight off the blinding pleasure that threatens to coil up his spine. you feel so good. "touch yourself," he orders.
with a little effort, you wiggle your hand beneath you to find your clit and pope groans when he feels you clench around him the moment you do.
he watches with panting breath and sweat beading on the back of his freckled neck as the muscles in your shoulders move, working yourself up, being the perfect girl for him. the sight of you a feast of grandeur that he devours.
"oh, fuckâthat's good. that's so good, andy, iâ" a soft sound escapes from between your lips, the sweetest, most carnal moan.
pope knows you're close. he knows because he can feel it, the warm, silken walls of your cunt pulsing around his cock. your fingers keep circling your clit, pushing you just a little further towards the precipice of release.
but thenâ
"i needâoh my godâi need to kiss you. i won't be able to finish unless i kiss you, pleaseâ"
it nearly breaks him, in truth. the sight of your pretty pussy swallowing down his cock like it was made to take him while begging for something as innocent as a kiss.
no one has ever wanted him like that before. not like you do.
and it makes him feelâŚchanged, almost. like he's been on one path his whole life and here you stand in the center of it, changing his course.
pope groans, the sound guttural, his hips stilling. he leans forward, chest to your back, and presses his mouth right between your shoulder blades. the small affection is slow and measured and intimate. he counts each of your panting breaths as the oxygen enters and leaves your lungs.
"hey," pope whispers, easing himself out of you. "c'mere." he gently tugs you upwards, offering the strength of his hands as support when you lean back on shaking legs. "turn around for me."
pope leans back on his knees and turns you so your position mirrors his, face to face. he just stays there for a moment, looking at you, into your pretty eyes, finding himself grateful for this night and this stupid party and that stupid song they played that you hate.
the energy that passes between you isâŚprofound. honest and intimate and aware.
"you're so beautiful," he says, and he doesn't even mean to. it just slips out. "come here. come sit on my lap."
with a slow nod you say, "yeah. okay." you shift forward, anchoring yourself with your hands on his broad shoulders.
he supports you with one big hand on the small of your back, and uses the other to hold his cock steady while you sink onto him.
your moans are in perfect unison; a heavy, desperate sigh. when you roll your hips, andrew shakes his head and says, "no. let me."
he thrusts upwards, hard. stretching you open on his length, forehead pressed to yours.
"oh myâfuck, andrew that'sâ"
"touch yourself," he orders again. "and don't stop until you cum."
white spots cloud his vision the moment you do, feeling you tense up, tightening around him. he presses his forehead to yours and his nose brushes your cheek. each of your breaths become shallower, more ragged, ghosting across his lips and tasting of peppermint and the remnants of your raspberry seltzer. "kiss me," you say again.
he does. kisses you hard, tongue finding yours and claiming your mouth. he thrusts his hips up into you, swallowing your moans and and groaning low.
the thought crosses his mind, for just a secondâthat he might disappoint. because andrew cody realizes very suddenly that he might be in love with you, might have been in love with you for some time. and having you this close is enough to have his heart beating fast and his cock throbbing inside of you. he's not going to last.
he's not.
and thenâ
"don't stop," you whimper against his lips. "don't stop, don't stop, i'm gonnaâoh god. god, fuck i'm gonna cumâ"
"there you go. give it to me," andrew urges.
your nails dig hard into his shoulders. "cum with me. please, andrewâplease, pleaseâ"
that white-hot coil around his spine snaps. you beg so prettily he can't hold it back, spilling his release deep inside you, sticky webs of cum right up against your cervix. he kisses you again, squeezing you tight against his chest. "you're so perfect," he whispers. "my perfect girl. did so good."
his cock quickly grows sensitive. but he doesn't stop moving below you until your muscles go slack and you collapse in his arms, face pressed into the crook of his neck.
you hum, the sound vibrating against his skin, lips wet with his saliva and yours. and then, so gentle and so quiet, you say, "thank you."
pope strokes his fingers over your spine, tracing each one of your vertebrae. he sets you down against the mattress, over the top of his wrinkled but still perfectly made comforter. he lays beside you, observing for a few moments. eventually, he admits, "i don't want you to see anyone else."
a smirk forms. "yeah? that right?"
"yeah." andrew's hand finds yours, fingers closing around your knuckles. "i figuredâŚy'know. since we're making confessions tonight."
you laugh, the sound light and airy. but then silence settles and it feelsâŚheavy. real. "okay," you say.
a crease forms between his brows. "okay?"
"i won't see anyone else."
carefully, almost experimentally, andrew leans forward. his mouth finds yours, lips moving like it's his first time kissing a woman.
he feels you smile and a moment later you ask, "does this make me your girl?"
and he thinks yeah. of course it does. you've been his girl far longer than he'd realized.
synopsis you and Jack have always been two pees in a pod, working the ER together, on the field together, no wonder you started to search for those dark eyes and damning smirk. and you thought for a second, just for a second, he might be searching for you too, until you hear the man you're crushing on airing out everything he hates about you
warningstypical medical drama stuff, in-accurate medical terms. miscommunication. angst. insecure reader. language, jack says things he doesn't mean about reader. angry love confession in the rain. this is not proof-read
authornotei really really really loved this idea and tried so hard to do it justice, I hope you like anon. I tried to stay close to the SWAT idea but I'll be honest I know nothing about American army stuff (i'm british) so I sort of set it as much in the Pitt as I could. I also couldn't find ANYTHING for Jack's military background so I made up some SWAT guys
pitt masterlist. another Jack fic!
Just when you thought the rest of your day was going to be boring, Jack Abbot and his crew of SWAT pushed through the ambulance bay doors, yelling off stats, applying pressure where needed and clearing the way around them.
Which was a welcome change from trying to sell Robby your hypothetical first born child in exchange for a lunch break.
âIntubated neck wound, stats are going down. Got a room?â said Jack.
You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. âHiro? What happened?â
âWarehouse robbery gone wrong,â said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. âYou're working today?â
âOh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.â
Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.
You were what could be called, a floater.
By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.
âOkay, on my count,â you begin. âOne, two, three-â
You helped lift him over to the bed.
âDid you intubate him?â you asked,
âYeah, under active fire,â said Jack.
You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. âYou were shot?â
âShot at.â
âYou need to be looked at?â
âNo. I'm fine.â His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.
âDid you see the chords when you intubated?â asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.
There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.
Jack had.
Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.
âYeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.â
Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.
âYou should get that looked at,â you told him.
âI'm fine.â
âNo, you're not.â
There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.
âYeah, c'mon Abbot!â said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. âLet doc work you up.â
You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.
So, he wasn't in the joking mood.
âAlright, fellas, out!â leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. âWe'll let you know any changes, out!â
You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.
âDemanding,â said Robby.
âYou should hear me in the bedroom,â you teased with a wink.
Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.
You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. âGood lung sliding, no pneumo-â
The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.
âGeez- woah!â
âPumper!â you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.
The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.
âHey, hey,â Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. âMove back, get yourself cleaned up.â
âI can handle a little blood, Abbot.â
âI know that but-â
â- this is a transected trachea now-â
There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.
There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.
You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.
It was one of the reasons he always called you in.
âWell done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,â approved Robby.
Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. âNot bad.â
Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. âIs that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?â
âYou know I think you're good at you're job,â he said, plainly.
You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.
But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.
Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.
He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.
Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.
âYou sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?â
âHmm? Oh, no, it's fine,â he excused.
âDon't want the paperwork?â
âSomething like that,â said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.
âOkay, okay, but get it looked at!â you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.
There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.
You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.
And, why.
Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.
He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.
Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.
And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.
Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.
âWhy do you do this?â she'd asked.
Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. âMy therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.â
She hummed. âFunny.â
âThank you.â
He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.
They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.
He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.
Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.
âWe're almost finished up here,â said Mohan.
Robby held up his hands. âI didn't say anything,â he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. âYou good?â
âGetting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.â Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.
Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. âCan you give us a second?â
Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.
âEr, yeah, sure. No problem,â she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. âKeep it clean and the dressing fresh.â
âCan do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.â
Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.
Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. âWhat?â
âNothing.â
âNothing? Clearly,â said Jack.
âAre you avoiding her, now?â
Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. âCourse not.â
âDid she do something?â
âNo.â
âSo what was all that? Back in trauma?â asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.
Jack had his heart buried deep down. âI dunno, man,â he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. âMaybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.â
Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. âPeople bleed out all the time.â
Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robbyâs knowing gaze.
âI havenât seen you this worked up since you first met her,â he teased.
âNow I really donât know what youâre talking about,â Abbot grumbled.
Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. âWhen two consenting adults like each other very much-â
âI donât,â said Jack, abrupt. âI donât⌠like her.â
âJack, câmon-â
Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.
âSheâs not it for me,â he said, trying to mean those words.
Your smile first thing in the morning didnât warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didnât make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.
Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.
Robby watched, heaving a sigh. âBrotherâŚâ
Jack couldnât keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasnât fair to you.
âSheâs not it, Robby.â
âAnd why not?â He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.
âSheâs different- weâre two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasnât a doctor, she didnât throw her life away on field missions. She wasnât⌠she wasnât ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.â
He pressed down against the metal band branding him.
âYouâre not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because sheâs not like your wife?â Asked Robby.
Jack glanced back at him. âI know what works for me. I canât be with someone as loud or⌠bash. Sheâs-sheâs brutal, you know.â
Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. âWe all have our own ways of dealing with things.â
âHer way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, thereâs no healthy habits there,â argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didnât know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.
âOkay,â said Robby in a way that marked defeat.
But Jack didnât believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. âAnd I donât even think sheâs a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? Sheâs constantly in between them.â
âSheâs a sub, thatâs what she does-â
â- scared of commitment,â corrected Jack.
Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. âOkay, youâre in a mood or something.â He pushed himself from the wall.
âNo, Iâm not,â he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. âSheâs a good person sheâs just not my person. You know she-she doesnât even like flowers, who doesnât like flowers?â
âSheâs more than a good person, Jack,â said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.
In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.
Another thing he couldnât stand. Youâd never ask for help.
Even if, Jack couldnât admit it out loud, heâd help without an invitation too.
You suppose you shouldnât have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and bodyâs became empty vessels. Youâd built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.
Thatâs why you felt it plummet.
Sheâs not it for me.
There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you werenât supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.
But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.
She's brutal.
It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.
You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.
You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.
She's not it for me.
âHey-â Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. âCentral twelve when you have a chance.â
âYou got it, boss.â Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.
Robby gave a nod and left you to it.
Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?
Besides from not being his wife.
The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.
It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.
You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.
You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.
Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.
The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.
You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.
A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.
âDrinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits thereâ you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.
When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.
âYou know you're not a very good liar,â Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)
Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.
And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.
But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.
You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.
âWe have a mass casualty event,â said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. âSchool bus incident. You in?â
You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. âI'll have to check, Presby might need me.â
Robby scoffed down the line. âHave they called yet?â
âWell, no-â
âThen get your ass over here.â
âRobby-â
âPlease, please get your ass over here,â he said down the line, sighing heavily. âI.... I could really use another set of hands.â
Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.
Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.
You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.
âI need some help over here!â yelled out a paramedic.
At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.
âKid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.â
âDana what's open?â called out Langdon.
âRoom in trauma one!â
Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.
âYou're here,â was all he said.
You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.
Jack didn't like that person.
âYeah, in the flesh,â replied Frank instead.
âChest trauma on the right!â you assessed. âWe need an X-ray in here.â
âX-ray's backed up,â Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.
âThen get me an ultrasound!â you called out. âPush five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.â
âBP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!â called out Princess.
You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.
âWhat have you got?â he asked.
It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.
âChest trauma to the right, he's tacky,â he explained quickly.
You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. âHis breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!â
âA thoracotomy?â asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. âYou sure you can handle that?â
âI'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,â you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.
âAny tamponade?â asked Jack.
You checked the boys blood pressure. âNo, pericardium's dry.â
âOkay, start an-â
â- start an internal massage-â
You and Jack said at the same time.
Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.
âPulse?â
âBarely.â
Jack frowned, looking over at your work. âCross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.â
âI need suction!â
âGot anything for surgery?â asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.
âOh no, we've brought the OR down to us,â said Jack.
Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. âAre you doing a thoracotomy right now?â
âDon't look at me,â said Jack, surrendering.
Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. âI know what I'm doing!â
Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.
âClamped,â said Princess.
âSomeone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,â you ordered.
There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.
âHe's going into V-fib!â
You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. âOkay, I need internal panels!â
They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.
âYou want me to-â he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.
âCharge to thirty! Clear!â
Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.
âThere! He's stable!â said Princess.
âWe've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!â said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.
âI'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,â smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.
You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.
Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.
When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.
The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.
You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.
âYou were impressive in there,â said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.
âThank you.â
He gave one short nod. âRobby call you in?â
âYeah.â
âSame here,â he said, not that you'd asked. âYou know, Hiro's doing well.â
You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. âOh yeah, I know, I heard.â
âWhat, from the guys?â
You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.
âYou know they told me you haven't been around much,â said Abbot. âI've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?â
Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?
âNo, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,â you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.
âOne or two's not bad,â he said. âCouple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.â
She's brutal, you know.
You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.
âNo thanks, Jack.â You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.
Heading back in seemed the safer option.
Jack turned when you did. âNoody's seen you for weeks-â
â- I've been busy-â
â- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-â
â- they've been busy, they've called me in-â
â- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-â
â- I didn't think you'd want me.â It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.
Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. âWhy would you think that?â
You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.
âHey-hey-â Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.
You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.
âWhatâs going on?â Asked Jack, following in your steps.
âNothing, nothing.â
Jack made a disgruntled noise. âCâmon, talk to me.â
He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything heâd said, with every terrible thing youâd already thought about yourself. You imagined every time youâd cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?
Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. âI do like flowers.â
âHuh?â
You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. âI like flowers,â you said, stronger. âNobodyâs ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.â
For anyone else it wouldâve took time to click. Theyâd have stood there, looking at you like youâd gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.
But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure heâd have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.
Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. âI- I shouldn't have said that.â
âYou said a lot of things,â you said, holding yourself tighter. âSounded like you meant them.â
He gulped. âI didn't mean-â
â-what, for me to hear it?â
âNo, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,â he said.
âWell it didn't come out as shining praise either.â You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.
âRobby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.â
You chuckled with loathing. âNo you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.â
âHey!â he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. âI do like you.â
You rolled your eyes. âNo you don't.â
âI do-I do-â Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. âI do like you.â
âIt doesn't matter.â
âIt does, it does.â Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.
âYou know the worst thing is? It's that I know,â you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.
Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. âKnow what?â
âI know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?â
âNo. No, of course not,â he said, lips pulled down.
You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. âI could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-â
â- I know, I know you do-â
â- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!â Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.
âYou don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!â
âYou know what the worst part is?â
Jack shook his head, waiting.
âIt's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.â
Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.
It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.
Jack had fucked up.
There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.
He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.
He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.
He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.
âWhat's your problem?â Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. âShe's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?â
âShe won't return my calls,â Jack told them. âCan you just... just call her?â
They'd refused, with good reason.
He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.
It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.
Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.
âCan I help you?â asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.
He said he was looking for you.
âShe's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?â
âCan you tell her Ja-Jack's here.â For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.
Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.
There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.
âJack, what is it? Are you okay?â your eyes were frantic, searching him.
Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. âI realise I should've specified,â said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. âI just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.â
Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.
You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.
âI didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,â he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. âI didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.â
âThey're very nice, thank you,â you said.
âThey come with an I'm sorry:â said Jack. âI'm sorry.â
You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. âOkay.â
Jack looked down to his boots. âIt's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.â
You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.
He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.
âI didn't mean it,â he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.
Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.
âI messed up, it's on me. It's not you.â
âThe classic it's not you, it's me?â you dismissed.
Jack winced. It was clichĂŠ, damn him. âYeah, I guess so.â
He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
âCan I get back to work now?â you asked, gently.
What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.
He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.
âJust promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.â He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.
âOkay. Yeah.â Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.
âAnd don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.â
There was a glimpse of a smile.
Jack played on. âI'm a total, total dick, a jerk!â
An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.
âSorry,â he uttered.
You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.
It was enough for now.
Your name was called down the corridor.
âHe's in V-tach!â a nurse announced before disappearing again.
âGo,â said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. âJust, please. Don't be a stranger.â
Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.
Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.
âWhere the hell is she?â barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.
Jack dumped his bag at the counter. âWhat happened here?â
âNursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?â
Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. âShe's busy at West.â
âWest? God-â Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. âListen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.â
âYou think I don't?â Jack snapped.
Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. âTell her the truth-â
â-Robby-â
â-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.â
Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.
Robby sighed. âYou think she'd want you to be happy?â
A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.
âTalk to her,â said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.
Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.
Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.
Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.
They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.
They told you not to change.
It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.
Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.
You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.
Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.
âShen's out, food poisoning,â said Robby over the phone another day. âYou know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.â
Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.
Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.
It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.
âAm I going to need surgery?â asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.
âNot surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,â you said.
The boys eyes grew wide in joy. âSo, no school?â
You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. âWell, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.â
You put in the orders for stitches.
âIs it gonna hurt?â asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.
âWe're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,â you assured. âTell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?â
The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.
You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.
Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. âHi.â
âHey.â
âI was just... maintenance,â he mumbled.
You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. âMaintenance... yeah... sure...â
You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.
âHere, I can-â
His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.
Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.
The tin fell into your hand.
Jack stared down. âOh- er, there.â
âThanks.â
It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.
It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.
âYou heading out?â he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.
âYeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.â
Jack frowned. âWhat happened to your car?â
âIt's in the garage.â
âWell... I can give you a lift,â he suggested.
The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.
âNo, it's okay, you don't have to.â
âI'd like to,â said Jack, stepping closer. âI'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.â
You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.
âYou don't have to, Jack.â
âI do- I do!â he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. âPlease let me.â
Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.
Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.
âNo, wait-wait!â said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.
âJack, what are you-â You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.
âWe don't need you know, sorry man,â Jack mumbled.
Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. âWhat?â
The driver tutted. âI still want me five star review!â He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.
âOh- serious?â Jack gritted. âNow I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.â
The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.
âWait! Wait!â Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. âWait.â
âI don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?â
âNothing I say can excuse what I said-â
â-so why try?â
âBecause it's killing me being like this!â he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. âIt's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.â
âI know you are, Jack, I just need time!â
âI'll give you time,â he said. âI'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.â
To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.
He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.
âI haven't loved anyone since my wife,â said Jack. âI haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-â he curled a fist at his chest. âAnd then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.â
âOkay. You tried. I get it,â you mumbled.
âBut I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-â
âExcuse me?â
Jack winced. âI mean great, great karaoke.â
You chuckled.
âI can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,â he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. âI shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.â
You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. âI've loved you for so long now, Jack.â
He waited, catching his breath, for more.
You looked up at him. âI'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.â
Jack nodded, looking down.
The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.
âI love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.â
His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.
âBy the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?â you said.
âYeah, something like that.â
âAnd looking to settle down.â
Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. âI'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.â
âTherapy is good,â you said.
Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. âBut I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.â
As sorry's went... as love confessions went.
âI'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,â you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.
âI know, I know,â Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. âI am too.â
You searched his eyes before whispering. âCan I kiss you?â
He smirked a little. âNo.â
Your heart dropped.
Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. âCan I kiss you?â
His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.
You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.
You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.
Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.
You ran your hands up his shoulders. âI love you.â
He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.
âWill you let me?â you asked.
âAlways,â he promised.
thank you to anon for requesting, and thank you to @oldbaddies and @mafercita101 who wanted to be tagged :)
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when you overhear a comment frank makes to mateo, you decide to back off. frank doesn't like that one bit and does everything in his power to get your attention back.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ââ .⌠°ââ.ŕłŕż*:シ
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING frank langdon x er!barbie!reader
WARNINGS overheard conversations, miscommunication, mutual pining, idiots to lovers, girly!reader, post-rehab frank langdon, recovery themes, yearning to the max, repression also to the max, flirtation as a coping mechanism, kissing!, making out on the job!
WC 3.9k | REQUEST here!
âThe new intern claims Barbieâs been doodling your name with little hearts all over her forms. Somebodyâs got it bad.â
Mateoâs statement floats over the nursesâ station diver.
It manages to slam straight into your self-image. Delicate tissue at the best of times, wedged between your left ventricle and the tiny circuit that compels you to adopt every sad house-plant at Trader Joeâs.
Yes itâs true, you do, for the record, employ thematic embellishments. A heart here. A flourish there. (Morale matters; medicine is bleak). That is not the same thing as âhaving it badâ.Â
But the problem is apparently people canât make that distinction, and now you can see it too clearly, a pack of first-years huddled together, snickering over your smittenness, spider-webbing a hairline crack right through the high-gloss competence you spent seventy-eight paychecks shellacking.
Itâs that eighth-grade deja vu: the day Jack Harrison caught you tracing Mrs. Jack Harrison in bubble letters on your planner and passed the page down the row like contraband.Â
The heat that bursts behind your ears now is the exact temperature of that day, when the whole cafeteria seemed to sync with your cardiac rhythm â thump, she likes him, thump.Â
You straighten behind the med cart, ready to emerge and correct the narrative before it mutates any further, when Frank speaks first. âIgnore it. Itâs just noise â Iâm sure sheâll lose interest soon enough.â
Oh.
Something clamps shut inside you so abruptly it almost audibly clicks.
Like youâve been fizzing under pressure all shift and someone, somewhere, has just screwed the cap on tight. The carbonation tears around blind, frantic for an exit.
Noise. The word expands until it feels the whole corridor. Noise, as in background nuisance, as in easily tuned out, as in the thin electrical whine of a dying bulb that nobody bothers fixing until someone from maintenance finally rips it out and tosses it.Â
So thatâs what he hears when you talk? A squeaky hindrance he tolerates out of courtesy?Â
The lively back-and-forth you stored under maybe someday morphs, in one breath, into you pawing at a deadbolt while he waits for the scratching to stop.Â
You pivot on silent flats, slip down the side corridor before Mateo or Frank registers movement.Â
Three steps in, a shoulder clips yours â McKay, clutching a stack of imaging requests. Clipboards explode across linoleum.Â
âWhoa, road-runner much?â she laughs, stooping. Her grin falters when she meets your deer-in-the-headlights stare. âHey, you good? Youâre kind of⌠vibrating.â
Thereâs no better word for it. Your fingers keep sparking against each other, your chin keeps twitching toward the main hall, and every nerve ending chants the same directive: bolt, wounded-fawn style, into the nearest underbrush before the hunter looks up.Â
You drop to your knees, paper edges nicking your skin as you herd the spill into something vaguely stack-shaped.
Out of the corner of your eye, Frank and Mateo both turn at the clatter. Frankâs brows notch, mouth already forming the silent You okay?
You slap the stack into McKayâs hands.
âPeachy!â you babble, already sidestepping to block Frankâs sight-line. âTotally good. Very busy. High-priority sticker emergency. Life or death if youâre, like, six and waiting for discharge.â
Your shoes squeak as you bolt.Â
There are several indicators, in Frankâs opinion, that suggest youâve come down with something terminal, and the first arrives in the form of his inbox.Â
Or rather, the absence of its usual infestation.Â
When he finally gets ten uninterrupted minutes to wade through his overnight emails, there is only one from you.
A curt administrative note about revised intake-labeling protocol, plus an attached spreadsheet for the weekâs front-desk coverage.
It is concise. Properly punctuated. Horrifyingly lucid.Â
Frank stares at it a full second longer than necessary, as if more of you might reveal itself under scrutiny.
Because, usually, by this point, there are at least twelve.
They arrive in glitter-bomb bursts throughout the day. A few carry actionable intel. Most are digital magpiesâ nests: random URLs, blurry memes, rogue exclamation points, and the kind of half-formed shower-thought nonsense you apparently consider too important to trust to your own mind.
He spends longer than heâs willing to admit at the computer waiting for more emails to come in.
They never do.
The second indicator presents itself when he swipes into radiology and, for the first time in recent memory, does so alone.Â
No sudden apparition at his elbow, no imploring eyes, no breathless little âoops, forgot mine again,â delivered as though this is an unforeseeable act of the gods rather than a behavior pattern.
He tends to just hand the badge over without questions.Â
There is no point doing otherwise. If not him, youâll simply latch onto the next available soft touch with security clearance, and Frank would rather it be him.Â
He frowns when the reader spits its green light at an empty hallway.
The third, and by far the most worrying, indicator arrives in the break room.
Frank boxes himself into a stolen minute, pours a cup, looks up too late, and finds you standing at the same counter.Â
Usually this is your opening. Your preferred habitat.Â
Youâd reach across his body for sugar you absolutely do not need (youâre sweet enough as it is), clip his front with your ass, crowd his elbow while stirring, then look up like none of it was intentional, like heâs just a piece of furniture placed unfortunately in your path.Â
He braces for impact. Nothing happens.
Instead you give a brisk nod, measure out a generous amount of creamer into your cup, and keep your radius fanatically intact.Â
You leave before he can tally the damage.
The space beside him turns freezer-aisle cold. Frankâs fingers blanch on the mug handle. He blames the overzealous hospital ventilation for about half a second, then hears the excuse rattle around his own head and die there.Â
He has half a mind to go after you. Catch you by the wrist before you get too far, steer you into a vacant bay, and do the whole thing properly since apparently no one else is treating this personality drop as emergent.Â
History, exam, differential. Whatâs been siphoned out of you, and can he replace it?
In a better universe, that line of inquiry earns him one of your usual responses, âShould I unbutton for the stethoscope, Doctor?âÂ
But he canât do that. Canât go stalking after you like some lovesick asshole with a savior complex and a death wish.Â
Especially not now when he is, at best, one bad headline away from vaporizing the fellowship heâs been clawing toward for years. He needs HR to stop looking at him like one more incident will finish the job rehab failed to.Â
And beyond that, heâs been trying to starve the gossip before it gets any bigger. Partly for himself, sure. Mostly for you.Â
This place has a long memory when it comes to his mistakes and a short one when it comes to anything decent heâs ever done.Â
Heâs not about to hand the hospital a fresh excuse to staple your name to his and let people act like youâre just another piece of collateral from the mess he made of himself.Â
But shit he misses you. He wants your attention back on him. And the flirting and the smart mouth and the little collisions of your body with his like youâve forgotten where one of you ends and the other begins.Â
So if he canât be obvious, heâll be strategic. Heâll do what he does best. Lay the bait and wait for you to come to him.Â
At two he messes with the thermostat.Â
Thereâs a woman in Facilities whoâll adjust it for him without putting in a work order, no questions, an ongoing favor from the time she showed up in the ER with split knuckles and a story about slipping while replacing a vent cover.Â
Frank stitched the cut closed in under six minutes, declined the point out that the wound looked a lot more like sheâd punched through something than brushed against it, and earned himself a useful little pocket of goodwill in the process.
And, more often than not, Frank squanders that usefulness on you.Â
A degree warmer in the mornings, sometimes two if the night crew has left the department with all the ambient warmth of a crypt, timed just before you blow in the front doors, already looking faintly wounded by the concept of central air.
Itâs at sixty-six now.Â
Low enough to summon you, high enough that no one can accuse him of weaponizing infrastructure for attention.
Although that is precisely what heâs doing.Â
But it takes longer than expected for you to appear in his line of sight. And when you finally do, you pay him no mind.
You putter through the department in several layers: cardigan, coat, fleece, thermal tights, hands tucked into your sleeves.
You look pissed. You look adorable. Frank resents learning those two things can coexist so easily.
He tries to catch your eye but you just keep moving through the pit like an overdressed cumulonimbus radiating indignation at every ceiling vent, refusing to seek him out.
It makes no sense. You should have filed a verbal complaint with him by minute eight.
And at minute forty-five he watches (sourly) as Garcia slides up beside you, a still-steaming warmer blanket perfectly folded over her arm.Â
âYou look frostbitten,â she murmurs, settling the plush square around your shoulders.Â
You exhale a blissed little thank-you and lean into her, soaking up the heat Frank had planned to supply by proxy.
Garcia lifts her gaze, finds him across the pit, and winks. Problem solved, ER Ken, she mouths, fluffing the blanket with exaggerated care just to make sure he clocks her fingerprints all over his failed experiment.Â
Problem not solved. In fact, freshly enlarged.Â
Frank later lumbers down the hallway toward your office like a kicked senior dog chasing the last scrap of affection from its owner. He clutches the print-outs in his hand so tight they rasp with every step.Â
He finds you at your desk, hair fallen in stray ribbons across your face, mouth pulled down at the corners while the monitor paints you blue. Concentration or maybe displeasure. Hard to tell from this angle.
He hovers, suddenly unsure whether to knock on the actual door or just the wall of silence youâve erected.Â
He opts for the literal door, two knuckles, two quick knocks.
Your head lifts. Something bright like excitement sparks across your face then the expression collapses, shutters down to business. Like you remembered all at once the circumstances surrounding him and whatever stupid hope had leapt up before you could stop it.Â
He hates that expression immediately. Hates that it exists. Hates even more that he canât quite sort out why seeing it on your face feels like a personal failure.Â
âNeed this form revised,â he says, lifting the mangled stack. âThought maybe you could escort me to radiology? Could use the company, and you terrify the techs less than I do.â
Itâs needy and transparent and he knows. He doesnât care how it sounds as long as you say yes.
âIâm, uh, really busy at the moment, Dr. Langdon. Pending labs, two admits⌠might be a while.â You rattle it off too fast, like reading a grocery list you just wrote in your head. He knows every item is invented on the spot.Â
âHumor me, okay? Iâve had seven hours of people telling me to wait my turn. I need one cooperative face before I implode.â
You worry the inside of your lips, eyes flicking to the doorway.
Finally you nod. âFine.â
One syllable, and it hits like epinephrine. He canât stop the microscopic lift of his chin, lungs taking in a fuller breath as if permission itself has oxygenated the air.Â
He angles toward the hallway, offering the smallest tilt of his shoulder so you can merge.Â
âThanks,â he says, voice pitched towards casual.
âSure.â
He glances at you to his left. Goosebumps litter the expanse of your arms. He eases his stride so youâre shoulder-to-shoulder instead of half a step behind. âYou cold?â
âNope. Perfectly comfortable.â You answer while simultaneously yanking your sleeves down to your knuckles.
He snorts. âYeah and Iâm the post child for impulse control.â
You stop mid-stride, eyes narrowing. âThatâs not funny, Frank.â
His first name. Thatâs progress, he thinks. Even laced with contempt, hearing it from you feels like an exhale after hours underwater.
He knew you wouldnât like the joke. Made it anyway, cheap currency to buy a spark out of you. If spark equals fury, so be it. Fury beats indifference every time.Â
âYeah, poor taste. Reflex, I guess.â He winces, thumb rubbing the knot at his collar.Â
You huff through your nose and pivot forward again, pace clipped. Frank falls in step a half-pace behind, then edges closer.
âCardigan looks new,â he ventures. âColor suits you.â
âItâs old,â you say, eyes still on the hallway ahead.Â
Frank smothers another wince. Stupid. By this point the day has offered him more than enough evidence that the usual methods are dead on arrival.
Compliments, bait, orchestrated coincidence, all of it useless now that youâve apparently decided to treat him like a mildly inconvenient coworker.
Thatâs the part he likes least. The sudden sense that he canât locate himself in relation to you anymore.Â
The part he likes least changes when he finds you twenty minutes later, stationed beside some orthopedic meathead, looking luminously alive.
No longer wan or withdrawn or visibly dying of whatever new strain of virus youâve contracted. But smiling. A laugh bubbling out, fingers corkscrewing a curl the way they do when youâre charmed.
Apparently you can still flirt. You can still sparkle. You just canât seem to do it anywhere near him.Â
Before his cortex can veto, heâs crossing the floor, stopping dead at your shoulder.Â
âJust need a status update on Mrs. Carlsonâs tib-fib before radiology locks the board.âÂ
Mrs. Carlson, insofar as he knows, is fictional, but her imaginary fracture buys him two startled glances and three precious seconds inhaling the vanilla-and-alcohol warmth of your laugh.Â
Meathead flips through pages. âUm⌠we donât have a Carlson today.â
Frank fakes a thoughtful frown. âHuh. Alias, then. Happens every weekend â patients think weâre the witness-protection program.âÂ
Ortho squints. âI can pull the day-sheet again ââ
âGood idea,â Frank says, nodding like a supervising attending. âCheck PACU and the boarding queue; wouldnât want to miss an imaging window.âÂ
The guy mutters agreement and slinks off, shoulders hunched in duty. Frank turns to you, expression suddenly softer.Â
Crossing your arms, you cock a hip where Ortho had been. âImpressive diversion tactic. Did Mrs. Carlson spring fully formed from your imagination, or is she a previous imaginary friend?âÂ
The furyâs back again.Â
Frank scratches at his jaw. âDidnât think it through.âÂ
âYou think plenty. Maybe just tell me what you want instead of throwing Jason under a bus.âÂ
Jason. Stupid name for a stupid guy, he thinks.
What he wants is one honest conversation and maybe your ass back where it belongs â in his personal space. He canât say that last part though, so he settles for the first in the only terms he knows how.
âWhat I want is a five-minute consult with you. Somewhere quieter.â He flicks a glance at the empty bay down the hall, then back to your crossed arms. âPlease.âÂ
You study him for a moment, then nod once.
âBay twelveâs open. Five minutes, then Iâm due back at my desk.â
Frank files the claim under Questionable. You treat workstations like bar stools â occupied only until something shinier beckons. Itâs not the desk ticking in your head; itâs the idea of being walled in with him past the half-life of your composure.
He watches tension climb your scapulae as you march ahead, timing yourself like a patient on a stress test.Â
Bay 12 yawns open and swallows you both.
The instant the noise of the corridor seals off, Frank feels his pulse redeploy to places it has no business patrolling. Temples, wrists, the hollow just above his sternum.
For one beat you stand opposite like combatants in a childrenâs-duel-turned-board-meeting: arms folded, backs straight, pretending neither of you can feel the static in the air.Â
âRight.â He claps once (why did he clap?) and immediately regrets it. âConsult.âÂ
Your brows tip up, perfectly polite, perfectly guarded. âOn our imaginary tib-fib?âÂ
Frankâs ears go hot.Â
âYeah, about that. I might have â misallocated resources.â He forces a laugh that sounds like a cough that sounds like a car refusing to start. âLook, I just ââ A breath, steady, like he tells interns before a lumbar puncture. âIâve noticed youâve been⌠different. Quieter. Less ââ he gestures vaguely, like thereâs a medical term for starlight. âI thought maybe Iâd done something.âÂ
âFrank, Iâve been at this hospital for three years. Youâve existed in approximately one and a half of them. If Iâm different and you assume itâs about you, thatâs either breathtaking narcissism or ââ a small, lethal smile ââ maybe something else.âÂ
Something else. He recognizes your own bait and still lunges.Â
âYeah. Maybe.â Quiet. Direct. No place to hide in it. âMaybe I did assume it had something to do with me because I wanted it to.â His knuckles sweep his jaw. He never looks away from you. âBecause if itâs not that, then Iâm standing here making an ass out of myself for no reason, and Iâd actually prefer the narcissism.âÂ
You hesitate. âIâm just⌠giving you a little breathing room, okay?â
âBreathing room?â He moves toward you impulsively before catching himself, eyes wide, almost pleading. âI donât â fuck, I donât want breathing room. What are you doing that for?â
âWhat do you think?â You laugh, but itâs hollowed out completely. He doesnât like the sound. âI spend half my shift practically trailing after you. Everyone sees it. I just â,â you purse your lips. âI donât want to embarrass myself any more than I already have.â
He frowns at that. Youâve never once moved through this place like someone worried about looking foolish.Â
You flirt when you want to flirt, laugh when you want to laugh, and say things most people would bury alive before letting them leave their mouths. You leave little traces of yourself everywhere. Lip gloss prints on coffee lids. Heart-dotted notes. Sweaters draped over chairs that arenât yours. There is nothing cautious about you, nothing particularly governed by social survival.
Even your embarrassment tends to be theatrical, temporary, burned through fast and replaced with another bad idea. He has never known you to care this much about the audience.Â
âWhat are you talking about?â
He watches as your eyes break off and land somewhere past his shoulders, as if the answer might be stapled to the wall.
âI heard what you said earlier.â
Frankâs brow furrows harder, causing a headache. âWhat?â
âWith Mateo.â Your arms tighten across your middle. âAbout me being âjust noise.â About how Iâd lose interest soon enough.â Your eyes flick up to his for a second. âSo I thought maybe I should help you out with that.âÂ
Blood sluices out of his skull, then surges back so hard his vision pulses.
For a beat, Frank just stands there, knocked completely sideways by the realization that you heard that, heard those exact words with none of the context that had made them make sense in his head. Christ.Â
No wonder you pulled back. No wonder youâve been different. Heâd been cornered by Mateo outside the med-supply cage, half-listening to him gleefully recycle some intern gossip thread like it was harmless entertainment, and all Frank had been trying to do was kill it fast.
Shut it down. Mateo was fishing for a reaction, for confirmation, for anything he could carry back into the staff room and let breed.Â
Robbyâs got a disciplinary file half built with his name on the tab. One more thing and heâll be back in that carpeted purgatory explaining how âpost-rehab Frankâ was just a limited-time offer.
The only thought had been do not feed this. Do not let you become a bigger target than you already are.Â
âNo, thatâs â fuck.â He breaks off, already hating how badly heâs said everything. âThatâs not what I meant. I called the intern noise. The gossip. The whole stupid conversation. I meant sheâd get bored and move on if I didnât exacerbate it. I did not mean you.â
If anything, the entire point had been to avoid throwing you under the bus by acting like there was nothing there to poke at. And somehow that attempt has landed here, in front of him now, having done exactly the opposite.Â
You look at him for a second like youâre trying to decide whether to believe him and coming up short.Â
âI can handle it, you know. Iâm a big girl. If Iâm too much, or if Iâve been making you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.â The flat seam of your lips is more withering than any shout. âIâd rather hear it straight than keep walking around here feeling like some joke everybody else is already in on.âÂ
âI know you could,â he says, too fast, like he needs to get there before you decide otherwise. âI know you could handle it. And if that was what this was, I wouldâve said it, yeah?â His chest keeps punching at the scrub top, lungs over-ventilating around the terror of being misunderstood. âI donât want you to stop flirting with me. I donât want you to stop hovering or talking or⌠any of it. I â I fucking need it â You.âÂ
âFrankâŚâ
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, like he hates that you can see him thinking it.
âIf I do something stupid right now,â he says, voice low, âare you gonna slap me?âÂ
Heâs half begging for the hit, half begging on the green light.Â
Your exhale stutters into a breathy laugh. âDepends how stupid.âÂ
Stupid wins.Â
Frank closes the last inch and touches his mouth to yours.
Soft at first, like heâs half-afraid youâll vanish. You donât. You stay⌠then soften⌠then melt, and everything inside him rushes forward. The second your lips part, the kiss deepens. Hunger and apology braided tight.
His hand rises to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hair there, and the kiss tips from cautious to greedy in a single heartbeat.Â
Heâs been starving himself on purpose, convincing the ache it was dietary. You donât feed a craving that noble, heâd told himself in a dozen graveyard-shift pep talks. Now the craving is kissing back, and his resolve crumbles like a sugar packet.Â
You curve forward, spine bowing until his shoulders hit the curtain and the metal rings screech on the rail, but the world past the vinyl may as well be orbiting another sun. You both break into breathless laughter, but neither of you stops.
They warned you about selfish addicts, a voice needles.
This is exactly what they meant: taking the one thing that makes the ward bearable and unintentionally hurting its feelings to keep it safe â then stealing it anyway.
He swallows the guilt, chases it with another taste of peppermint.Â
Frank pulls back just far enough to speak, foreheads still touching. âNo more breathing room, okay?âÂ
You pretend to ponder, then glance at the inch (maybe) separating your bodies. âPretty sure you just repossessed every cubic inch of it.âÂ
âGood,â he says, thumb stroking the tendon at your nape like heâs checking his own pulse there. âIâm keeping it.âÂ
Selfish, a reprimand flickers, but he canât imagine surrendering the warmth thatâs finally tugged his chest open.Â
Then the hallway pager shrieks, reminding you that the world still exists and someone probably needs a doctor who isnât currently making out behind a curtain.Â
You both straighten, slower than necessary, Smooth hair, reset badges.Â
As you step through the divider he catches your hand, gives it a quick, secret squeeze.
You squeeze back, and the grin you trade in that split-second says everything the rumor mill never could: whatever this is, itâs no longer background noise.
MARIA NOTE hi hi hi thank you for reading and witnessing er barbie and franks FIRST KISS!!!!!!!!!! behind a questionably sanitary curtain, no less. may their pager batteries die forever so we get more smooch time. â âšđŞť â§Ë. áľáľ đŞ´
YOU CAN FIND MY FRANK LANGDON MASTERLIST HERE â.á
Hooked - Dr. Brendon âThe Sharkâ Park x Reader
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: Â that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case youâve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, whoâs been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. âFuck, our consultâs the Shark.â
âOf course it is.â Shen, whoâs been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, âThis kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Sharkâs never gonna let someone else-â
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, âWho?â
âDr. Brendon Park,â Shen explains like heâs telling you about an upcoming horror movie. âHeâs the head orthopedic surgeon.â
âHavenât met him yet,â you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you donât know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your dayâs meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, âI thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.â
âNo, sheâs the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls âthe butcher shopâ for juicy cases.â Shen shakes his head and says, âIâm gonna dip before he gets down here. Iâll grab Robby to supervise.â
âYouâre leaving? Why?â
âPark can actually stand Robby.â Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. âI made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Sharkâs always down my throat when we work together now.â
âHow long ago was that?â
âThree years.â Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, âThat thing youâve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMCâs Shark never forgets. Donât fuck up your first impression.â
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. âWell, that was comforting.â
Jesse, whoâs been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitakerâs, tries to offer, âParkâs not so bad.â
âYeah, because youâre a nurse,â Whitaker replies. âHe likes nurses. Respects them. Itâs other doctors he thinks are stupid.â
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. âThen I wonât be stupid.â
âGood luck with that,â a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. Heâs easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. Itâs not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here arenât soâŚbiteable. Youâre fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. âYouâre new.â
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than youâve seen. He doesnât look scared the way Whitaker does, but thereâs a clear expectation about what the interactionâs going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, âNew fellow. Recent relocation.â
Parkâs eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. âWe havenât met.â
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself thereâs no reason to be scared. You donât play hospital politics like the residents. Youâre a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. Youâve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, âI started here last month. Just havenât had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.â
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, âWelcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and weâll get along fine.â
âNo problem.â You bounce slightly on your feet. âShall we get started here?â
His chin cocks slightly to one side. Youâre not shrinking. Not bashful. Youâre smiling. Thatâs rare. He doesnât mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, âTell me what weâve got.â
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, âMr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case â thatâs me; Iâve been point for Mr. Westman all day â chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I donât necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-â Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, âVitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, âSo essentially, the approach is-â
âHold on.â Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. âWhat did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?â
You glance over at Robby, whoâs shaking his head with pleading eyes. But itâs your case. Youâre the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Parkâs and tell him firmly, âYour radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westmanâs paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.â
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. AlmostâŚamused. Like heâs watching a puppy try a new trick. âWhatâs your opinion, doctor?â
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like youâve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
âI suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patientâs ability to walk.â Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly âbleeding heart baby doctorâ voice come out. âMr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work thatâs absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.â You swallow hard and pinch back tears. Itâs something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, âI know that the kind of procedure Iâm suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that itâs not at all my place to-â
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, âShow me the scans.â
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Parkâs eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all theyâre thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, âI donât care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an âinoperableâ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomyâŚfuck, âjust-about-everything-ectomy.â Plus nerve transfer. Now thatâs sexy. I like it.â Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down â just a little slow to be completely professional â and asks, âPipsqueak, you wanna assist?â
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a âsure, why not?â type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, âYeah, that would be awesome. Iâve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.â
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, âFreak.â
âGo to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,â Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, âCongrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.â
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, âAh, thanks.â
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, youâre glowing like you havenât been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, youâre practically skipping as you beam, âDr. Park, that was so amazing. I canât thank you enough for the opportunity.â
âYouâre good,â he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. âGreat calls like that deserve great rewards. Wouldâve given you a gold star sticker, but Iâm not as soft as Robinavitch.â
âI wish Robby gave out stickers,â you reply wistfully. âThat might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.â
Youâre about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. âUnless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.â
You startle backwards as you realize heâs pushing into the menâs room. âOh my god. Iâm so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when Iâm excited.â
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, âBy the way, itâs technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.â
Parkâs amused, loud voice hollers back, âGo home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.â
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after youâre done putting your things away. She says, âThereâs something in your mailbox, if youâd believe it.â
âReally?â You worry a hangnail on your thumb. âDonât tell me Iâm getting served or something.â
âYou? Come on, youâre Miss Bedside Manner USA.â She nods over to the doctorâs lounge and explains, âItâs from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.â
âHuh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.â
You scurry off to your mailbox, which youâve only even looked at once, the day you started. Theyâre a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, thereâs a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt youâd been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldnât find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy youâre here.
Underneath, heâs drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt â just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, itâs kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. Youâre really not supposed to be doing this. Itâs a total violation of protocol â not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Parkâs door after checking with the ortho receptionist that heâs in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as âyes, what?â Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, âHi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-â When Park doesnât even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. âSorry; thatâs silly. Iâll get back downstairs and send a page like I shouldâve to stop annoying you.â
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. âYouâre not annoying me.â
âOh. Thanks.â You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. âSo, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. Iâm working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know youâre really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-â
âIâll do it,â he interrupts urgently. âDonât ask Torres. Or anyone else. Iâve got it.â Then he adds, hasty, âPatient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. Youâre right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.â
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupidâs bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, âOkay, perfect, I will. Thank you.â
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasnât returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
âI also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.â You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star youâd picked out to grace it among your collection. âI really like them.â
âGood.â Heâs tempted to lie, say it was someone elseâs idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he canât when heâs looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. âSaw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone soâŚcompetent.â You swear thereâs a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, âIâll come down to see you- for Mr. Westmanâs follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexiaâs fucking killing me today.â
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, âI could type it up for you, if you want.â
âI didnât mean to tell you that,â he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. âYou have this disarming thing about you. Itâs jarring.â
âUm, thanks?â You tilt your head like a puppy. âAre you not supposed to talk about it or something?â
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, âPeople hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you donât mind, keep that to yourself.â
âNo problem, Dr. Park, Iâm the picture of discretion,â you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, âBut, yâknow, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability â not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand Iâm word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. Itâs- itâs chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.â
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. âDo you now?â
âYup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.â You swallow hard and tell him gently, âUm, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology â pre-med â but he didnât think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. Iâm not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.â
âPeople with photographic memories freak me out,â he says with a chuckle. You wonder if youâre the only person in the ED whoâs heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: âIâd love the help, if you have time.â
âYay!â You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. âIâm still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.â
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, âDid you eat?â
âYeah, of course. But I get bored if I donât have anything to do after my leftovers.â You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, âAlright, big man, what are we writing?â
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, âWhy donât you take my spot? Youâll be more comfortable.â
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. âWhatever you say, Shark.â
The next time Parkâs in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. Itâs horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. Itâs not a feeling thatâs ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
Itâs because youâve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. Heâs a head taller than you, even slouching, but youâre dwarfing him with your energy. Parkâs never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvieâs hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. âI didnât do anything wrong! All I did was-â
âOh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?â With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, âI get that Iâm a woman. I get that Iâm short and cute and girly. I get that you think youâre godâs gift to medicine.â
âI donât think Iâm-â
âI wasnât done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so youâre less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.â While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice heâs ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, âIf you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?â
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, âYes, doctor. I- I understand.â
You nod tightly and add, âIâd like an apology now.â
âIâm sorry,â he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but thatâll get the job done. âI shouldnât have spoken to you the way I did.â
âGood. I forgive you.â Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. âNow letâs get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?â
Ogilvie manages to get out, âThanks,â before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as youâre sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdonâs voice from the other side of the ED. âSharkbait, get over here!â
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. âMe?â
His eyes are big and begging. âYeah, câmon, I need you.â
âI have work to do, Frank.â
âPlease?â He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. âParkâs going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.â
Exasperated, you cut back, âWhat the hell does that have to do with me?â
âYouâre Sharkbait,â he replies, mimicking your expression. âWhen youâre in the room, heâs less of a dick.â
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, âIâll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.â
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
âJesus Christ,â you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. âLUCAS?â
âOn an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.â He shakes his head and mutters, âItâs basically a bag of bone soup in there.â
âSounds promising,â Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, âPipsqueak, thank god youâre on this, too. I donât have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.â
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, âWhy hasnât he ripped her head off? Sheâs brand new; she doesnât know how to placate him.â
âHer aura powers are unknown to us,â Whitaker mutters back. âShe has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.â
âI mean, she has nice tits,â Trinity reasons. âSheâs smart. Made some good calls in front of him.â
Whitaker argues, âBaranâs brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.â
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. âYou think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?â
âNot the point.â A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, âWhatâs the deal with you and the Shark?â
Humming gently, you ask him absently, âWhat do you mean?â
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, âWell, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?â
Your eyes startle wide at the idea â tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. âWhat? No! Of course not. Brendonâs not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.â
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, âI didnât realize that was a possibility.â
You chuckle and tease, âMaybe try being a better doctor next time?â
âBrutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.â
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Danaâs been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff whoâd gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. âKid, do you wanna trade spots with me?â
Your brows furrow. âWhat? Why?â
âLook.â
Your eyes follow Robbyâs pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Parkâs perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. Heâs wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. Youâve never seen him outside of scrubs and itâs becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, âI donât mind.â
âYou sure?â
âWe get along great, actually.â
âThat explains the new nickname,â he chuckles under his breath. âI figured it was because youâre a sacrificial lamb.â
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He canât bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but heâd looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionistâs computer and basically threatened Ogilvieâs life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. âHi, Bren, I didnât think you came to things like this.â
Bren. Nobodyâs used a nickname besides âSharkâ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isnât picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. âItâs hockey.â
âItâs team bonding,â you tease. âYou hate bonding. And teams that arenât sports.â
âBut I like free Pens tickets,â he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. Youâre wearing pants, at least â leggings, because fuck him, he figures â but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, âDid you bring a jacket or something? Youâre gonna freeze to death in here.â
You shake your head. âItâs not that cold; Iâll be okay.â
âGive it a period.â
âIâm not on my- Oh. Theyâre called periods in hockey?â
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, âYeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
âYouâre gonna have to explain everything to me,â you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. âIâm not from a hockey town.â
âI donât mind,â he admits after a second. He adds carefully, âI never get to talk hockey outside of work.â
âNo gym buddies to gab with?â
âNo gym buddies,â he confirms.
âThatâs shocking, considering the biceps of it all.â And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you donât have a dick to give away your thoughts. âAre you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-â
âOkay, okay, thatâs enough,â he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. âYouâve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and donât want to get hurt.â
âSo no time for gym buddies.â You lilt, sweet and easy, âMaybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-â
âNo, you definitely donât need âlessâ anything,â he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; heâd burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, âLifting isnât about losing weight or visible muscle. Itâs about building practical strength.â
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, heâd drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldnât change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. âIâm gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?â
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, âDo they have cheese fries?â
âThey have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,â he confirms. âIâll be right back with some goodies.â
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you havenât had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. âPut this on. I wonât be able to focus on the game if youâre shivering next to me the whole time.â
âAw, Bren, thank you.â Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. âJust let me know how much I owe you for it â at least for half.â
He rolls his eyes. âShut up; itâs a gift.â
âOkay, thank you so much, thatâs so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,â you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, âI apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.â
âI forgive you because of the cheese fries.â You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, âCrosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?â
Park smirks (itâs the most expensive sweater) and replies, âSid the Kid. Best player Pittsburghâs ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it heâs retiring soon; I think thatâll be my first true heartbreak.â
You balk at the idea. âYouâve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.â
He raises his eyebrows. âYou go on that many dates?â
âNo, no, no, no dates,â you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. âBut it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was justâŚgone. I couldnât look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-â
âTeam introductionâs starting, then the national anthem,â he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like heâs actually invested in your rambling. âPut a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and Iâm all yours for a full sock eulogy.â
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. âYes, sir.â
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesnât go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He canât even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. Itâs agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand whatâs going on. âThatâs Ovechkin. Youâre gonna see one hell of a game. Heâs Crosbyâs biggest rival.â
âSo we hate him,â you reply obediently. âGot it.â
He smiles at you and confirms, âYeah, we hate him. Mostly because heâs really fucking good.â
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, âThatâs why people hate you, so itâs good company.â
He barks out a laugh. âIs that why?â
âThat or because you never show off that handsome smile.â
With a pout, he counters, âI smile plenty.â
âHe said, frowning.â
âIâll smile when the Pens win,â he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon canât rip his eyes away from you. Itâs too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You donât notice heâs staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. Youâre so shocked that you donât process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming âgod, sheâs beautiful, isnât she?â Itâs the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that itâs you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly â innocently, even â in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, âYou got lipgloss on my face.â
âWhat was I supposed to do?â You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. âLeave my adoring fans hanging?â
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, âI think youâve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.â
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, âYou didnât have to blush.â
âInvoluntary response to relevant stimulus.â
âWhatever you say, big guy.â
If heâs honest with himself, his smile isnât half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. Heâd kiss you for real if you werenât surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he canât resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, âItâs been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?â
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, thereâs a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. Itâs more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesnât have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that itâs hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when youâve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Parkâs office. The doorâs cracked and youâd come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, âAre you sure you canât do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know youâre not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-â
âI told you, man, Iâm surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. Iâve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I donât do shit like that,â Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. âYouâre in good hands with Torres; sheâs as good as me any day â maybe better since people actually like her.â
You donât wait for Robbyâs response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy youâre surprised you canât hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Parkâs just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who donât care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who donât mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably donât even realize youâre flirting because theyâre so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what sheâs doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. Itâs hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. Youâre still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendonâs insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes youâve never seen before, âWhatâs wrong? Did someone make you cry?â
âNo, no, Iâm fine.â You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. âJust, um, Iâm on my period and Iâm emotional.â
Which isnât not true. Itâs the last day or two and you are emotional. Itâs definitely not helping the situation. Parkâs a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but heâs a doctor, dammit, so he doesnât let it faze him. Instead he offers, âOkay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-â
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice heâs being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. âOkay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?â
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest youâre gonna get to having him, youâre gonna milk it for all itâs worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, âYou smell really good.â
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, âItâs Dior. My mom bought it for me.â
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you canât get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. Youâre only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know heâs coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time youâre clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, thatâs a lie. You actually donât feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you donât have your best friend to hang out with anymore. Youâre going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you donât find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendonâs standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. Heâs not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, âWhat are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.â
âYeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when youâre ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.â His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. âCan we talk now?â
Weakly, you mutter back, âMy bus is in five minutes.â
âYouâre not taking the bus. Iâm driving you.â The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. âWeâre talking. Come on.â
Then he takes your hand â you want to throw up â and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesnât wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, âWhatâs going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and Iâll fix it. I know Iâm a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but Iâm not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.â
âYou havenât done anything wrong,â you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, âI came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who youâre surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think Iâd ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since youâre this sexy strong surgeon and Iâm so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-â
âWoah, pipsqueak, hey.â Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. âWhat the hell are you talking about?â
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers â the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize â and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, âI just- I donât think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. Itâs great that sheâs so cool about you having female friends, but Iâm just so sensitive and I know thatâs not your fault but-â
âHold on.â Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like youâre an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, âYouâre my girlfriend.â
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, âHuh?â
âMy girlfriend. Who Iâm surprising on Sunday. That would be you.â
Now itâs your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. âWhat are you talking about?â
âI asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,â he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way youâve ever seen. Like youâre dumb but like maybe heâs also dumb. âI paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I donât just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.â
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, âI donât know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friendsâ coffees!â
â$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,â he replies as though you wouldnât drop your panties right here in the park. âMore importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.â He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, âI kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldnât be dating.â
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldnât trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, youâre an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: âYouâve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You couldâve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that wouldâve made things pretty clear to me!â
âJumping your bones?â He suppresses a laugh since youâre still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, âI guess Iâm still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasnât picking up signals that you wanted me to, yâknow, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, youâre new to Pittsburgh, youâve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didnât want to mess that up with you.â
âThatâs actually really sweet, Bren,â you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, âOkay, well, then we never did, like, a âwhat are we?â talk.â
âThatâs because Iâm 38 years old,â he replies bluntly. âWhen Iâm with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I donât need to have that talk.â
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, âClearly you do, dummy!â
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. âOkay, Iâll have that talk if you want it.â Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, âWould you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?â
You let out an absolute squeal. Itâs delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesnât care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, âYes, of course, obviously.â You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, âThis is my favorite night ever.â
âYouâve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,â he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. âNo, no, no, I canât have our first kiss be when Iâm all puffy and snotty from crying.â
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, âFair enough. Whatever you want. Câmon, letâs get you home.â
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, âHow about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday â by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job â but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?â
âYeah, of course,â he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. âIâll go anywhere you ask me.â
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. Heâd agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Parkâs pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. Heâs a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like youâre pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesnât even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, âYup, this is the singular sexiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: âWell, yâknow, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since heâs planning on surprising me tomorrow.â Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that heâs carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. âBrenny, did you get me flowers?â
âBrennyâ might be too far, but he canât bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and heâd accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. âUm, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?â
âStill romantic,â you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any heâs been on the receiving side of. âThis is the sweetest thing any manâs ever done for me.â
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, âBaby, youâre about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.â When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, âCan I kiss you now?â
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendonâs gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when youâre gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
Itâs eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendonâs arms loop around your back. Before you know it, heâs lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing heâll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, âBaby, you canât make all those little sounds or youâre gonna kill me.â
Breathless, you tease back, âThen you definitely canât call me baby.â
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, âWhereâs your bedroom, baby?â
âItâs right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-â
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. âNo point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.â
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that youâre turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, âAre you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?â
âIf thatâs what you want,â he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which youâve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, âIâll give you everything you want, kitten.â
At the tender pet name, you canât help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like heâs become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasnât experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell heâs being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear â that heâll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesnât do more, doesnât grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, âYouâre not gonna break me, Bren.â
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what youâre asking, even if heâs tentative to give it to you. âWhat are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.â
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, âWhatâs the point in having those muscles if you donât throw your girl around a little? Câmon, Shark, I know youâre not a shy lover.â You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, youâve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and itâs absolutely sinful. âTouch me like you mean it.â
âJesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,â he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and heâs hunting for blood in the water. âI didnât know you owned anything black.â
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, âItâs a special occasion.â
âYeah?â His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. âWhatâs so special?â
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. Youâve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, âOut of words now, pretty girl?â
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, âTake your clothes off.â
He throws his head back and grins. âGood choice of words.â
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, yâknow, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. âJesus fucking Christ.â
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. âWhat? Something wrong?â
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because heâs your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, âAre you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?â
âMy hot bod?â His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once heâs stepped out of his jeans and youâre blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, âYeah, I always am.â
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, âYou should be.â
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. âLike what you see, princess?â
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole âbeer-can-sized-dickâ thing youâve read in way too much erotica because you canât close your hand around his girth. âOh.â
âWhat? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?â
âHoney, I think everyone youâve ever met knows you have a big dick.â Your eyes flick up to his playfully. âAnd Iâm definitely not intimidated.â
âReally?â
âYouâve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.â
âYeah, thatâs why Iâm so into you.â As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression â which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, âWant a taste?â
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like youâre thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. âFuck, baby, thatâs- thatâs perfect.â Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. âJesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? Iâve never been this obsessed with someone.â
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. âReally?â
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your headâs back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, âItâs actually become a huge problem for me. Youâre all I can think about.â
You giggle breathlessly and ask, âIs that a complaint?â
âMmm. Thereâs that little laugh of yours. Thatâs how you got me,â he groans before kissing you again. âI made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.â
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, âThen I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.â
âAnd I thought that was funny,â he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. âYouâre so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You donât even realize how deep youâve got your hooks in me, baby.â
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until youâre squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, âCan I leave marks?â
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, âPlease.â
âYeah?â Heâs grinning, now, but he canât bear to let you see. âWant the whole world to know youâre mine now?â You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, âGood girl.â
Fuck, youâre soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. âAll this for me? Youâre easy to work up.â
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. âAre you surprised?â
âNot even a little,â he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, âIâve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. Youâre so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.â
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. âJust like that.â
âWhatever you need, sweet girl,â he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
âBrendon,â you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, âI really need you to fuck me.â
âI love the enthusiasm, kitten, but Iâm not gonna hurt you,â he replies simply. Reluctantly. Thereâs a tenderness to his voice that shouldnât fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. Itâs him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, âIf Iâm gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I canât leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before Iâm inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?â
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, âIâll try.â
âThatâs all I ask,â he tells you. Itâs insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo youâve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you canât come up with any response besides your bodyâs natural reactions, he teases lightly, âCareful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.â
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, âSorry about that.â
Brendonâs thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesnât tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what heâd found before, and doesnât rest until heâs right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and heâs addicted to your every sound and twitch.
âThere you go,â he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. âThatâs right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendonâs there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until youâve had as much as you can take.
When youâre finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, âHow do you want me, sweetheart?â
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, âCan I ride you? Whenever Iâve fantasized about us having sex, thatâs what Iâm doing.â
âYou can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,â he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. âWhat exactly do you fantasize about?â
âWell, I donât know if youâve noticed,â you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, âbut you have these giant fucking tits Iâd like to fondle.â Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. âI wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.â
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, âWow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.â
âShut up; yes, you did.â
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, âYeah, youâre right.â
Youâre completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything youâd imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you arenât gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing youâve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Sharkâs huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, âToo much? We can slow down and-â
âShut up,â you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. âFeels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.â
âWell, they do say he was hung.â
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. âYouâre so awful.â
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, âAnd youâre sooooo into it.â
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, âYeah.â
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows heâs not exactly an easy man to take in this position â beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees donât even reach the mattress on either side of his hips â so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell youâre getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, âHow about you touch yourself?â
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, âAlready so much, Bren.â
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, âI guess I can do it for you, princess.â
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you canât stop yourself â and he doesnât mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing thatâs somehow more intense than the last. Heâs grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. Youâre so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. Heâs going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. Itâs impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and youâre not sure youâve ever been this soaked from how much a partnerâs turned you on and worked you up.
âAw, my sweet baby,â he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, âtrying so hard to keep up.â
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, âLetâs see what we have here.â Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. âHot, young, single doctor â knew Iâd find some goodies in here.â
Youâre totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. Itâs his favorite thing in the world. When he says, âget on your knees for me,â your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed â which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, âTell me if you want more.â
All you can do is nod. Usually heâd press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that thereâs no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
âDonât worry that sweet little head of yours,â he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than heâd been able to get without being in total control, âIâm gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.â
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, âThank you, Bren.â
âThere she is,â he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. âThatâs my sensitive girl. Love that about you.â
âThat Iâm a crybaby?â
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. Youâre never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. âYou know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?â
âReally?â
âYeah, princess, I fucking love it.â Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. Itâs completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendonâs thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, âLet it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good Iâm making you feel.â
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. Youâve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendonâs sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
âCâmon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,â Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didnât think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, heâs not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendonâs drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendonâs hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And youâre not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. Youâre so thoughtless that youâre just going for whateverâs been put in front of your mouth; itâs irrelevant that itâs your boyfriendâs flesh.
âThere it is,â Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. âI can feel it coming on. Donât you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and Iâll fill you up. I know whatâs what you want, isnât it?â
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and youâre hurtling into the orgasm more than itâs welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isnât Brendonâs encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. Itâs the idea that Brendonâs going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, itâs a sign that heâs claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, âIâm gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?â
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. Heâd do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. Heâs absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, âGo pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.â
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldnât be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But youâre so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that heâs correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, âNow, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.â
You give a hazy smile and nod. âThatâs so nice, Brenny.â
âWeâre gonna have to talk about that nickname,â he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. âIâm gonna call you whatever I want.â
âYeah, alright, tough guy.â
âMmm.â You lean up to kiss him. âGood boy.â
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until heâs happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. Youâre glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. âYouâre gonna turn me into such a softie.â
You giggle, âOr youâre gonna make me a big mean gym bro.â
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. âMaybe we stick to our current roles.â
âI think they suit us,â you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once youâre sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, âYou fucked my brains out. I didnât know that was actually a thing.â
âI did set a high bar for myself,â he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, âbut Iâm guessing itâs only gonna get better from here.â
You stand on your toes and kiss him. âDoes this mean weâre doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?â
âI love paperwork,â he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, âMy first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.â
âBig bad scary Park the Shark,â you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, âMy softie.â
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, heâs scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldnât even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, âJesus, now I know why they call you Shark.â
âYeah?â Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that theyâre bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, âTheyâre gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.â
Brendon Park x autistic reader, in the style of this. Reader has photophobia as a symptom of her autism.
Mel never really got why people were so spooked by Dr Park.
Dr Park was always, in her limited but not insignificant experience, a decent guy.
Whenever she worked with Dr Park, he communicated clearly, was soft spoken, was efficient, and competent. He was always polite to her, exchanging a pleasant greeting, and an explicit goodbye. Told her exactly what he needed from her.
And sure. She heard horror stories. Him belittling med students, him snapping at attending. But she just⌠never had that experience with him.
And it fucking blows Franks mind the first time he sees it.
âThe hell was that?â He asked Mel, washing their hands shoulder to shoulder.
âHuh?â
âShark. He was all nice to you.â
Mel looked at him like a confused puppy. God she was so cute he could kiss her right now.
And the weird part is, Frank realized, Park is kinda nice to him, too. Frank, unlike a lot of people here post his intermission, assumes competence with him. Shows him a little professional consideration. Frank hadnât realized it till now but⌠he does.
So a few weeks later, leaving the hospital at the same time, ironically, Frank just asks him in the elevator.
After a masculine nod.
âHey, weird question. Why are you so nice to King?â
Park is clearly taken back by it, but not thrown. He shrugs.
âShe reminds me of my wifeâ he admits with a shrug, and then leaves the elevator.
And now Frank has even more questions.
Starting with Brendon Park has a wife?
Frank has zero fucking clue what that means.
And it bothers him.
So he starts to observe. Consider.
What is it about Mel? Is it physical? Is it her hair? Her eyes? Her face shape? The glasses? Is his wife also a doctor? Is she in another hospitals ER? Heâs got less than half a clue.
He does start watching them interact- Park and Mel- more, though. Watching Park, period.
He doesnât know how he missed the gold chain on his neck until now. But now that he sees it⌠yeah. Thereâs a wedding band on it.
But Mel. Mel was the part of the equation he just couldnât wrap his head around.
Now that Frank was looking for it though, the incidents were adding up.
Incident 1:
Mel watched Park pass in the cafeteria during a rare lunch they could get away for, and waved politely. And Park stopped, and smiled and nodded back. And then Mel saw something in his hands. His keychain. Must have come out when he got his wallet to pay. And she commented on it. âI like your keychain Dr Park.â. Park looked down at it and smiled fondly. âOh, the shark? Itâs a gift from my wife. She has a pink one, it matchesâ he admitted with a fond little smile. Frank wasnât sure anyone had ever heard the Shark say so many words without an insult before. Mel beamed. âThatâs so sweet!â âThat she isâ Park agreed. âEnjoy your break, Dr King.â He bid farewell.
Incident 2:
Park was called in on a peds consult. 6 year old boy. Displaced fracture. Car accident. It was a little anxiety inducing to call Park for peds. High functioning ASD diagnosis. The little guy was having a hell of a time, overwhelmed, scared, and hurt. But he was on shift so⌠shit. He was stuck with Shark. The poor baby was in pain, and it killed Frank. Boy wasnât much older than Tanner. Park came in, and nodded at him politely. Not as polite as with Mel but⌠like they were equals in his mind. He evaluated the case. Then he turned to the boy. And while he was palpating his limbs, he noticed the shark on his tee shirt. And quirked a smile. âHey. You know that sharks donât have bones?â. Tears stopped, as the little boy looked up. âReally?â. Park nodded. âNope. No bones. Just cartilage. Thatâs the rubbery stuff in your ears.â He explained. The kid touched his ear. Cute. âYou like sharks?â He asked. And the little boy nodded. Park chuckled fondly. âMe too. You know sharks are older than dinosaurs too?â âReally?â âUh huh. I donât lie buddy, I donât lie. Whatâs your favorite kind of shark?â. As the little boy went into a ramble, and Park apparently vehemently agreed about bull sharks, Park looked at the nurses in the corner and nodded. They could finally actually get an IV in this kid now that Park has him distracted about fucking sharks. Huh.
After the consult and decisions were made, the two physicians stoped out into the hall. âMan, how the hell do you know that much about sharks?â. And Park grinned and chuckled. âMy wifeâs fuckin obsessed with em. You know, it is, stereotype for a reason, right?â Park said, slapping his back and laughing like this was some inside joke they both got. What the fuck?
Incident 3
âWho do you think you are speaking to Dr King like that?â Park bit, harsh and fast, turning on his heels in the ED. He was on his way out, when he heard Ogilvie say⌠something unsavory. The kind of usual jokes other ED staff made about Mel, half of it going over her head. Half of it, frankly, him, Robby, and Jack let slide because calling out would tell Mel it happened at all. But Park didnât seem to care. âDr King is your superior. Dr King is your senior resident. You will address her with the respect she deserves- is that clear? Because if i hear a single god man word about you disrespecting someone in his hospital again, i will personally insure you never get a job in this hospital.â. Frank was wide eyed in shock as the scene developed before him, Ogilvie frozen in shock, Mel the same. âDr King you didnât do a single thing wrong. This is all on Ogilvie. Not you.â Park insisted, before leaving in a huff.
It really just got weirder every day.
And Mel had less of a clue than Frank about what was going on.
Until he knew exactly what was going on.
It came on a Thursday afternoon.
Park came out of the elevator, to everyoneâs confusion.
âWhatâre you doing here? We didnât page ya, did we?â Dana asked, looking up.
Park shook his head.
âNo, uh, Y/Ns inbound.â He explained to Dana, who looked up in surprise. âY/N? The hell happened? She okay?â
Park shook his head, then nodded. âFuck if I know. She said she uh, gave herself a gnarly burn cooking or something.â He explained seeming half out of it.
âOkay. Well letâs get something ready for your VIP, huh. Lemme see who can take her- I think Al Hashimi can-â
Park shook his head.
âCan Langdon or King take her?â
What?
Brendon Park isnât insisting on an attending for his wife? Thatâs-
âLangdon or King?â Dana repeated in surprise.
Something came across Parks face. A knowing obviousness. After a beat Dana shared the same. âRight. Slipped my mind. Theyâve got a good track record with people like her.â Dana agreed. âI know.â Park insisted.
Huh?
âLangdon!â Dana hollered, calling him over.
âNeed ya to do Dr Park a favor, his wifeâs coming in with a burn, youâre gonna patch her up for us.â Dana informed him.
Frank just nodded dumbly. âOkay. Uh, she close?â
Park looked at his phone, life 360 likely. âYup.â He confirmed. âShe looks like sheâs parking now.â
Frank nodded.
âI think- what, central 2 is open?â
Dana corrected him. âWe got north 4 and the doors close, letâs put her in there for now.â
Park thanked Dana softly.
âLook, uh, y/n has pretty hard core photophobia with florescentsâ park explained. âI tell her to wear her sunglasses but sheâs embarrassed so she doesnât listen, but if we can keep those on low atleast-â Park requested.
Huh. Okay. Photophobia. âOkay. Yeah, sure totally, no problem.â
âI can tell you the obvious, but you know the drill. Hyper literal, a bit direct. She can handle pain but not discomfort. Nothing youâre not used toâ Park shrugged.
And thatâs when the wheel started turning.
Thereâs no chance-
Parks phone buzzed.
âSheâs here.â He announced. âIâm gonna get her from chairs. If you want to-â âsureâ Frank shrugged. The fuck else was there to do?
Park shouldered through the doors and found you fast.
You were⌠so not what Frank expected. Hell if he expected anything. But you were not it. You sat stiff as a board in a corner chair, knee bounding, something held tight in your hand.
As he got closer he realized, it was a fidget. One you were on track to destroy by how fast you were moving it.
On your knee he could see a long line of burnt flesh. Ouch.
In your hands, a bag covered in accessories.
Almost all being, he must note, shark themed.
Park damn near dropped to his knees. âSweetheart.â He pouted. âWhat happened, huh sweet girl?â
âDropped a cookie sheetâ you said, lip wobbling. âOh, my poor baby. Iâm sorry this happened to you.â Park cooed kindly. He had to mean it, too. Beautifully. âIâm sorry-â âno, no need to be sorry Angel. It was an accident. Accidents happen. You didnât do anything wrong, youâre not being punished, you didnât deserve this.â Park insisted.
Punished. Being punished. Always feeling punished.
It was getting so much clearer by the second.
But Frank just couldnât believe it.
âCâmon weâre all set up for you, baby, weâll have you feeling better quick.â
âThis is Dr Langdon. Heâs gonna take care of you, but Iâm not going anywhere.â Park insisted. You frowned. âBut- the line-â Park shook his head. âSurgeons wifeâs cut the line.â
You looked distressed.
âCâmon, weâll talk about it later. Faster we patch you up faster we get them help too.â Brendon spun the case. Smooth save, Park.
âHello.â You greeted Frank awkwardly. âIâm Y/N. Thank you. And Iâm sorryâ you introduced. âDonât be sorry. Iâm here to helpâ he insisted automatically.
Park was pretty quiet for most of your treatment, in his defense. He didnât hover. He didnât breathe down Franks neck. But he held your hand, and kissed your forward, and called you brave.
He was definitely a very loving husband. That was for sure.
He asked for a print out of care instructions. Not that he didnât know how to take care of a moderate oven burn. But because he knew youâd want explicit instructions of care.
Yeah. Frank understood.
He understood perfectly, now.
âI didnât realize your wife was autistic.â Frank said softly as Park waited outside the bathroom for you.
Brendon looked at him dumbfounded.
âYou didnât?â
âNah man how the hell would I know?â
Park laughed sardonically. âHonestly? Because alot of people here are fucking dicks about it. Thought word got around.â
âIm sorryâ Frank sighed. âI know how that shit goes. Itâs hard man. Maybe harder on us than them.â
It paints a picture, in a way. How Park became so cold and hard here, when he seems completely soft around his wife. Like he needs an armor to protect him from what people say about her.
Frank hurts for him, honestly.
The door opens, and you come out.
Just as Melâs walking by.
And Mel stops in her tracks, looking you over.
âOh my god your bag is so cuteâ Mel gushed, taking in the 90 trinkets hanging from it. âIs that like, a lemon lemon shark?â
You beamed. âIt is! Isnât he so cute? I found him at a comic con a few years ago. I got Dana this little nurse shark badge reel for Christmas that year too but I think it brokeâ you rambled explaining. And Mel didnât miss a beat. âOh thatâs so cute did he have like, the little hat?â âYeah!â
Park smiled so fondly.
âThis is a thing, isnât it? Autistic girls and sharks?â Park asked Frank, low and soft to not pull away attention.
Oh god, it is, isnât it.
âThat why she likes you?â âMaybe.â Park chuckled.
âThatâs so cute. Oh I love your hand sanitizer holder. I wish they made something like that for hospital grade. I have the cutest jellycat hammerhead at home- I love sharksâ Mel yammered on. And then you yammered back.
And Park looked at Frank and grinned.
âYou guys looking for a couple to double date with?â
summary: itâs day one of the âto do listâ to get your number back: park does pilates. (wc: 1.0k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: humour. pilates princess!reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates class (no exercise mentioned bc i have never done it before) park is self-assured that pilates is a walk in the park. (1) new nickname added to the roster.
Brendon Park prided himself on almost always being correct on a wide array of topics. This stretched from his prestigious work as an Orthopaedic surgeon, to personal opinions on subjects that didnât always bleed into his workâdespite it being his whole life.Â
His knowledge was sought after in a place like the PTMC. Park the Shark was a household name in one of the many hospitals dotted around Pittsburgh, purely down to his learned expertise on human anatomy.Â
So, it came from left field when he had been utterly wrong about Pilates.Â
Being a man of honourâand a slight incline to do whatever you wanted him to doâPark managed to upkeep his promise to arrive at the Pilates studio you had punched into his calendar the afternoon prior, when he had sauntered into the Pitt with the hopes of a second chance at your number; only to be met with a âto doâ list for the week that could be seen as squeamish to a man of his repertoire.Â
At this point, parked in a half empty car park in the tightest underwear he could find in his scrummage of his neatly organised underwear drawer, and a loose pair of basketball shorts paired with a basic white tee that was more for your visual pleasureâand the hopes to cut the âto doâ list in half by selling his bodyâBrendon Park wasnât even doing this for the love of the game.Â
He was doing it for you.Â
Plus, how hard could Pilates truly be?Â
It looked like some light and fluffy fairy-bullshit to someone like Park the Shark, who lifted weights so heavy that his eyes would be bloodshot by the end of the intense workout. Besides, he watched a handful of Instagram reels of the intended workout he was subjecting himself to, and it was safe to say; Park snorted.Â
You met him outside the front of the building, and Park came to two conclusions as you gleefully bounded up to him.
1.) Heâd never lose you in a crowd because you had enough keychains on your car keys to make your own version of jingly sirens. And, 2.) Your ass looked even better in a Pilates outfit than the usual scrubs attire you adorned when he saw you.Â
You gave him a warm look, âI said you donât have to whore yourself out for my phone number, Shark.â fingers point to the t-shirt clinging to his carved muscles, âThis is slutty. I love it.âÂ
âI donât think Iâll accept that compliment.â Park responds coolly, even with his heart thumping against his chest with all this personal time he was getting with you. He doesnât say much more until youâve entered the building, âWhat is the duration of this class?â he asks once youâve walked past the door he held open for you.Â
âAbout an hour?â you think, âItâs pretty hardcore. We can get coffee after, theyâve got their own stationâsort of a life saver.âÂ
âUh-huh.â Park says, border-lining sarcastic and it makes you lift a brow in response.Â
You smile at another attendee before speaking again, âAm I sensing some mockery, Sharky?â you look up at him easily towering over you as you walk, âBecause Iâd dial it down, riiight about now.â you lilt.Â
âIâm not mocking your hobby, sweetheart,â Park defends honestly. The last thing he wanted was for you to think heâd ever scrape the barrel of humour and throw a negative connotation over an activity you enjoyedâhowever, it didnât prevent him from believing there was zero requirement for a caffeine hit after a fluffy workout.
You approach the room the class was being held in. Dimly lit with an ambient sunset lamp that created a pretty, soft glow of an orange hue on the back wall; Park, naturally, takes up the rear as you saunter in to disrupt the serenity with your fifty keychains.Â
(Holy shit. Was he perverse in thinking he would like to walk behind you forever?)Â
You throw a radiant smile over your shoulder, âAlright. Letâs see if you are calling me sweetheart after this.âÂ
Park scoffs, âIâm just stating that, for someone like me, this canât be hard.âÂ
Wrong.Â
Brendon Park had met his match in that Pilates class.Â
His shirt was saturated from exertion, and he quickly came to the realisation that wearing a white t-shirt was simply premature naivety that he justâŚwouldnât sweat that much in an hour. The cotton fabric clung to his muscles and was less white and more his shade of nude. The hair that had been in its usual styleâsomething he took longer to do in the mirror this morningâwas completely undone; curls beginning to coil from the dampness at his scalp.Â
The Pilates instructor seemingly decided that, that particular class would be rendered to severe, military style punishment that had Brendon Parkâs body folded in ways that had him thinking that his sturdy bones may snap.Â
He had read somewhere; not to eat before class. So, he did anyway. (And, regretted the 6AM eggs and protein shake instantaneously.)Â
The worst part? You werenât suffering near as much as he was.Â
Sweat beaded your hairline, and your chest did rise and fall at a quicker pace than a leisurely stroll would have done; it was just that you werenât doubled over on the bright pink matt you had brought along.Â
âIâd pat your back,â you start when Park cements his forehead to his borrowed matt from the class, âBut, youâre next level sweaty. No offence.âÂ
Park slowly raises from his spot, eyes scrunching shut from the ache in his torso. He peels one eye open to stare at you, âHow do you still look that beautiful?â he asks in a sharp tone, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe at his drenched face.Â
Your eyes drop to his exposed flesh and then back up before he notices, âItâs a burden. Truly.âÂ
âFuck, sweetheart.â Park huffs out and drops his head back.
Stomach erupting with warmth at the nickname, you grin, âWhat?âÂ
synopsisyou were Robby's star pupil, his favourite person, but when he catches you and Jack in the middle of performing a high risk procedure you definitely shouldn't be doing he can't handle the jealousy. so really, is it your fault if your pushed into Jack Abbots bed, but can't stop thinking about Robby?
warningsjealous&possesive Robby x reader, Jack Abbot x reader, kinda Rabbot, Jack kinda wants Robby in this, language. smut MDNI. fingering, oral (f receiving) breast play, dirty talk, praise, Robby calls while Jack eats you out. handjob
authornotei'm so close to writing Rabbott fics, I need them both!
pitt masterlist. last robby fic! last jack fic!
âWhat the hell are you doing?â
If you weren't as skilled a resident as you were, as stony as you'd been made, the raise of voice and slam of a door would have stolen you from your attentive work. But it didn't. You didn't flinch. As your hands were all but inside a patient it was a good thing, too.
Jack tutted from over you, the heat of his breath hot on the back of your neck. âRobby...â
âI said- what are you doing?â he barked again, standing in the middle of the trauma room.
Nurses turned to look at him and then back to you and Jack, un-sure of which immovable force was greater.
You only focused on the woman in front of you. Bruises up her arms, blood on her cut-away clothes, tubes coming out of her and into her, monitors beeping with life signs fleeting.
âIt's a hypotensive pelvic bleed,â you said through your face screwed in concentration.
âA REBOA? Are you serious, right now?â
âI'm here, supervising, brother,â said Jack, still caved over you like he could protect you from Robby's wrath.
âYou're not her attending,â Robby argued.
âNo but I'm an attending.â
You could hear Robby's sharp inhale of breath, picture the clock of his head in annoyance and the tight pinch of his eyes. You knew every small give away of his that he didn't know he had. The tightness of his muscles when angers, the way he clutches at his chest for his star of David when silently scared.
The tension in the room chocked you.
Jack was still at your side, a comfort, a gentle wave against the sharp rocks. âKeep going.â
Robby said your name, an edge to it you'd never heard before.
Looking past Jack you found Robbie. He stood blocking the door, gowned up already, arms over his chest. His brows were pulled in, eyes dark as they levelled on you. He was danger dressed as a man.
But in front of you there was Jack, nodding encouragingly.
âKeep going.â
Your hands moved to carry on in spite of Robby's sigh.
âOkay... good...â said Jack as you pushed in the needle. âFemoral artery, couple inches. All right, let's guide wire and introduce the sheath.â
You pushed and did what Jack said, careful under his guidance.
Robby watched all the while, walking slowly around. He knew how well you preened under praise and careful instruction, like a cat purring at an owners touch. Robby knew because it was always him, ever since you began as a med student to intern to resident he'd been there to build you up, crafting you into a perfect doctor.
His perfect doctor.
Apparently he didn't like to share.
âHow much saline have you pushed?â asked Robby.
âFive CC'S,â said Jack, without entertaining his attitude.
âYour carotid is weak,â said Robby. âIs it even there?â
âYes,â you said.
Jack caught your gaze behind your goggles, pleading silently. You hadn't worked with him as much as you had Robby, or Langdon or almost anyone in the day shift but he seemed to catch on to your needs at once. âYou know what to do.â
With his words you proceeded.
âPush another three CC'S of saline in the balloon,â you ordered.
âInjecting.â
There was a moment of silence as the saline was passed through tubes into the woman.
âHow we looking?â asked Robby.
âRadial is up, pressure's up too- BP hundred-and-ten,â said Donnie.
For the first time since Jack dragged you into the trauma to teach you a REBOA, you looked at the patients face. At the blankness of it, the blood splattered at her cheek. There was colour returning to her.
âCheck the wound,â said Jack.
You did so, the wound at her pelvis are that had been gushing on arrival had stopped bleeding.
âLooks okay,â you said.
Jack's gloved hand squeezed your gowned shoulder, blood of the woman passing between the two of you. However, it was the physical contact that broke you from your trance, pulling you up taller. âGood job, you saved her life, another couple minutes she wouldn't have made it.â
âShe's still not out the woods yet,â said Robby.
You looked back at him with enough time to catch an un-characteristic roll of his eyes.
âSurgery can take her now,â said Jesse from the phone.
âOh, finally they're ready for us?â teased Jack as he moved around the gurney. âNow that they've missed all the fun.â He passed you a wink that sent butterflies in your stomach rolling around.
The team pulled off gowns and gloves, pulling the gurney out the room.
âWait-â said Robby, arm out stopping you as you went to follow.
The doors shut behind the gurney before Jack could understand you were behind, trapped in a room with a bear of a man who was failing at concealing his anger.
You waited for him to begin. Whether it were to be a lecture or an approval that you saved a woman's life, you wanted it over and done. The adrenaline was coursing through your body in crashing waves of red. You'd crash if you didn't calm. âThere was no time for anything else-â
â- save it-â
â- there was no time for me to come and get you-â
â- stop!â
You stepped back, hands balled at your sides.
It wasn't un-common for any member of staff at PTMC to have Robby Robinavitch yell and demand the stars and moons from a person. It was scary to have him yelling at you, his deemed shadow and golden girl.
Since day one everyone knew you held a special place in Robby's heart.
âI saved a patient's life,â you defended. Was that not the most important thing to be doing? Could you not be attending to at least two other patients while he stood- imposing- in front of you.
âDoing an extremely risky procedure that is only reserved for the senior residents which you are not,â he scoffed out.
âDoctor Abbot was at my side the whole time, he talked me through every step.â
Robby shook his head, chuckling and looking around the room as if to be anywhere but with you. âAbbot-â
â- he believed me capable,â you said. âDon't you think I'm capable?â
His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he turned away from you, stretching his hand to the back of his head and flattening the hair there. When he turned back to you he took a step closer, watching the toes of his shoes meet yours.
âDo you know why I'm angry?â
No, you really didn't.
You took in a deep breath, meeting his eyes that lowered to yours. âBecause I performed a high risk procedure.â
âA high risk procedure without me,â he corrected. âYou're on day, not night. I'm your attending, not Jack. You get me when you're doing something like that, you understand?â
There was little room for argument. Your body trembled, the mixture of blood on your gloves and the beating of your heart heard in your ears. The lights of trauma two were suddenly too bright; walls too sterile. You nodded.
Robby tsked. âDo you understand?â
Every word was punctured with anger.
You rose to all your height. âYes, I understand.â
He didn't dismiss you, only jutted his head back as he dragged a hand over his beard.
Without a word, you dismissed yourself.
âI just don't get why he was so.... angry,â you admit quietly.
The lights of the bar were dimmed in a golden light, casting sun set gazes around the bar Jack had told you was a good place to get a drink. He'd led you to a small table by a window with the blinds pulled down, his hand- the one that had saved so many lives- splayed out on the small of your back.
Somewhere along the night Jack's chair had scraped around closer to you. So close with every inhale you could catch the musk on him and his arm was comfortably slung around the back of your chair.
There were two empty whiskey glasses of Jack's and you were still cradling your first, down to the dregs.
âIt's Robby,â said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders, but it didn't stop the crease in his brows.
âBut he's never been like that with me.â
Was it the fact you'd seemingly lost your favouritism bothering you? More than you cared to admit. More so the fact you didn't understand why he'd yelled.
Why the flare of anger had burned brighter with you saving a life than anyone else?
Why your body had trembled at the rise of his voice.
Jack's body tilted toward yours, head bowed low as he looked up at you through his lashes. âOh, come on....â
You slurped the last from your straw and looked at him. âWhat?â
âYou don't have to play dumb with me.â
Your own body gravitated towards him. âPlay dumb? I'm not playing dumb, what are you talking about?â
Jack chuckled, shaking his head to himself. He sipped the last of his drink. âRobby's...â he trailed off.
âRobby's...â
Jack levelled his gaze to yours. âHe likes you.â
The words sat frozen in your brain. You knew Robby must have had some soft spot for you, you knew he liked you. But the way Jack said it, a teasing lift to his voice and the serious gaze of his eyes suggested it was more than the competence of your skills as a doctor that had Robby's affection.
âHe doesn't,â you chuckled.
âHe does,â said Jack, nodding along with your words.
âHow would you know?â
Jack's cheeks dusted a faint pink, the rain on the window behind you dropping like mini thunderstorms. âBelieve me, I know.â
You waited for more clarification.
âYou have no idea the kind of effect you have on old men like us.â
Like us. Jack didn't just speak for Robby but himself. The pink in his cheeks, the hand on your back earlier. The heat from him was all different now. A wanting.
âOld men?â you smirked.
Jack's eyes darted between your eyes and lips. âYeah, old men.â
âYou're not that old, are you?â
Jack tilts his head side to side.
You peer closer at him as if trying to find the lines of age in his face. âYounger than Robby though, right?â
Jack nods. âYounger than Robby, if that makes any difference.â
âAny difference to what?â you asked, stirring the straw against the ice in one hand, the other holding your chin.
âTo you.â
Under the table Jack's fingers traced over your knee, gently, as if he was trying to go un-noticed. You felt it anyhow. Felt as his fingers gripped your knee when you pushed your leg against his.
He watched you, analysing.
âWell,â you began, pushing your leg to kick over the other under the table and moving his hand further up your leg, till his all too eager fingers were splayed over your thigh. âWhat kind of effect is that?â
Jack was always a serious man at work. Competent and well kept. You didn't expect him to be so well versed in 'playing games'. âI dunno if I can tell you.â
âNo?â
Jack shook his head, eyes lingering over his lips and his head tilted to the side, watching you. âI could show you?â
There was lip gloss stain over the straw in your glass, you saw it catch Jack's eyes as he pushed away your empty glasses to provide more space on the table.
âSee any time you look at us, it's like-like a tingling sensation,â he said. âLike when you know someone's got their eyes on you.â
His hand that had been riding higher at your thigh darted away, leaving a sudden tremble of everything cold through your body. Instead, he rested his elbow at the table and beckoned your hand to his. He didn't hold it, instead, spread your fingers out and put palm to palm in a tender touch.
âAnd then when you touch us, it gets worse,â he uttered, eyes stuck on where your palms met. Jack's hand moved around yours, playing with your fingers.
âWorse?â you ask.
âA good worse. Good shivers,â said Jack, pulling at a finger.
âI touch you enough for you to gather all that?â
Jack's dark gaze found yours again. He bit down on his bottom lip. âNot nearly enough as I'd like.â
The door of the bar opened and a gush of wind cooled the heat on your skin. But Jack's eyes were like a furnace that you were sitting too close to, burning yourself and delighting in it. When the door shut again with an un-oiled squeak, Jack reached over.
He plucked the necklace charm from against your chest, the brush of his knuckles against your chest. âPretty necklace.â
âThank you,â you said, voice shaky un-characteristically.
âYou get it yourself?â
âNo, it was a present.â
It was almost as if he didn't have to ask who had gifted it to you. Whose hands had brushed back your hair in the middle of a shift and clasped it around the back of your neck.
Or maybe he just didn't want to know.
Jack's apartment was everything that made him.
As you passed the kitchen and he peeled off his jacket, keeping his lips close enough to breathe you in, you could smell the coffee from the morning plastered to the walls.
When he pressed you up to the sofa to shove his hands down your pants and slide a finger into your wet pussy your fingers scratched at some blanket he had thrown over the back of it.
You caught a glimpse of pictures around the place, a frame of meddles too but his place came to you in flashes and glimpses through pleasure.
âI'm gonna show you,â he uttered against your mouth as another finger slipped into you, worked inside of you. They curled up, your body moving into him at the feeling. âJust how I want to touch you.â
The car ride over had been torture enough. He could hardly get himself inside the car, stealing himself away from you. But your lips had been at his neck at every stop sign and red light. Your hand had ghosted over his crotch and the hardening length of him. As occupied as you'd been in each other in the front seats of his car you'd been beeped at twice.
âJack,â your voice whispered, lips dragging against his as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you, pulling at the seams of your panties.
âI'm gonna show you just how Robby wants to touch you.â
You wish the name didn't have the effect it did. That the fury you felt at him for how he yelled didn't turn to a throb in your core when Jack said his name.
âYou're touching me, Jack,â you said, breathless.
âYeah... yeah,â he said. âYou like that I'm touching you?â
You nodded as his fingers retracted, finding your clit and wetting the bud of nerves, circling it.
âSay it,â said Jack. âSay it.â
âYes, I like it.â
Jack grinned into the curve of your neck as his fingers plunged back in, working you open and spreading your wetness of the black of your panties. âGod, you're making such a mess for me baby, aren't you?â
He worked you open a little longer, mumbling encouragement with every moan and throw back of your head. 'So pretty, arg, you're so pretty baby.'
By the time your stomach was coiling tight like a snake ready to pounce Jack removed his hand from your pants and kissed you again. It was a hard kiss, his clean hand grasping your cheek and keeping you still as he forcefully worked his lips against yours, like it had only just clocked in his head it was you he had on his lips, it was you he was turning to putty in his hand. Like he wanted to forge you into his lips
âNot done yet,â said Jack, hands sliding down to your hips as he guides his nose up and down your neck, breathing you in. âI wanna make you moan on my tongue, like Robby wishes he could, yeah?â
Your body betrayed you, shivering again in anticipation.
Jack's hands stirred you by the hips, urging you to his room. He pushed the door open over your head, licking into your mouth.
âPlease... don't mention Robby right now,â you said as Jack fell slowly to his knees in front of you.
His brows rose. He kept his eyes on you as he pulled down your pants, helping you step out of them. âNo? You don't want me to mention Robby?â he asked.
You shook your head, looking away from him. You knew you'd soaked yourself through by the small touches and passionate kisses from Jack. But you didn't need to see the realisation hit when he realised Robby's name had as much effect on you as Jack's own touches.
âEyes on me, keep your eyes on me,â said Jack.
With a tight squeeze, you looked at him, seeing the attending of the night shift get closer to your heat.
âSee, I think, you like when I say his name, huh?â his nose nudged your clothed clit. âRobby.â
Jack licked a stripe up your pussy, gathering your want through the cloth.
You were left, mouth agape, to catch your breath. Your hands didn't know where to go till Jack peeled off his shirt and guided your hands to his shoulders, your nails digging into the freckled skin there.
Jack wet his tongue with his spit before he rubbed it along your panties again, kissing you there. âI think you're so wet for me, but you're wet for Robby too, huh?â
âJus-just you, Jack,â you gasped.
He swept a finger into your panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin.
Your body jolted in its wake.
âNot just me, don't lie,â he said, darkly.
In the morning would you realise what you'd done? Jack wasn't your attending but an attending none the less and Robby's friend- brother- at that. Although you and Robby were nothing more than colleagues, it didn't feel right to have Jack licking up your want with his name on his tongue.
âLiars don't get to come, you know,â he said. âSo, you get this wet when you think about me?â
âY-Yes.â
You could feel Jack's smile against your thigh as he pressed a kiss there.
Jack hooked two fingers around the bands of your panties and slowly dragged them down. âDo you get this wet when you think about our Doctor Robby?â
âYes. Yes I do,â you gasped, your body curling up in the relief of letting go.
Yes, you liked Robby's extra attention. You couldn't even be left angry at his chastising you when it sent a wave of need through you, settling in your core. When you'd been at the bar with Jack, touching him in ways you'd thought about touching your own attending, almost wishing he would storm through the door and see the two of you.
âGood girl.â
Quickly Jack tilted his head back and found purchase in your pussy.
His tongue laid flat against your core.
It didn't stay in one place long. It explored all around you, tasting you for the first time and mapping out delicate spots. He slipped between your folds like he was always supposed to be there, moaning into you.
Your nails dug into his shoulders. âMmh, Jack!â
He licked you up, spreading the mess of your want around and cleaning it up. âTaking my tongue so well,â he said against you. He dragged his lips down your thigh, wet tongue dragging up and down.
Your legs trembled as Jack spread the lips of your pussy and buried himself in there again. He pressed his thumb onto your clit, your body lurching at the pressure.
âOh fuck, J-Jack!â
âPull my hair, pull my hair,â he said into you.
Your did so. Your hand fell into the short strands of his salt and pepper hair, twirling into the strands and tugging just enough to rip a groan from him.
Jack buried himself into your further, his nose nudging into you deeper and deeper till he was almost trying to be inside of you.
Every time your eyes fluttered shut Jack pulled back, easing up on his work of your pussy and easing the orgasm that was slowly building up.
âNo, no- eyes on me, keep your eyes on me, baby,â he said.
You looked down to him. âJack, I want- I want to come.â
âI know, I know you do baby,â he said, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit again. âYou will, I promise, I promise.â
He eased himself up from his knees and helped off your shirt and peeled off your bra before he latched himself onto your breast.
Your back arched into him. His hands felt larger than ever as they curled around your waist and held you in. He groped at your breast, watching it jiggle as he moved before swirling his tongue around your nipple.
âJack-â
âGod, I wish Robby were here,â said Jack as he switched his attention to your other.
âWh-what?â you didn't know if you'd heard him right.
Jack looked at your breasts instead of you, dedicating time to licking up each of them. âWish Robby could see how good a girl you're being,â he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn't talking to you. âHow responsive you are. Would you like that? Would you like Robby to watch?â
You imagined it, closing your eyes.
Jack let you.
You pictured Robby sat on the bed, watching. Would he watch with his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose? Would he keep his hands to himself or want to touch and play? You imagined how big he was, if he'd get hard watching.
If he'd touch. If he'd stand behind you while Jack kissed along your breasts. Would Robby dedicate enough time to the back of you?
âYou want Robby?â asked Jack.
Anyone else eating you out or with hands on your chest wouldn't want another mans name on your lips.
Jack seemed to thrive on it.
âYes,â you gasped.
Jack reached back up to you. âYeah.... yeah...â his nose ghosted yours as he inched closer to kiss you.
In the slim lighting of his bed room you could see the shine of his lips from your arousal, the burn of red at his cheeks. There was a clink as he un-did his belt, throwing it behind him as he slowly pulled down his trousers.
First you saw the prosthetic of his leg before you trailed up, past the scars, to the heavy set of his cock. It flushed red at the tip, a leak of pre-cum running down. It stood tall onto the thin, greying hair down his sternum.
âJack-â you reached for him, wrapping your hand around him.
âAh- ahh fuck, baby,â he moaned as you slowly pumped him. âYou feel so good. God, Robby doesn't know what he's missing.â
You tangled your tongue with his as you pumped, growing confident in every pump, in every leak of his cock, in ever groan of him into your mouth.
Would Robby guide you to holding Jack's man hood in your hand? Would his own hand wrap around your wrist and guide you up and down, muttering how good you were doing.
It was like you could hear him in your head.
'What a good girl doing what you're told, so responsive,' you imagined the heavy set of his tongue dragging over your pulse as you wrapped your arm around Jack's shoulders, smothering him in closer.
âI wish-â you said against his lips, making a mess out of you mouth as you squeezed his cock. âI wish Robby were here.â
âYeah. Yeah, me too baby,â said Jack, slowly wrapping his fingers around your wrist and peeling back your hand. He pulled two of your fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of himself off and into the warmth of his mouth. âNext time.â
Jack eased you back on his bed, crawling over you.
You shuffled up, sitting up on his headboard. âDo you- do you want me to?â
Jack's brows pulled together as he brushed back your hair, tucking it behind your ear. âTo what, baby?â
âTo ride you? Would it be easier on your leg?â
Jack smiled, love sick. âThat's very kind of you sweetheart. Next time, I'll let you ride me like I'm a damn horse,â he whispered as he slowly lowered you down. âRight now I want you to finish on my tongue. Then I'm gonna really fuck you like I've wanted to for so long.â
You watched with a bite to your lip as Jack rolled a condom over his cock before hovering over you.
He stirred the base of his cock against your pussy, rubbing the arousal of you over your slit.
âYou want me to fuck you?â
âYes, yes.â
Would Robby hold you against him, keep your legs spread for Jack? Or would Jack insist on Robby going first.
âBeg for it, baby.â
Before your words could leave your mouth the familiar buzz of your phone echoed between you.
Maybe anyone else would have ignored it, sent it to voicemail or let it ring. Except Jack- he moved down his bed, reaching for your pants and fishing out your phone. He smirked down at the contact before holding the phone out to you.
âAnswer it.â
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, looking at him. âWh-what?â
âAnswer him,â he said, grabbing your hand and putting the phone it in.
Robby.
You looked to Jack, having no time to ask if he was serious before he was descending on the bed again. His eyes were pointed, gaze locked on you.
You answered, holding the phone to your ear. âH-hey, Robby.â
âHey. Is everything okay?â
Did he know you'd left the bar with Jack? Did he hear his name called from both your lips?
âYeah, everything's okay.â
Jack smirked at you.
âI've been calling you all night, you didn't answer,â you could hear the slight accusation in his voice, the small anger you hadn't bowed and answered the phone when he called. He wasn't good at hiding it though maybe he thought he was.
âSorry I-â
Jack slid two fingers inside of you at once and pumped them without warning.
You caught your breath in your throat. â- I was busy.â
âBusy?â
âYeah,â you gasped.
Robby stirred down the line. âYou okay?â
Jack was looming close enough to you, nodding for you to pull the phone back enough for him to hear.
âYeah, it's just, cold in my apartment,â you lied.
Jack's brows rose, he mouthed the word, cold?
âStill haven't sorted that heating, huh?â Robby chuckled down the line. âYou need someone to come sort that out for you.â
Jack withdrew his hand, dragging those two fingers from inside of you around you, before lowering himself back down. He spread you open, lying his tongue back in.
âYeah, I do.â
âWant me to come take a look at it?â asked Robby.
âNot- not right now,â you pushed your phone back as Robby scoffed lightly. You sort Jack's attention, begging for the end of the torture he was inciting. His eyes were a haze of lust as he only watched you, shaking his head slowly to feel all around you.
His hand pushed your knee up to your chest, welcoming him in deeper.
âAre you still mad at me for earlier?â
âY-yes!â
âYou are?â
You'd forgot Robby down the line, forgot his question, could only feel the depth of Jack's tongue in you. You bit down on the bottom of your lip. âYes! Yes! Yes, I am!â
âOkay- well, i'm sorry,â he said down the line. âYou just have no idea what seeing you with Jack does to me.â
Jack moaned into you, sending vibrations through your body. His nose nudged against your clit, circling his tongue in you. Your mouth opened, a moan ripping through you that Jack managed to stifle quickly by slamming his hand over your mouth.
â- It's just, I think of you as one of mine,â Robby continued down the line, un-aware's to Jack tapping your phone on speaker and placing it next to you.
Jack dropped his mouth next to your ear, nipping at the lobe. âAs mine,â he uttered.
â- seeing you with Jack, I can't stand it, you know I can't-â
Jack went back down to his work, two fingers working inside of you as he sucked in your clit. Your walls are like silk that his fingers thread through with ease, your mind blank with pleasure.
Your moans continued to be muffled by his mouth, he dared not move it.
â- you know I... you know I favour you over anybody else in that ER-â
Your hand reached out for your phone, sure you would come soon and needed to end the phone call.
Jack reached out for you. âBe nice, be nice.â
You picked up the phone and put it to your ear, Jack sucking diligently at your bundle of nerves. âRobby, I-â
âWhat is it? You sound like you're burning up? You need me?â
Yes, you needed him.
Jack curled his fingers up and you came with a loud gasp, ending the call abruptly as your world shattered in stars of want. Your back arched into Jack's mouth as he laid there open mouthed, taking what you could give him like a man dying of thirst.
Only when your breathing calmed and you could open your eyes to make sense of the world- and Jack's room- did Jack slowly move out his fingers, gently crawling up you body with kisses like butterflies.
You laughed when Jack reached your neck. âOh god.â
âWhat?â he said, laughing along with you.
âI hung up on Robby.â
Jack fished for your phone, holding it between the two of you as he rubbed the head of his cock against the slick of your folds. âThen I guess we better call him back.â
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summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changingâuntil you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
âHeyâoh, thank God.â You kick the door shut behind you. âCan you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.â
Ellis sighs. âReally? I was just about to leave.â
âFive minutes,â you say again, already moving toward your room.
You donât bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
âArenât you gonna shower?â Ellis calls from the living room.
âWe showered before I left,â you say, âbut I didnât have a clean pair of scrubs.â
Ellis gags. âGross. Whyâd you have to say âweâ?â
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
âBecause we had some really great shower sex too.â
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
âI thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,â she says.
You shrug. âScheduling conflict.â
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. âYou are the schedule.â
âIâm restructuring,â you say lightly, falling into step beside her. âDonât think Deranâs making the cut.â
Ellis doesnât say anything else. She just watches you for a secondâeyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighterâbefore shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellisâ car.
The drive to the hospital isnât long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because heâd googled itâand sheâs still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
âI swear,â she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, âif I hear the words âbut I googled itâ even once tonight, Iâm going to lose my mind.â
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney throughâsomething about chest pain, you overhear.
âTrauma oneâs open,â Dana calls.
âDr. Toomarian, with me.â
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jackâs voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
âHeyâdonât disappear. I need to talk to you after this.â
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. âMe?â
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
âOoh,â Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. âYouâre in trouble.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, right.â
âMaybe heâs restructuring,â she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. âThink youâll make the cut?â
You shoot her a flat look. âVery funny.â
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the sameâmoving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
âEvening, ladies,â Lena says from behind the nursesâ desk. âGet a good sleep?â
âAlways,â Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
âGood enough,â you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
âMm.â Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. âWell, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.â
Ellis snorts beside you.
âLena,â you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. âI donâtââ
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
âYou have my badge.â
You frown. âWhat?â
âMy badge,â he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
âAttending physician, huh?â
You shrug. âThought it was time I got a promotion.â
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
âTry to keep track of it,â he mutters, already turning away.
You donât respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nursesâ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
âYou didnât even notice?â Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. âI just grabbed it off the floor.â
âOkay,â Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. âIâm choosing not to know.â
Ellis shakes her head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âI know,â you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. âBut you love me.â
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
âCome on.â You bump your shoulder against hers. âLetâs go check out the elbow dislocation in One.â
âFine,â she sighs, âbut Iâm not doing traction.â
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expectedâmid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
âAlright, Mr. Donovan,â you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. âLetâs have a look at that shoulder.â
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âAre you a doctor?â
âSure am,â you reply as you step closer to the bed. âAnd with me is Dr. Ellis. Sheâs going to help me get that bone back in place, but first youâre going to have to tell us how you did it.â
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
âYeahâuhâI was just at the gym,â he starts, voice strained.
âBenching?â Ellis asks.
He nods. âYeah.â
âLet me guessâpersonal best?â
He nods again. âYeah. How did youââ
âHappens more often than you think,â you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. âMove your fingers.â
He wriggles them slowly.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âI was just putting the bar back,â he says. âMy arm twisted a bit and it just⌠popped.â
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
âOkay, Mr. Donovanââ
âYou can call me Chase,â he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. âAlright, Chase. Weâre going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so itâs easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.â
âWill it hurt?â
âNot much,â Ellis replies. âMaybe a little discomfort, but itâll be quick.â
âOkay,â he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. âFentanyl and midaz?â
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
âWeâll be back in about five minutes,â you tell Chase. âJust as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.â
âFive minutes, huh? Thatâs just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.â
You snort. âLetâs just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.â
âOuch,â he chuckles. âIs that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?â
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
âUhâno,â you mutter. âNo boyfriend.â
He smirks. âSo I have a shot?â
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. âLike I saidâletâs see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.â
He doesnât say anything elseâjust lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing thereâarms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like heâs waiting for something.
âOhâhey,â you say. âNeed me?â
He shakes his head. âNope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?â
âNah, Iâve got Ellis,â you reply, starting back toward Central. âBut youâre more than welcome to supervise.â
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. âYou donât need supervising.â
âI know.â You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. âBut I know how you like to watch.â
His mouth quirks, like heâs trying not to laugh.
âCareful,â he murmurs.
âOr what?â you tease, stopping just before the nursesâ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
âYou donât want to find out,â he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your bellyâand you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
âAbbot,â Lena calls before you can say anything else. âTrauma inboundâcyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.â
Jack pauses for a half a secondâthen nods. âAlright, letâs prep Trauma Two.â He looks at you. âYou in?â
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. âOh, I wish I could, but Iâve got that reductionâŚâ
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. âMm. Tragic.â
âGood luck, though,â you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isnât long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurneyâand you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
âAlright, Chase,â you say, pulling back the curtain. âLetâs do this.â
He gives you a lopsided smile. âI was hoping Iâd see you again.â
Ellis snorts. âMidaz is working.â
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. âReady?â
She nods once.
âOkay, Chase,â you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. âStay loose for me.â
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
âThatâs it,â you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady untilâhis shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. âGood. Now rotate.â
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shiftâthe soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, thenâ
âOhââ He blinks. âOh, thatâsâthatâs way better.â
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
âMove your fingers,â you tell him.
He does.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âGood.â
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
âComfortable?â she asks.
Chase nods slowly. ââM tired.â
âThen have a nap.â
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
âWeâre going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everythingâs back in place.â
âYouâre leaving me?â he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. âIâll be back in a bit to see how youâre feeling, alright?â
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but itâs too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. âGonna give him your number?â
You roll your eyes. âUm, no.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause I'm notââ
âRosterâs looking a little thin,â she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
She shrugs. âNot that Iâm keeping track, but⌠by my count, youâre down to one.â
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. âOkayâwell, not that itâs any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âAnd you dropped Deran, soââ
âLike I said,â you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. âIâm restructuring.â
âRestructuring,â she repeats mildly, âor retiring?â
Before the words have even landed, sheâs goneâslipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
Itâs not like youâre some irresponsible party animalâyou barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug youâve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, youâd argue that youâre the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You donât take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why youâre not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that theyâre not going to ask for more, that theyâre going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isnât wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Wellâexcept for Jack.
But thatâs different. He knows what heâs doing. You trust himâand youâre on birth control.
So it doesnât really matter if, occasionally, he finishesâ
âYou good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?â
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Hendersonâs gaze.
âUhâyeah, sorry, I was justââ
He chuckles. âNo need to apologiseâbut if youâre bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.â
You tilt your head. âWorth it?â
âForearm lac. Exposed tendon.â
You nod. âIâm in.â
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdnessâa woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelveâwhen you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, âTo infinity and beyond, I guess.â
Thatâs when you lost itâmuttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
âOh my God,â Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. âI love the night shift.â
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
âStopââ you gasp, shaking your head. âI canât go back in there.â
âIn where?â Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
âActually,â Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. âI think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.â
You nod. âOh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.â
Shen frowns. âWhatâs the case?â
âItâs hard to explain,â Ellis says quickly. âYouâre better off seeing it for yourself.â
Shen isnât stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curiousâas most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellisâ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
âTrauma Oneâget in here,â Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
âTwenty-four-year-old maleâfell onto a plastic prop sword,â the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. âPenetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.â
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
âAlright, weâll take it from here,â Jack says. âCan you tell us your name, sir?â
âJosh,â the patient replies, his voice strained.
âStabilise the leg,â you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. âOn my countâone, two, three.â
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
âJosh!â
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same partyâwearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurseâs uniform.
âOh my God. Is he bleeding out?â
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. âI donât remember approving that uniform.â
You shoot him a look. âVery funny, Dr. Abbot.â
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
âNot that Iâd object,â he murmurs.
You arch a brow. âThe nurses might.â
âIâm not a nurse,â the woman says, indignant. âIâm a sexy doctor.â
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with âDr. Feelgoodâ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. âRight.â
âStill not the sexiest doctor in the room,â Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
âHave you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?â you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
âIâve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,â Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
âWeâre going to get you something for the pain, alright?â you say, watching Olive insert the IV. âBut first, I need to know what happened and how much youâve had to drink.â
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Joshâs pants, fully exposing the entry site.
âIânghâI fell on itââ Josh manages. âItâs not evenânot even realâfuckââ
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
âWhat about alcohol?â you ask again.
âLikeâtwo beers,â he replies.
âAny drugs?â
âNoâahâno drugs.â
You nod. âOkay. Letâs give another twenty-five of fent.â
âCan we get surgery down here?â Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. âCalling now.â
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. âAlright. Whatâs next?â
âRepeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, donât remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.â
He nods again. âGood.â
You try to ignore the way heâs watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
âPulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,â you report.
âGood,â he says again. âKeep checking. If that changes, we move faster.â
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
âDo you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?â
He shakes his head faintly. âNo.â
âOkay, tetanus boosterââ you glance up at Jack, âand antibiotics.â
âWhich antibiotic?â
âCefazolin?â
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightlyâthen he turns to Olive. âYou heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.â
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
âLetâs flag contamination risk for surgery,â Jack says, pulling off his gloves. âAnd X-ray forââ
âPosition and fragments,â you cut in, finishing for him. âAnd CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.â
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
âAlright,â he says, mildly amused. âI can see Iâm no longer needed in here.â
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
âEntry looks clean, bleedingâs controlledâletâs pack around it and get him to imaging.â
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesnât shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure youâve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. Theyâre just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nursesâ station. You donât quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before youâre dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. Youâre halfway through the patientâs intake whenâ
You stopâthen take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
âDeran?â
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. âHey, doc.â
âWhatâre you doing here?â you ask, despite the obvious.
Heâs got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag thatâs already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
âI was helping a friend with his truck,â he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. âThe prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.â
âOuch,â you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. âYeah. Ouch.â
âMind if I take a look?â
âGo for it.â
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at whatâs underneath. Itâs not that deformedâjust swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise itâs mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he wonât need stitchesâmaybe some steri-strips and a splintâbut youâre more concerned about the dirty rag heâs got wrapped around it.
âWhat dâyou think?â he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. âAm I going to make it?â
You tilt your head. âMaybe. If we act fast.â
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. âDo youâuhâhave you seen a doctor yet?â
He shakes his head. âNo. Just you.â
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twentyâs chart.
âCool. Iâll be your doctorââ You pause, glancing back at him. âUnless you think thatâs a conflict of interest?â
His smile widens. âYou mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburghâs gonna fix me up?â
You roll your eyes. âJust Pittsburgh, huh?â
âWell, I couldnât say the worldâthatâd be way too cheesy.â
You snort. âAll your lines are cheesy.â
He gasps. âAll of them?â
âAll of them,â you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
âWow,â he mutters. âTough crowd.â
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
âAlright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.â
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
âThis might sting a bit,â you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. âLet me know if you want me to stop.â
âDo I need a safe word?â he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamusedâthen back down to his hand without a word.
âIâm gonna go with meatball,â he decides. âBecauseââ
ââyour favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,â you cut in. âI know.â
His brows lift. âWow.â
Your eyes flick up again. âWow what?â
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. âNothing. I just⌠didnât think you paid that much attention.â
You donât look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldnât turn this into a deeper conversation than youâre willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. âStill doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?â
You roll your eyes. âItâs not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.â
âYeah, I know,â he says, glancing back down at his hand. âI guess I just figured since I hadnât heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.â
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. âYeah, wellâyouâd be wrong.â
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
âAlright,â you say, turning back. âLift your hand for me.â
He lifts it slowly.
âCan you move your fingers?â
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. âJust try.â
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
âOkay, thatâs enough,â you say, scooting forward again. âAny numbness or tingling?â
He shakes his head. âNo.â
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinkyâuntil it turns whiteâthen watch the colour return beneath his nail.
âCap refillâs good,â you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
âSo, whatâs the verdictâis my weekend ruined?â
You snort. âNot entirely. Iâll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch itâI need to see exactly where the fracture is first.â
âWell then,â he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. âGood thing Iâm right-handed.â
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
âOh my God,â you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. âWhat is wrong with you?â
He grins. âWhat? You said it yourselfâmy weekend isnât entirely ruined.â
You shake your head. âI didnât think you meant that.â
âWell,â he says slowly, leaning in, âI donât have plans yet, but if youâve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we couldââ
âEverything alright in here?â
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. âYep. All good.â
âExcept my hand,â Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
âRight.â You shake your head once. âDeran, this is Dr. Abbotâheâs the senior attending on shift tonight.â
Then you glance back at Jack.
âCrush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intactâcap refillâs good, no numbness or tingling. Iâve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.â
Jack nods once. âGood. Any pain management?â
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
âI was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.â
He nods again. âSounds like youâve got everything under control.â
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. âHang tightâIâll come find you once I get your X-ray results.â
He pouts. âYouâre just going to leave me here?â
You roll your eyes, already turning away. âUnavailable, remember.â
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
âYou know him?â
You glance up from your tablet. âUhâyeah. Old friend.â
He lifts a brow. âFriend?â
You give him a look. âWhat do you want me to say?â
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. âFriend works.â
âGood,â you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. âMeet me in Central Twelve once youâve put the orders in.â
You frown. âWhy?â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âBecause Iâm your boss, thatâs why.â
Then heâs gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deranâs chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelveâs chartâif only to annoy Jack by getting a head startâbut thereâs nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isnât unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handleâand freeze when you spot the empty bed.
âShut the door,â Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer heâs rummaging through.
You hesitate. âAm I in trouble?â
He sighs. âDo you ever just do what youâre told?â
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
âSometimes,â you say. âDepends whatâs in it for me.â
Jack straightens, turning toward you. âThatâs a remarkably transactional approach to life.â
You shrug. âI believe in reciprocation.â
He takes a step closer. âThatâs not what reciprocation means.â
âReally?â you ask. âBecause last time I checkedâin the shower, by the wayâyou were getting a pretty good deal.â
His mouth quirks. âAre you saying I owe you?â
You step forward. âWhoâs keeping count?â
âMaybe I am,â he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugsâjust enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isnât an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing moreâand for a second it almost feels like heâs going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. âWhat was that?â
He lifts a shoulder. âNothing.â
âNothing?â
He steps toward the door.
âDr. Toomarianâs got a patient to present.â
You stare at him. âSeriously?â
He reaches for the handle.
âSouth Sixteen.â
Then heâs gone, and youâre left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as youâd left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
âHey,â you say, stepping up to the nursesâ station. âGot anything easy for me?â
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. âEasy left three hours ago.â
You sigh. âCome on. Thereâs got to be something.â
Her eyes flick back down. âIâve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.â
âPerfect. Iâllââ
âIâve got this one,â Jack says, appearing beside you. âDr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.â
You frown. âBut Iââ
âNow.â
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
âFine,â you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. âBut when Iâm admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that youâre the reason why.â
Then you turn and head for the South hall before youâre tempted to say something even less professional.
You donât normally snap like thatâespecially not at an attendingâbut something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasnât settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jackâs stupid little half-smirk after heâd kissed you, youâre annoyed.
You just canât figure out why.
He doesnât normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesnât normally order you around like youâre a lost med student.
And he definitely doesnât volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you donât normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. Itâs what you do. So whatâs so different about tonight?
âHey.â Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. âYou good?â
You blink. âYeah. Why?â
âYou look like youâre contemplating homicide.â
âAnd if I am?â
âIâd be obliged to remind you that weâre here to save lives, not end them.â
âDamn. Guess Iâll just have to wait until after my shift.â
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. âIs this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?â
You frown. âWho did you think you saw?â
âDeran.â
âOh.â
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
âThat was fast,â you mutter.
Her brows lift. âWait. Youâre his physician?â
You shrug. âYeah.â
âIsnât that a conflict of interest?â
âIsnât my life a conflict of interest?â
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. âItâs one of those nights, huh?â
You sigh. âYep.â
She puts a hand on your shoulder. âGood luck.â
âThanks.â
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you donât recognise as if to rub it in that sheâs having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient whoâs convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time youâve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isnât a substitute for medical advice, youâre finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isnât until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nursesâ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink sheâd forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
âShen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.â
Lena tilts her head. âButt Lightyear?â
âYou donât want to know,â you murmur into your drink.
âThey tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,â Ellis explains.
âThe wings?â
She smirks. âYeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.â
You shut your eyes. âOuch.â
âLet me guess,â Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. âHe slipped?â
Ellis nods. âYep. Total accident.â
âYeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,â you add.
Lena sighs. âEvery day I learn something new against my will.â
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversationâand the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. Youâre about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. âWhy is he still in there?â
Ellis shrugs. âNot sure. I thought it was just a migraine.â
âLaughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,â you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. âDo you know who she is?â
âNope.â
âHuh.â
You look at her. âWhat?â
She shakes her head. âNothing.â
âI have no idea who she is,â you say, grabbing your tablet. âAnd frankly? I donât care.â
Ellis nods. âOkay.â
âGood.â
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient youâre actually on your way to see.
It isnât long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahanâs room to see if sheâs been discharged yet. Which she hasnâtâbut at least Jackâs not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you canât imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because youâre looking this timeâyouâre genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstationâbut sheâs still in there. And she certainly doesnât look like sheâs in pain anymore.
If you were her, youâd be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart youâve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
âYou know thatâs Abbotâs ex, right?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Shen nods toward Central Nine. âMs. Callahan. Sheâs Abbotâs ex.â
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
âOh.â
Shen nods slowly. âAnyway. Heâs looking for you.â
You frown. âWho?â
âDr. Abbot.â
âWhy?â
Shen shrugs. âDidnât say.â
You sigh. âGreat.â
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
âDid he say where?â you ask.
âSouth.â
You nod once. âThanks.â
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still donât entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patientâand heâs leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that heâll admit it.
âShen said you wanted to see me.â
He glances up. âYour friendâs imaging came back.â
âAnd?â
âHand surgery wants him,â he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. âFracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.â
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeonâs review.
âOkay. Iâll send him up.â
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
âHave you eaten?â
You frown. âWhat?â
âHave you eaten anything tonight?â
âI had an energy drink.â
He stares at you. âThatâs not food.â
You shrug. âI havenât had time.â
âMake time.â
You roll your eyes. âFine. I didnât bring anything.â
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deranâs X-rays and brings up another patientâs chart.
âThereâs a container in the fridge.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âTop shelf. Left side. Blue lid.â
Your brows lift. âYou brought me food?â
He glances up again. âI brought extra food. Itâs that pasta you like.â
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
âGo eat,â he says. âI doubt surgeryâs coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.â
You want to argue. You really do. Because you donât need to be looked after. You donât need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and youâd have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three oâclock in the morning.
âFine,â you mutter, already turning away. âIâll eat.â
âYouâre welcome.â
You donât look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then heâll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You donât even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
âOh. Hey.â
Ellis waves her fork. âHey.â
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jackâs blue-lidded tupperware.
You donât answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
âSheâs his ex, by the way,â you say without thinking.
âHuh?â
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
âThe woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me sheâs Jackâs ex.â
âOh. Yeah.â Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. âI know.â
You tilt your head. âHow do you know?â
âI asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,â she says, as if it were obvious.
âOh.â
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jackâs container rotating slowly inside.
âWhatâd he say?â
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. âJust that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasnât ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now theyâre friends.â
You frown. âFriends? Heâs never mentioned her to me.â
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. âWhy would he?â
You hesitate. âBecause weâreâwell, you knowâŚâ
Her mouth twitches. âI thought it was casual.â
âIt is,â you say quickly. âI just thought he wouldâve mentionedââ
âDoes Abbot know who Deran is?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Ellis smirks. âYou know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, orââ she tilts her head, âI guess itâs former Mr. Thursday mornings now.â
âWellânot exactly, but thatâsââ
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
âThatâs different?â Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
âYes,â you say firmly. âItâs different. Jack knows weâre not exclusive, but he doesnât need to know who the other guys are.â
Ellis snorts. âOr were.â
You glare at her.
âAlright,â she says, leaning back in her chair. âThen why do you need to know who she is?â
You stab a piece of pasta. âI donât. Iâm just... curious.â
âYou mean jealous.â
Your head snaps up. âIâm not jealous. I donât care what he does when heâs not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.â
âI am not,â you protest. âItâs casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I donât need him. I donât need anyone. I mean, sure, itâs fun when theyâre good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I donât need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. Iâm happy exactly the way things are.â
Ellis nods slowly. âOkay, Miss Independent. I get it.â
âThank you.â
âJust to be clear,â she says, pushing her chair back, âyouâre standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?â
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
âYour hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and Iâm pretty sure those are his socks.â Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. âYou havenât slept in your own bed once this week and, unless Iâm forgetting somebody, you havenât seen another guy in...â She pauses, pretending to think. âWow. Almost four months now.â
You stare at her.
âAnd when you got that stomach bug last month,â she says, grabbing her container as she stands, âhe called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.â
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
âThatâs not casual.â
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
âAnyway,â she says lightly, reaching for the handle. âLet me know when youâre ready to admit youâre in love with him.â
Then sheâs gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You donât move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isnât that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
Itâs notâ
It canât beâ
You would know if you were inâ
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
Youâre not inâ
God. You canât even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
Itâs almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isnât enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellisâ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what youâre going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
âHey,â you say, pulling the curtain back. âHow are you feeling?â
Deran glances up. âHey, doc. Long time no see.â
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
âBeen busy,â you say. âAre the painkillers working?â
He lifts his hand, wincing. âA little.â
You glance at the clock on the wall. âYou could probably get some more soon.â
His brows pull together slightly. âIs that your way of saying Iâm not heading home any time soon?â
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
âNot tonight, no. Iâm sorry.â
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
âI know,â you murmur, leaning in. âBut one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and youâve got a fracture right here.â You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. âI was expecting a break, but itâs lower than weâd like and close enough to the joint that this isnât something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.â
He lifts his head.
âThereâs also some concern about the tendon around it,â you continue. âThe finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeonâs worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âTheyâll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.â
His brows draw tighter. âRepair?â
âThe fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once theyâre in there.â
He lets his head fall back again. âGreat.â
âYouâll be okay.â
âI know,â he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. âJust not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.â
You roll your eyes. âReally?â
âWill you be here when I wake up?â
You snort. âHopefully not. If all goes well, Iâll be at home asleep.â
He sighs. âDamn.â
You push the stool back and stand. âAny other questions before I sign you off to surgery?â
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. âYeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.â
You tilt your head. âWhat guy?â
âThe one that came in here before. The attending.â
Your stomach drops.
âWhat about him?â
âI thought he was your boss.â
You fold your arms. âHe is.â
âHuh.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âItâs justââ He hesitates. âI donât know. You just donât usually look at your boss like that.â
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
âYou sure you didnât hit your head?â
His brows lift. âWait. Did I hit a nerve?â
âNo.â
âYou sure?â
Your eyes narrow. âWhy donât you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?â
He shakes his head. âI already called my mom.â
âGood,â you mutter, already turning away. âGood luck in surgery.â
âTell your boss I said hi.â
âBye, Deran.â
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shiftâbut tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything youâve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that youâre feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks youâre feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because thatâs exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
âDr. Abbot,â Bridget calls from behind the desk. âCan you take a look at this for me?â
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nursesâ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. Youâve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isnât worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time heâd worn them during sex. The time heâd insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you canât quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what sheâs saying. Youâre too busy watching the way Jackâs left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridgetâs askingâbut heâs tired. You know heâs tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way heâs shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that heâs counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
âYou alright?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. âThatâs the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. Whatâs going on?â
âUhââ
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lipsâand your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. âYeah. No. Iâm fine.â
âYou sure?â
Hendersonâthe perceptive bastardâglances toward the nursesâ station, and his eyes widen.
âOh, shit. Did something happen between you two?â
Your stomach flips. âWhat?â
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. âYou and Abbot. Did you break up or something?â
âWhat?â you say again, louder this time. âWhy would you evenâI mean, weâre notâweâve never dated. Why would you think that?â
He tilts his head. âReally? I thought Ellis saidââ
âEllis?â
âNot just Ellis.â
Your eyes go wide. âWho else?â
He shrugs. âEveryone assumes you guys are together.â
âTogether?â
He frowns. âYouâre not?â
âNo,â you say, almost too fast. âNo. Weâre not together, weâre justâitâs⌠casual.â
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. âCasual?â
âYes,â you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. âAre you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?â
Henderson laughs. âActually, now that I think about it, I donât think Iâve ever heard Shen mention it.â
Your head snaps up. âPeople talk about it?â
Henderson shrugs. âItâs gossip.â
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, whenâ
âTrauma inbound,â Lena calls. âMale, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.â
âShit,â Henderson mutters. âThatâs not gonna be fun.â
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. âTrauma Two. Letâs go.â
You hesitate, taking a step back. âIâI canât. Sorry.â
âItâs alright,â Henderson says quickly. âI can jump in.â
Heâs already moving before heâs even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then anotherâand just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasnât moved. Heâs still standing by the nursesâ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isnât long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and youâre forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jackâs name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jackâs and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time youâre halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasnât settled and youâre no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, itâs getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patientâs intake form, determined to stay distracted. Youâre just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance upâand there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. âA word?â
Shit.
âUm. Sure.â
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nursesâ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, youâre remindedâquite aggressivelyâjust how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
âWhat was that?â
You take a small step back. âWhat was what?â
He nods vaguely toward Central. âYou completely dodged that trauma back there.â
âYeah. Sorry.â You look away. âI justâI had a patient I needed to get back to.â
âWeâve all got patients,â he says, folding his arms. âBut this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumasâyou know that.â
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. âI know. Iâm sorry. Iâm just... a little distracted tonight.â
âDistracted?â he echoes. âIs this about your friend?â
Your head snaps up. âMy friend?â
âThe one you just sent up to surgery.â His jaw tightens, just briefly. âIf Iâm being honest, Iâm not even sure you shouldâve been his physician.â
You frown. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âItâs a conflict of interest.â
You scoff. âA conflict of interest? Seriously?â
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
âYes.â
You lift your chin. âAlright. Howâs Ms. Callahan, then?â
He blinks. âWho?â
âCentral Nine. Your ex.â
He stares at you for a second.
âWho told you that?â
âIt doesnât matter,â you say quickly. âWhat matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âSo heâs not just an old friend.â
You tilt your head. âYou knew that, Jack.â
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jackâs looking at you, youâre not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as youâd hoped.
âLook,â you say, desperate to end this interaction. âIâm sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right thereâitâs not like I left you hanging. I knew heâd jump in.â
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. âYouâre right,â he says. âIâm sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.â
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
âGuess I should stop playing favourites, huh?â
You frown again. âFavourites?â
He lifts a shoulder. âYouâre always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.â
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
âWhat about Dr. Robby?â you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. âIâd still choose you.â
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they donât. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they donât mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart youâd been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you heâd still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college studentâs knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again itâs almost seven.
âShit,â you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nursesâ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
âHey.â Henderson sits at the computer across from you. âLittle girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.â
You glance over at him. âOh. Nice.â
âHer mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.â
You snort. âBetween the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.â
Henderson huffs a laugh. âApparently sheâs been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.â
Your brows lift. âReally?â
Henderson grins. âAnd now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
âYeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?â
âAssuming you had one to begin with,â Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
âAnd here I was worried youâd be in a good mood this morning,â you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. âCareful.â
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before youâre interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
âAlright,â Lena says as she hangs up the phone. âMale, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.â
âIâll take it,â Robby says, setting his coffee down. âLetâs prep Trauma One.â
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
âIâll jump in,â you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nursesâ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. Itâs not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you havenât had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and youâre starting to feel a little guilty about it.
âSee,â Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. âThereâs hope for you yet.â
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isnât long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldnât be older than four.
âThirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,â the paramedic says. âPositive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.â
The second paramedic circles the van from the driverâs side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. âYou check her out?â
âWe did a quick assessment on scene, but weâve been focused on Dad,â the paramedic says, still holding her.
âAlright. Weâll get somebody to take a look at her.â
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the manâs forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
âStay with me, sir,â you say, squeezing his arm. âCan you tell me your name?â
âBarry,â he murmurs.
âWhere does it hurt, Barry?â
He winces. âMyâmy stomach.â
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly youâre back under the bright fluorescent lights.
âAbbot,â Robby calls. âCan you take a look at the kid?â
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
âHey, sweetheart,â he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedicâs arms. âYour dadâs in good hands. Come on, letâs get you checked out too.â
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
âPressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,â he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barryâs shirt open.
âSeatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,â you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
âLeftâs worse.â
Robby holds out a hand. âUltrasound.â
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barryâs abdomen.
âRUQ,â Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. âClear.â
âLUQ.â
âClear.â
âPelvis.â
âNothing obvious.â
âGood,â Robby says. âFAST negative. Heâs stable enough for CT.â
You turn to Olive. âCT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.â
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isnât a guarantee, but itâs a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. âWhereâs my daughter? Whereâs Ellie?â
You press a hand against his shoulder.
âHey, donât try to sit up. Your daughterâs okayâsheâs just outside with another doctor.â
âSheâs okay?â
You nod. âSheâs okay.â
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
âHold on.â
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
âForehead lac,â you tell Robby. âAbout three centimetres.â
He glances over. âAlright. Weâll close it up before he goes to imaging.â
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
âLidocaine,â Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
âStay still for us, Barry,â you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. âThis might sting a little.â
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
âSaline,â Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
âHowâs the pain?â you ask.
ââS okay,â Barry mumbles.
âForceps.â
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
âLight,â he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that itâs in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barryâs heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
âScissors,â Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barryâs vitals.
âYou with us, Barry?â Robby asks.
âYeah,â Barry murmurs.
âCanât feel the needle, can you?â
âNo.â
âGood.â
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isnât Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nursesâ station is Barryâs daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but sheâs not crying anymore. Sheâs got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You canât hear what heâs saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellieâs tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jackâs chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesnât topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
Sheâs taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
âDoctor.â
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
âYeah?â
He gives you a look. âScissors. For the third time.â
âOh. Sorry.â
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. Sheâs giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jackâs cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
âForceps.â
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. âYou alright?â
âYeah. Why?â
âYouâre smiling.â
âNo, Iâmââ
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
Youâre in love with Jack Abbot.
âAlright, Barry,â Robby says, peeling his gloves off. âWeâre gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didnât miss anything.â
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
âCan someone call my wife?â Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. âI'm sure somebody already has, but Iâll check.â
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
âWhat about Ellie? Can I see her?â
âOf course,â Robby says. âSheâs right outside.â
Barry lifts his head slightly. âAm I okay?â
âWell, youâre talking to me, your pressureâs holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.â Robby looks at you. âIsnât that right, doctor?â
Your head snaps up. âHm?â
He frowns. âYou sure youâre alright? You seemââ
âIâm fine,â you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. âI justâI have charting to do.â
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You donât stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You canât scream. Canât shout. Canât drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just⌠breathe.
Okay. Maybe youâre being a little dramaticâbut can anyone blame you?
You donât want this. You canât want this. You donât have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. Thatâs all you want.
Or⌠all you wanted.
Now?
Now youâre not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you canât imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You canât imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You canât imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You canât imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isnât just sex anymore. It isnât flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. Itâs the way heâs somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. Heâs just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isnât the end of the world. Itâs not even a thing. Itâs only a thing if you let it be a thing, which⌠youâre not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings willâ
âHey. You okay?â
Your heart lurches, but you donât stop.
âI was going to come over there,â he says, keeping his voice low, âbut I didnât want toââ
âIâm fine,â you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard itâs almost nauseating.Â
âYou sure?â
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
âIâm fine,â you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. âSeriously.â
He gives you a look. Not one that says heâs offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesnât believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
âI need to finish my notes,â you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and donât stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a fewâmostly coherentâsentences. You type Jackâs name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nursesâ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
âHey.â You step up beside him. âYou got a minute for handover?â
He glances at you. âOh. Hey. Didnât know there were still any night crawlers left.â
You frown. âEveryoneâs gone?â
âEveryone but Dr. Abbot,â he says. âAnd you.â
Your eyes go wide. âEllis is gone?â
He nods. âSaw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.â
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said heâs giving you a lift, so Iâm headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
âEverything alright?â Langdon asks.
âUhâyeah. Fine.â
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
âIâve only got two patients. Can you take them?â
He nods. âOf course.â
âAlright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECGâs clean, waiting on the repeat. If thatâs negative too, he can go home.â
âMhm.â
âAnd South Nineteenâs the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said theyâd come see her, but I wouldnât hold my breath.â
Langdon snorts. âGot it.â
You nod. âGreat. Thanks.â
âAnything else?â
âNope.â
He smiles. âGreat sign-out.â
âI try,â you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: Youâre dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You donât bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket onâyou just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Orâhellâyouâll pay for an Uber if you have to.
âHey, slow down,â Dana says as you rush past the nursesâ station. âWhatâs the hurry?â
âSorry,â you call over your shoulder. âJustâreally need to get home.â
Youâre moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you canât remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
âYou ready?â
You flinch. âJesus Christ.â
Jack huffs a laugh. âNot quite.â
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
âIâm this way,â he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. âIâuhâI was just going to grab an Uber.â
His brows lift, but he doesnât look all that surprised. âYou were?â
You nod. âYeah. Iâm good. Thanks.â
âYou sure?â
âYep.â
You turn away, but he doesnât leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack thatâs slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
âIs there something going on that I should know about?â he asks finally.
âNope,â you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
âWhere are you going?â
âThe bus stop,â you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
âYouâre going to catch a bus?â
âYep.â
He laughs again, but this time itâs more disbelief than dry amusement.
âIâm offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and youâd rather catch a bus?â
That makes you stop.
You turn around. âNo strings attached?â
He lifts a shoulder. âIf thatâs what you want.â
âWhat I want?â
âIf you want me to just drop you off, Iâll just drop you off.â
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
âJust drop me off?â
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
âAnd then what?â you ask.
He tilts his head. âWhat do you mean?â
âThen you just leave?â
âIf thatâs what you want.â
Your throat tightens. âStop saying that.â
He frowns. âSaying what?â
âIf thatâs what I want.â You drag a hand through your hair. âYou keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like itâs my choice and you donât get to say anything orâor feel anything, and thatâs not fair.â
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
âWhat are we talking about here?â
âI donât know!â You throw your hands up. âThis. Us. Whatever this is. I donât know what weâre doing anymore, Jack. I donât know what Iâm supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.â
His eyes narrow. âIâm... too reasonable?â
âYes! Godââ You laugh once, sharp and humourless. âWhy are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everythingâs fine and maybe thatâs worked up until now, but I don't think itâs working anymore.â
âOkay,â he says evenly. âTell me whatâs not working, and we can talk about it.â
âTalk about it?â You stare at him. âTalk about what? Thereâs nothing to talk about, because thisâthis isnât anything. This is casual, Jack. Itâs supposed to be casual. And maybe thatâs the problem. Maybe weâve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space orâor something.â
His brows lift. âIs that what you want?â
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. âYes.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
âOkay,â he says again. âIf you want space, I can give you space.â
âSeriously?â You let out another sharp laugh. âOf course thatâs your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and youâre just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.â
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. âDo you want me to argue?â
âMaybe!â You throw your hands up again. âI donât know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, youâd give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, youâd end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, youâd just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me thatâs okay too.â
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
âAnd donât tell me thatâs not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasnât paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. Youâre a doctor. I know that. I know Iâm being irrational.â
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
âAnd thatâs the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. Thatâs the problem. Itâs not about her at all. Itâs about the fact that youâre always fine. Youâre always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I donât know how you do that.â You let out an unsteady breath. âIt's likeâlike none of this matters to you. Like you donât care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.â
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard youâre almost sure he can hear it.
He doesnât say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly youâre struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what youâve been trying so hard not to say.
âYou think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?â he asks, his voice soft. âYou think I could walk away from you?â
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
âWhen this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didnât want a relationshipâand if thatâs still not what you want, then okay. Iâm not going to pressure you into something youâre not ready for. Iâm not trying to be overly reasonable, and Iâm certainly not trying to make you feel like youâre losing your mind.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âWhen I ask you what you want, itâs not because I donât care what happens. Itâs because I do. Itâs because Iâd rather be patient than push you into something before youâre ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then Iâll give you space.â
His gaze holds yours.
âBut donât mistake that for indifference. Because thereâs no version of this where walking away from you is easy. Thereâs no version of this where I donât care. And if one day you tell me thatâs what you really want, then Iâll respect it. Not because itâs what I want. Not because what I feel doesnât matter. But because I respect you.â
His expression softens again.
âDo you understand?â
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
âNow listen to me.â
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
âI know youâve had a long shift. I know youâre exhausted. I know youâre standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and Iâm not trying to make your day any harder than it already isâbut I need you to hear this.â
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
âI love you too.â
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. âYou alright?â
âNo,â you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until thereâs nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that youâre standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows heâs got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
âDonât,â you murmur against his mouth.
He doesnât say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way heâd just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
âStill catching the bus?â
You immediately let go of his shirt. âShut up.â
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
âMy carâs the other way,â he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
âShut up,â you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You donât need to look back to know heâs following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise youâre smiling.
â.á EXPECTATIONS ââ Brendon âThe Sharkâ Park
summary: park accidentally washes your number off his hand, you make him a list of things to do to get it back. (wc: 1.9k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: fluff and humour. park is still moody but a softie for reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates princess!reader who is a menace. related to these fics. the idea is to write each thing on the list as its own little blurb/fic!
Park didnât think twice when the sanitiser spat into the central part of his palm, because it had been drilled into every medical professional to make use of the dispensers located throughout the different zones to prevent unintentional spreading of infections. Plus, it had just become habitual at this point.Â
So, when the inky blue smear from a ballpoint pen slathers up to his wrists; it was safe to say the realisation seeped into his bones almost instantaneously from his grave mistake.Â
(Being stoic enough, none of the fellow Ortho doctors took note of the miniature change of expression.)Â
Brendon Park had just rubbed your phone number off in one swipe. Your cute hand-writing turning to a streak of diluted blue, dissipating with his palms rubbed together. Part of him chastises the other half of him that had dipped into the deep waters of the Emergency Department with a poor execution of flirtations andâwhat he classed asâan impressively old school way of getting a womanâs phone number.Â
It made sense why it hadnât gained further traction in the more modern era of exchanging numbers.Â
In spite of the minor blunder, Park continues his day throughout the OR which includes, repairs for traumatic fractures, the odd joint replacement and Laminectomy to relieve some poor patients pressure that had been pressing on their spinal cord.Â
He has every intentions when a vacant space in his schedule becomes apparent to march back down to the ED, and catch you for your number again. This time; with his phone in hand.Â
Unfortunately, that plan goes haywire when a patient was wheeled in with an infected prosthetic joint. Park proceeds to make his soured mood from the increasingly complicated surgery, everyoneâs problem in the Orthopaedics department.Â
Park kept it in his best interests to prevent you from receiving the same fate as his fellow co-workers after a tricky surgery that couldâve been prevented if the prior surgeon hadnât butchered the prosthetic, and left his emotions to stew into a simmer before he finds you again.
It doesnât take more than twelve hours before heâs swimming about the ED with an unrelenting facial expression of disconcert. The two nurses, Perlah and Princess, huddle together to whisper in Tagalog as he passes, his head giving them a subtle nod to acknowledge their presence as he walks by them.Â
The same isnât said for when Dennis Whitaker catches his eye, in that mouse-like wonder he carried.
âYou need something?â Whitaker asks, unsure of what waters heâs treading in.
Park slows, low-browed as he bestows a judgemental gaze upon the resident, âNot you.â
âO-kay.â Whitaker murmurs, returning back to his charting without further elaboration needed.Â
The Orthopaedics doctor rounds the hub, head on a swivel to catch a glimpse of floral pattern beneath dark scrubs with the occasional acknowledgement to the peers that he was more lenient on the patience side with. Sets of eyes follow him with the question in repetition: Who called for Shark?Â
Dr. Robby shares the same sentiment when he saw the infamous sharp features peer into the trauma room he was currently in with a handful of residents. He had been sporting a teaching cap to the younger generation of doctors whilst walking them through a nasty head-on car collision with collateral damage following behind in gurneys.Â
It was your reaction that had Robbyâs brown eyes drift from Park the Shark toward you, where you openly stared with the body language that only furthered Dr. Robbyâs suspicions of the happenings between the mean-mugging Ortho doctor and his cup always half full rather than half empty, resident.Â
You perk and then smother your joy by clearing your throat, gloved hands clasped together with your eyes narrowed at the open gash on the patientâs chest.Â
âAnybody know why Park the Shark is stalking Trauma Two?â Santos says flippantly, suited in a white gown and blue gloves.
You press your lips together.Â
Robbyâhoweverâdoes not. He looks directly at you with a tilt of his head, âI have a few guesses.âÂ
It makes your skin prickle with embarrassment that your Chief Attending continued to prove the reason as to why he was top of the food chain in the ED of the PTMC. Aside from Dana Evans, the geriatric maleânot even close to that title, but it had made him laugh dryly when you had said it to himâwas the eyes and the ears of the whole operation down in the Pitt. Observation was key to run an Emergency Department; and it seemed as if Michael Robinavitch was in abundance of it.
He doesnât dismiss you, nor does he attend to your affairs with Park the Shark; who remained stood outside of Trauma Two like a bodyguard and not a highly sought after doctor a few floors up.Â
Seems like he had all the time in the world when it came to you.Â
Once the patient had been overseen by Dr. Garcia, the group of residents are prompted to move onto other ailments dotted on the board overhead. You move behind Dr. Robby, who flashes you a knowing look over the rim of his glasses and you dip beneath the arm he was using to hold the door open for you.Â
Park walks in formation with you. Prompt and ever so casual. (Definitely not a man on the edge of begging over some digits.)
âYou are starting to stick out like a sore thumb down here,â you point out, knowing his growing attendance in the Pitt was catching unwanted attention. You rub your hands together with sanitiser between them, âThereâs a joke going around that youâre the shark in shallow waters, thatâs gotten a taste for human blood.â
âDoes that make you the human I tasted?âÂ
You scrunch your nose up, âDonât be crass.â you make a beeline for a free computer, sitting down with Park leering over you as you work. âWhat can I do you for, Sharky?â
Park has a hand against the back of the desk chair youâre sat on, his head lowers as if heâs checking over some notes that are none of his business; on the monitor in front of you.
The closeness draws out a smile from your lips.
âI sanitised your phone number off yesterday.â Park mutters, eyes darting across a blank document. He points to it for theatrics, âI brought my phone down this time, so you can just input it there.â
âOh, I can, can I?â you croon.Â
âYou donât want to?âÂ
You shrug as Park turns his sharp eyes to you, âI donât knowâŚit didnât seem that important if you justââ you wave your hand about as you playfully speak, ââlost it.âÂ
âIt was an accident.â Park says in a softer tone because itâs you heâs speaking to.Â
âIntentional dressed up as an accident.â you retort and begin typing a string of random letters into the document you had opened, feeling amused by the upper hand youâve been gifted. âMy number is a privilege to have. Seems like you lost that privilege, Sharky.âÂ
Oh good, Park thinks, youâre going to make him beg.Â
He shifts beside you, throat bobbing as he conjures up a lighthearted apology. Despite the softening of edges that you had done in the time that Brendon Park got to know you, he was still a brash, direct man with little room for humour. Soâironicallyâthe bone doctor was losing in his attempt to find his funny bone in this sudden back and forth you had created.Â
Instead, you answer for him.Â
âIt can be undone. You seem like a man who thrives in harsh working conditions, and I can provide you with harsh, Park.â you goad him cruelly, âI have expectations when it comes to grovelling, and usually they come in a more physical form than verbal.âÂ
Park blinks. Were you asking for a sexual favour?Â
Evidently, you saw the same thought cross his blank expression and jump to mend that idea, âNo, you do not need to whore yourself out for my number. However, let me know your schedule, and you can prove your worthiness for my digits again through hard labour.âÂ
There wasnât even a beat of hesitation, no argument that came to the forefront of Parkâs mind as you ordered him about like a dog in training. You yanked his leash, and he came bounding after youâdidnât mean he didnât slightly curse your defiance in his mind. Either way, he silently fished his phone out from his pocket and opened up his schedule for you to take a look at.Â
Each minute you two spent in each otherâs company added more curiosity to everyoneâs lips. (They were just ensuring you were okay, for the most part.)Â
Neither of you cared to notice as you opened up your calendar to mirror Sharkâs schedule for Orthopaedics.Â
You reach for his phone, âDo you mind?â you ask politely with those sort of twinkly eyes that makes Parkâs knees go a bit soft. You smile up at him when he willingly hands it over, âThank you.âÂ
You soon find out that Park the Sharkâs calendar is nothing but a strict regime. Work, run, work, therapy at 5PM, food shop and more work. So the rumours were true: he was a lone shark.Â
What better way than to brighten that loneliness up with some decoration?Â
Satisfied, you hand Park back his phone, noting how he had spent the time you had been punching information into the empty dates on his calendar; by making the surrounding doctors and nurses scarce with a mean look to make them back off.Â
âYou can come do these things with me.â you say happily when you lock the computer screen, âFun things.â you add.Â
Park scrolls through his calendar with one finger. His brows pinch, ââŚPilates?âÂ
âYes!â you clap your hands together, âOoh! Youâll love it.â (He wouldnât.) When Park gives you a disapproving look at the list of things you added to his week, you dramatically deflate on the spot, âCome on, Park. You know itâs okay to be multifaceted? It isnât a crime. You Ortho Bros are such meatheads.âÂ
(RisquĂŠ insult, but it paid off.)Â
âDo I look like I go to Pilates?âÂ
You give him a slow look up and down, ââŚDo you need me to answer honestly?âÂ
Park couldâve kissed your smart mouth. He went for the latter of a short huff that couldâve been mistaken for a snippet of laughter.Â
Your own face cracks with a big grin, âThese are my expectations, big guy. If you donât want to do these things with me, well, my number just wasnât meant to be. Was it?âÂ
âIt was. Youâre just playing a mean game.â Park states as he tilts his chin upward, staring down the slope of his nose at you.
It was incredibly attractive, to be honest.
Even with the little resistance, Park was prepared to play the long game with you at the core of it. If he had to attend a Pilates class everyday at the crack of dawn, then so be it. It would also mean heâd catch a glimpse of you out of scrubs, and greedily take up your spare time with his brooding presence; not that, that phased you.Â
He slots his phone back into his pocket, âIâll see you tomorrow forâŚPilates, then.âÂ
âOkie-dokie!â you pat his broad back as he turns to take leave. You speak lowly, âI canât wait to see you in your Pilates get-up.âÂ
|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things ||
a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you
wc: 1.7k
"pleaseâ"
it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of himâthick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other handâlong and curved up to the rightâenjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.
robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robbyâs breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.
"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.
you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.
"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.
both of them were to the right of youâyour face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jackâs breath leave him and robbyâs cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.
you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.
"wanna see you kisssssâ"
jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.
"baby, we talked about thisâ" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.
"âbut it would be so hottttt," you whined.
robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"
jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.
"so god damn goodâgo a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."
you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.
you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.
"ohhhh fuckâ" you mewled. "soâso deep, robby, oh godâ"
"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."
you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.
"your turnâ" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.
nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.
robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.
"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badlyâ"
"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.
"yeahâ" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandemâfull of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.
"like thisâ" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.
it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.
"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.
"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.
"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."
"be nice, mikeâ" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."
his praise always effected youâmaking you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.
"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."
you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of themârobby pretending there wasnât a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.
"enough talkingâ" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on meâ think she's gonna come, mike, oh godâ"
"pleaseâ" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.
"fuck itâ" robby growled.
he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.
they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning toâwaiting, feeling both of them still around you.
robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.
"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."
"you're rightâ" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."
robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told yâ"
but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.
a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.
"oh my god," you whispered.
when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.
"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.
"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a viceâ"
"yeah, she really tightened upâfuck, c'mere."
robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.
it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.
then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.
you pulled back only enough to welcome itâjack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.
the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.
"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."
jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.
"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."
"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.
you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.
"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock nowâgonna fill you up so good, mmmmâ"
"i'mâi'mâi'm comingâoh, god, oh godâ"
"yeah, that's it, that's itâoh fuckkkâ" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.
jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.
your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.
as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissingâgentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.
but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.
wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped
summary: trinity realizes she might be better off with you than without
contains: alluding to trinity's struggle with self-harm, i think that's it but if there's anything else i need to disclaim please lmk
a/n: a big sincere thank you to everyone who's read my fics and sent kind messages about this part 3! i love hearing from you all, it makes me so happy to know people are enjoying my portrayal of santos i worked really hard for a really long time on this one, i hope you like it. <3 | lovely divider from @strangergraphics
Yolanda Garcia's not much of a cuddler. Not that Trinity expected she would be.
The more Garcia comes over and the more they end up breathless and flushed on their backs, the less Trinity expects, or even wants, to cuddle her. You get told youâre not getting ice cream enough times, pretty soon you stop craving it.
Spending the night in your bed has ruined that.
Trinity didn't even have sex with you. Just languid, sporadic kisses and exploratory hands skating over sensitive skin. Trinity ended up sleeping on her side that night, facing you, nose tickled by your hair. Your fingers pressed lazy, deliberate circles into the plush over her hipbone. It was the most wanted she'd felt in a very long time.
It's been three weeks since you showed up at the hospital, after Trinity ghosted you. Not quite a Shakespearean tragedy, but discovering Trinity was the one who reported your brother for stealing meds from the ER while you're bleeding from the head?
The look on your face was enough to send Trinity into a downward spiral of self-destruction. She can only imagine what you were thinking. How much you must have hated her in that moment.
She's not relapsed, not yet, but the urge has bubbled up like acid in her stomach more than once. More urgent matters have distracted her for now.
Huckleberry nearly setting the apartment on fire by way of a frozen pizza and a wayward oven rack.
Javadi asking her for advice on a patient through the stall door.
Garcia's brusque-yet-efficient 'you up?' texts.
The last of which is how Trinity ended up on her back, feeling like a stranger in her own bed, a thin sheen of sweat over her glassy skin.
Garcia pants beside Trinity, and the two share a breathy laugh as they recover.
The afterglow's always the best part with Yolanda, Trinity thinks. That five to ten minutes where neither of them has anyplace to be but right here, no agenda to serve because they've both already gotten what they want.
All body warmth and slick skin and a distinct lack of pressure.
Trinity isn't sure why she reaches for Garcia's hand, but she does, and of course Garcia jerks away.
"Whatcha doing?" Garcia laughs in that humorless way, arching a brow at Trinity.
"I dunno," Trinity looks away, going pinker. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Garcia shrugs it off, then moves to plant her feet on the ground. She reaches for her shoes. Trinity is certain this has all to do with her silent request for affection.
That's the thing about Garcia. Nothing's a problem, until it is.
And once it is, then you'd better make sure all the furniture's nailed down. Because she's about to whip out of there with the same urgency as a tornado.
"I'll see you at work tomorrow," Garcia clears her throat as she steps into her pants. Her dark curls stick out all over the place. She adjusts the waistband, then shoves her feet into her shoes. "Have a good night, Trinity," she adds, then disappears out the door as quickly as she came in.
The top sheet falls down Trinity's chest as she rubs her hand over her face, feeling as empty and bare as she looks.
She slides on a t-shirt and jeans, then grabs her keys off the hook without so much as a glance back to her bed.
When you open the door, you're surprised to find what is decidedly not the Indian food you ordered, but one Dr. Trinity Santos.
"You're not Saffron Palace," you say dumbly, blinking at her while your arms flop to your side.
"No, but I walked up the stairs with the delivery guy," her lips stretch out, thin and uneasy, before she lifts her hand to reveal the tied plastic bag. "Saw your name on the ticket, offered to bring it to you."
You frown. "I usually tip when they get here."
"I gave him twenty bucks," her throat bobs. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "Could we talk, maybe, while you eat your dinner?"
It's an imposing request, one you'd deny if you didn't have so many questions for this specific person. Warily, you pluck the bag from Trinity's hand, leaving the door open behind you in place of an answer.
Trinity's eyes shift in the open doorway while she selfishly drinks you in. Sweatpants hang off your hips as you slink towards the sofa. Cropped t-shirt curling at the ends, messy braids trailing down your neck.
This is as good of an invitation as any, right?
She crosses the threshold into your teeny apartment, closing the door and locking it behind her.
You've set up shop on the sofa âmore of a slightly extended loveseat, reallyâ with your back against the arm and legs out in front of you. This leaves Trinity no other option but the ottoman on the opposite side of the coffee table. She sits, forearms braced over her thighs, lips pressed into a narrow, pink line.
It's not lost on her that she sits this same way when she's about to break bad news to a patient.
As you unearth the styrofoam box from the bag, you wear an uncertain expression, avoiding eye contact.
"How's your head?" Trinity asks, eyeing the scar on your temple. It's been three weeks since you wound up with a laceration on your forehead in the very ER where Trinity works. She can see from where it pokes out of your hair that the skin has rejoined itself.
Nothing more than a pink scar remains, then pretty soon all evidence of your visit to the hospital will disappear altogether.
Like it never happened.
You resist the urge to make a dirty joke, instead busting the spoon from its plastic wrapping. "It's fine." You leer up at her. "Is that why you're here, Trinity? I didn't realize the ER did home visits now."
"All part of a new effort to boost our patient satisfaction scores," Trinity replies, and you have to blink before you realize she's joking.
You lob a pointed hum at that, then dig your foil-wrapped garlic naan out of the bag. You set it on the small, open spot of cushion beside your leg. When you crack open the styrofoam container, the savory, rich smells of butter chicken infiltrate your nostrils and fill your mouth with saliva.
"What spice level do you get?" Trinity makes conversation like you're old friends, her hands clasped between her open legs.
The spread is balanced both impressively and precariously in your lap. You scoop your spoon under a piece of sauce-dripped chicken, using your other hand as a spillguard while you raise it to your lips.
"Five," you say, covering your mouth as you chew.
"Impressive," she muses.
You sigh between bites. "What are you doing here, Trinity?"
"I justâŚ" she fiddles with her fingers. "I wanted to talk to you."
"Oh, you mean like we did in the ER? Where you accosted me for trying to understand why you straight-up ghosted me?"
She noticeably grimaces at this. As though she wasn't prepared to dive right into all of it.
You shovel one more bite into your mouth, then snap the container shut. You plunk it onto the coffee table.
When you allowed her inside, you were determined not to let Trinity ruin your appetite, but your confusion and anger looms to large to ignore. "How'd you even know I was home?"
"I, uh," she curves in on herself, her back in a distinct C shape. One hand shoots up to rub the back of her neck. "I went by the restaurant. They said you weren't working today."
"So you're stalking me now."
Trinity doesn't find any of that familiar teasing behind your eyes, Just a blatant statement.
She blinks.
"Well, no⌠not exactly," she blusters. "I think stalking is more like following you around." A hardened seriousness crosses her face. "Which I'm not doing, to be clear."
You swing your legs over, then plant your sock-covered feet on the rug. "Why don't you just say what it is you came over here to say," you suggest with a perfect curve of a frown. "So that I can eat my dinner in peace."
"Yeah," Trinity relents. "OK, well I wanted to apologize, first of all, for being soâŚ" she waves her hand around, searching for the word.
"Emotionally constipated?" You offer without hesitation.
She frowns. "Not exactly the phrasing I would use, butâ"
"But it's pretty fucking accurate, huh?" You cut in, crossing your arms over your chest. Your head cocks to the side, lips stretched in a flat line in that overly confident, all-knowing look Trinity has only ever seen once before.
The day of Pitt-Fest, at the hospital. On your brother's face. While he was bitching her out in a trauma room in front of eight other people.
This would all be so much easier if she could hate you. If she could box you in with your brother. Must be a Langdon thing, she'd croon to whoever would listen (probably only Huckleberry).
Her stomach tangles into even more knots. Maybe she should have jotted her thoughts down before coming here.
She doesn't like being out of control, and she thought âfoolishly, she's now realizingâ she could waltz in here and lob an apology at you rather than actually face the consequences of how she'd acted.
But you're right. She wasn't being kind, and you'd done nothing to deserve it.
"Did you just come here to ease your conscience?" You ask before she can say anything. Your eyes steel into hers. "Because if so, let me reassure you. I was fine before we spent the night together, and I'm fine now. Nothing to repent for."
Trinity's jaw tightens, her lips pursing. She's all angles again, jagged and untouchable. "I came here because I thought I owed you an explanation."
"You explained yourself perfectly at the hospital, remember?" You bite back. "Something about how I take up too much space, just like my brother? And how you expected me to hate you the second I found out about you reporting him?"
Trinity recoils at the reminder. Clasping her hands behind her neck, she hangs her head. There's silence for a long time, maybe a full minute, before she speaks again.
"What do you know about your brother's dismissal from the hospital?" She asks, braving to meet your eye once again.
"I know he was asked to leave the day of PittFest," you say, crossing one leg over the other. You sit all pretzeled now, various attempts to protect yourself with your own limbs. "I know he was swiping benzos off his patients. And, if my deductive reasoning is up to par, you're the one who called him out on it."
She absorbs this with a slow nod. It's more information than she expected you to have. She only spent one shift with the guy, but Frank Langdon struck her as the type of guy who wouldn't self-enforce accountability, especially not when it's an immediate threat to his precious ego.
But if knowing you has taught Trinity anything, it's that people can be surprising.
A long silence hangs between the two of you. It's taut and polarizing, but Trinity only notices it when she realizes she's waiting for you to reprimand her for reporting your brother.
You don't.
"That's all true," Trinity picks at the fabric of her jeans. "I don't regret reporting him, either," she adds in a stubborn grumble.
"I didn't ask you to apologize for it," you look like a restless toddler as you shift around, the plane of your stomach peeking out from your shirt. Frustration leaks out of your voice like air from a tire. "I'm not going to buy you a fruit basket or anything, but you did the right thing. My brother's getting the help he needs for a problem nobody knew he had."
The words are blunt, prompted by frustration, and yet they hit something in Trinity, reverberating through her like a gong.
You did the right thing.
She's been ostracized at the hospital for weeks, everyone whispering when they think she's out of earshot. But she hears them, calling her a snitch. Ambitious. Steamroller. She's kept the details to herself because it's none of her business, but god, has it been hard.
If she could just explain to everyone that Langdon was stealing, then they'd understand why she blabbed on him. She's gone through it a million times in the past two months.
She was labeled a pariah the second she started asking questions, so she's not sure what good spilling the beans would do.
Someone saying she did the right thing, and Langdon's sister, no less, patches a wound she didn't realize was bleeding. Relief floods her, the feeling so overwhelming that she has to screw her eyes shut.
When they open, you notice they're glassy with tears. Those seagreen eyes, wet with unshed emotion, clear away all the brambles guarding your heart in an instant.
"Trinity?" You're taken aback by the sudden shift in emotion. But a realization dawns on you shortly after. Of course.
PittFest was her first day at the hospital. She'd told you that. And yet, she challenged an authority figure. A young woman who'd yet to establish any kind of rapport with anyone, sticking to her principles. She prioritized what was right over any sort of standing among her fellow physicians.
"I don't hate you, Trinity," you state, because it feels important. Slowly, you untangle your limbs and rise to your feet. "I couldn't hate you, not for this."
"Not everybody sees it so black and white," Trinity sniffs. The tears don't fall, but they linger in the corners of her eyes. "People were really pissed at me once word got around."
"I don't think it's black and white at all, actually," you disagree, gathering your takeout. You head for the kitchen. It's a whopping eight steps, but it might as well be a ditch between your body and hers. "Life exists almost exclusively in grey areas. People don't do things for one singular reason."
You don't look back just yet, but words keep spilling out of your mouth before you can think better of them.
"So what is it, then?" You ask. "You don't like being reminded of Frank when you see me? You hate him so much that you hate me by association?"
"I don't hate you," she shakes her head. As she stands, you shove your takeout in the fridge.
By the time your back hits the closed refrigerator, Trinity's already trailed after you into the kitchen.
She's come to the brutal self-realization in the past few weeks that she's almost constantly thinking about power. Who has more of it in an interaction, how she can use the dynamic to her advantage. But all she can think about right now is your soft midriff peeking out from your crop top, and how she's never felt so desperate for someone to forgive her. Until now.
"So we don't hate each other." Your voice tugs Trinity back to the present.
"That about sums it up," is her lame response. Her cheeks are almost ashen, lacking color in the warm kitchen light. She looms like a tree in the doorway, as though she's forgotten how to operate her own body.
"Why'd you come here?" You ask from your perch against the refrigerator. It comes out soft, hoarse, tired.
"I told you, I wanted to apologize," she murmurs.
"No, I mean, what⌠what led you to coming here?" You swallow. "It's been three weeks."
Trinity's tongue juts out to rest between her lips. She'd be lying if she said her trip here wasn't at least partially fueled by a craving to kiss you again. You left this sweet aftertaste on Trinity's palate that no amount of casual hookups with Garcia could cleanse.
She recalls the text you sent after she panicked and left your apartment the morning after the two of you spent the night together.
Trin, I spent my entire shift thinking about you. I know that's earnest and people don't really do that anymore, so I hope that isn't weird for you to read.
Earnest is not a word often used to describe Trinity Santos.
Calculating. Overconfident. Emotionally stunted. Certainly not earnest.
Now's as good a time as any to give it a shot, she supposes. Oh, what the hell.
"I-I think you're really amazing," Trinity says, taking a wobbly step into the kitchen. Her forearm flattens on the countertop, using it for support. "I think about that night a lot. And I was withâŚ" she trails off, glancing at the floor guiltily. She draws a line along the linoleum with her shoe.
"I was with my⌠situationship, I guess you could say, and I just felt so empty afterwards. I missed you. I don't know that I've missed someone I've spent less than twenty-four hours around before."
You arch a brow, crossing your arms over your chest. Something mean and dark boils under your skin at the thought of Trinity with someone else, and you know you have no right to feel this way, but you still do.
"What exactly are you saying?" You manage to croak out.
"I guess I came here tonight, to, like⌠feel this thing out," she meets your eye, providing a fruitless gesture between her body and yours. "To see if you hate me, to offer some kind of explanation. To tell you that I was a dick when you were at the hospital. And that I'm sorry."
You twist your lips in the side of your mouth, mulling over the words she's imparted.
The moment stretches the walls of your tiny kitchen.
"Can you say please something?" Trinity asks after a solid minute, nibbling on her bottom lip.
All you can do is shrug. âI donât know, Trin. Maybe itâs⌠maybe itâs better we went through this now.â Your eyes fix on the floor. âStop the bleeding before it has the chance to hemorrhage.â
An airy, uneven laugh. âAre you using a medical metaphor?â Her lips quirk up, like the puppeteer just barely tugged on the string.Â
You nod, still not meeting her eye.Â
âIs that what you want?â Trinity asks, stepping closer. She doesnât touch you. She doesn't feel that brave yet.
You shake your head, shrug your shoulders. Every noncommittal gesture in the book, you make it. âI donât know,â you whisper.Â
âCan you look at me?â Trinityâs voice drops to match yours. Then your name rolls off her tongue so delicately, caught in a breeze.Â
When your eyes find hers, sheâs positioned right in front of you. She glances down at the minimal space between her body and yours, then flicks back up. Seeking permission.Â
Your chin dips.Â
Trinity tugs you by the forearms til you shuffle closer. One hand graces the small of your back, the other bends at the elbow over your shoulder.Â
You lean in to her embrace, shields coming down. Her sharp corners melt into round ones.Â
You have to slouch a little to fit under her chin, but then you slot right in. Arms tucked against your chest at first, but then you slide them around her middle. You missed this. You only had it once but that was enough to get you hooked.Â
Trinity holding you like this is a relief you never knew you needed.Â
Holding you like this is a warmth Trinity never knew she could provide.Â
The two of you stand like that for a while. Trinityâs hand swipes up and down the soft cotton of your crop top. The warmth seeping beneath the fabric is so tempting.Â
âI missed you a lot,â Trinity whispers after your heartbeats sync up. âI donât know that Iâve ever actually wanted somebodyâs company this much.âÂ
âMaybe youâre just hanging out with the wrong people,â you murmur.Â
âYeah,â Trinity agrees, sucking one of her front teeth. âThatâs probably it.âÂ
You pull away after another minute, but Trinityâs hands stay loosely on your forearms. The question hangs heavy and unspoken between you.Â
âIâm not sure, Trin,â you sigh, though instinct screams at you to just kiss her and be done with all this. To ignore the cracks in the foundation and keep building. âThis really sucked.âÂ
She nods. âI know, honey,â she agrees. The endearment is a gut punch, but the only reaction you give is a faint twitch of your lips. âCan weâŚ?â Her eyes flash up to the ceiling before reluctantly dragging back down to yours. âCan we try being friends?âÂ
You feign a gag at the word.Â
âI know,â her laugh melts into yours. âItâs gross, right?âÂ
âCheesiest thing Iâve ever heard,â you snicker, tugging your hands back. Trinity does the same, and the space between you, though it was less than before, becomes a chasm. âBut yeah,â you add. âI would love to be your friend, Trin.âÂ
She gives a watery smile, reaching up and squeezing your shoulder before stepping away, carving that canyon between you for good.Â
summary: you have some mixed feelings after telling jack to add women to his roster. (wc: 6.1k)
pairing: jack abbot / pitt!f!reader
content: s2 spoilers. friend with benefits/idiots in love. fluff/humour/miscommunication. r has semi-commitment issues. jack wants r jealous. low-key brat tamer jack? r has to wear whitakerâs scrubs (described as fitting a little big), implied age-gap (old guy is used), and supply cupboard talk. 18+ sexual themes (p in v), brief dirty talk. medical injuries & inaccuracies
âJackââ his name catches in the back of your throat with a gasp, ââHoly shit.âÂ
The bedroom walls capture the soft creak of the bed frame, the elicited grunts from the male beneath you; condensation trailing the length of the window from the time spent cooped up in the smaller room of the apartment. Anytime you inhaled, your senses captured the longevity of the intimacy that had your thighs slick with sweat, peeling off of Jackâs which each rock against him.
Hands on the broad line of Jackâs shoulders, you let yourself frown from the ache of him buried to the hilt. A good ache, you had to remind him as he watched you.Â
Jackâs lips part, his bare back flush against your headboard that knocked the exposed brick behind it. Teeth dragging at his bottom lip, he groaned as you tilted your pelvis upward, fingers digging into the plush of your hips to ground himselfâpreventing him from thrusting upward as promised.Â
He looks up at you, âTell me.âÂ
âI canâtââÂ
âNo.â Jack coos, âCome on.âÂ
Chest now flush against his, you whine into the kiss you initiate just to shut him up. His teeth clang against yours, he then grins in that sort of smugness that irritates you. You mumble against him, âShut up. Just get me there.âÂ
This puts Jack into an obedient daze. Fingers at your hips coaxing quicker movements out of you, Jack gets tunnel vision when he looks down to where youâre connected. This is the third time you had taken the older male for a spin that nightânot because you had asked him, but because he practically begged you. His thighs burn from overexerting himself after a long-ass shift at the PTMC, only to have you folded in different positions to satisfy both of your never-ending greed for multiple orgasms.Â
The bed rocks a little harder from desperation, silica dust sprinkling from the contact of the wooden frame against the brickwork. You draw yourself closer to Jack, fingernails dent little crescents into the skin of his shoulder blades whilst Jack sinks his teeth into yours; quick to soothe the temporary sting with his lips pressed against the angry mark.Â
When you go silent against him, Jack takes one hand from your hip and tugs gently at the damp hair at your scalp.Â
(You look beautifully pathetic.)Â
âOoh. There she is.â Jack croons when you squeeze around him.Â
You were right there, on the precipice of a fourth orgasm, limbs tense from the steep incline it took to drag another one out of you.Â
The sound of keys jingling in the front door knock it sideways, your eyes shoot wide open to see Jack staring back at you with the same flushed intensity. When the door clicks open, this is when you lean to the side, arm extended to reach for your phone that was placed face-up on your bedside cabinetâJack steadying you with warm hands on your sides.Â
The phone lights at a single tap.Â
âDid you fucking snooze the alarm?â you seethe quietly.Â
Jack looks as guilty as sin when he responds, âDo you know how insane it is to have an alarm set to stop having sex?â he pulls you back to him, âNobody stops sex that theyâre enjoying.âÂ
âI do!â you pull yourself off him, the emptiness making you both let out an unsatisfied noise, âI have roommatesâwho work with us, by the way. I donât want the gossip mill catching up withââ you wave your hands at Jack, he quirks a brow, ââWith this!âÂ
Jack watches as you tiptoe around your own bedroom, fingers curl around the fabric of the items of clothing that you had assisted him with pulling off. Heâs a little vexed from the whiplash of you close to reaching a fourth climax, only to lose the gratification in an exchange for a quiet chastising for blindly reaching for the snooze button on the alarm you had set. Seriously, who set alarms for that type of shit?Â
It happens every time you two get together.Â
Stumbling against each other in an attempt to get to the bedroom, you break the searing kiss in a frivolous attempt to slap a time limit on your sexual endeavoursâa time limit that was often ignored or snoozed. It made for quite the adrenaline-inducing experience, harbouring a secret that took the form of the decorated war veteran and Senior Attending at your current shared residency; from your roommates Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker.
(It was just by luck that Whitaker spent most of his time on the widowerâs farm, so you werenât so uptight around his lack of suspicions.)Â
As for Trinity, well, her incredible sense of drive and inquisitiveness meant that Jack Abbot had at least two hours before she trudged into the apartment with a plastic bag full of poorly nutritional valued food for dinner and some chitchat to share.Â
Her footsteps echoed from the hallway, and you hasten your actions, because you knew it was only a matter of time after Trinityâs routinely pre-bed shower; before she waltzed into your room without so much as a knock on the door.Â
âYour leg, your leg!â You whisper at Jack, the swell of panic rises in your chest as you pass him his prosthesis.Â
He chuckles lowly, âSo, no massage?â he takes his prosthesis from you with a tilt of his chin. When you donât reciprocate the same energy, he pulls his lips into a deep frown, âAlright. No massage. Just so you know, itâs for medical purposes. It needs proper blood flow. Amputee 101.âÂ
You bend to press a kiss to his lips, you pull back and domestically pat his face and say, âOnce that goes down, youâll have all the blood flow you need, old guy.âÂ
Jack grumbles, angling himself better to fit his prosthesis back on, his leg damp from a film of sweat and other substances that clung to him. The leg fits with a little resistance and it leaves him with a pocket of time to fight his black shirt back over his head, and watch you nakedly dash from one end of the room to the other.
There was this sort of, impending doom that hung neatly in the humid air when the time shared was drawing to a close. Jack had branded it as a sixth sense, one that had followed him from the frontlines and bled into certain situations that didnât require a pit in his stomach.
The agreement had been oversimplified on many occasions. What this was, was two co-workers who shared the common denominator of desire from intimacy, with no strings attachedâJack being a widower, and you with an aversion to commitment made it a wonderful idea. Youâd show up, get your fix and never stay the night; never kiss on the lips;Â a rule that became redundant almost instantaneously.Â
A box, so to speak, to contain yourselves within.Â
Jack Abbot found that box a littleâŚcramped. He stretched his legs once, breaking the seal and the entrails of keeping his feelings strictly surface level; were unable to be shoved back in.
Jack liked you, more than he would care to admit.Â
So, he invested his energy into fucking you within an inch of your life, mourn the âwhat ifsâ in his car and kept you drip-fed from your climaxes enough that he could trust that youâd come back for moreâbecause he couldnât risk the entanglement of feelings and lose you in the process.Â
In conclusion: Jack hated the leaving part.Â
You pull at your sweatpants and hobble to the door in order to press your ear against it, trying to get the green light to exit with a hiss of water from the shower head in the bathroom down the hallâSantos always lets it run with the door open to retrieve a towel and lotion. A now, fully dressed Jack follows suit, standing beside you with his arms folded and chin tilted upward as he looks down at the concentration in your face.Â
âWhatâs your plans for tomorrow?â he whispers.
You raise your eyes to look at him, âUh, shifting it at the Pitt. You?âÂ
âSWAT.â Jack shrugs, âThen nightshift.â he scans your frame from the top of your head, down to your bare feet and back up to your wide-eyes; a place he often gets stuck on. He murmurs, âAny special guests for the Fourth of July?âÂ
(He was so painfully obvious.)Â
âJack,â you warn, âWeâve spoken about this. Multiple times. We are free to see whoever we want to see. Thisââ you whisper with a finger pointing back and forth, ââIs fun. No strings attached, remember?âÂ
Jack holds his hands up, âPurely transactional.âÂ
âDonât put it like that.â you rub a palm against his chestâsomething that would be considered a little too affectionateâbefore a wicked smile graces your face, âYou know youâre my favourite.âÂ
âMake a guy feel special.âÂ
You retort, âCan you shut up for a sec?âÂ
The room falls silent again, aside from the faint hums from Trinity down the hallway. Jack can feel it as he waits, the weight against his chest that pushes the confession right up to the tip of his tongue; and this time, he canât hold it back.
âI havenât slept with anyone else.â Jack admits. You lift your head from listening out for the shower, you wear surprise on your features well and Jack is rendered to the shackles of regret. He attempts to smother it and fails.Â
You tread carefully, âJackâŚIââ panic burns your throat, ââYou know what this is supposed to be.â (Even if you wanted it just as bad)Â
âI know,â Jack swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, âSometimes I just think weâre better than all of this.âÂ
The shower hisses on.Â
âIâllâIâll see you at shift change.â you mumble with your eyes unfocused. Your hand comes to the doorknob when you hear the bathroom door softly click shut, âMaybe, go find someone to add to your roster.âÂ
That makes Jack eye twitch, he masks the sting with his lips pulled into a thin line, chest puffed when he steps around you since the green light to escape your room had been signalled. He usually had about thirty minutesâgive or takeâbefore Santos  left the sauna she creates in the bathroom with zero air circulation. Jack usually stretches his loitering time to twenty-five minutes; but in this instance; he cuts it down dramatically.Â
Another person to his roster. Jack wonders what length yours is at, if you suggest the same for him. Gorgeous, a tad smart-mouthed. He couldnât be mad if it reached the floor, per se, but there were some mixed feelings about it all.Â
He turns his head as you walk him to the front door, keys swinging around his finger, âIf you want me to do that, Iâll do it.âÂ
âYes.â you chirp, âI do. We need to drift apart a little.â (No, you didnât.)Â
Jack frowns and nods slowly. He doesnât kiss you goodbye, because thatâs the rulesâeven if he had broken them several times beforeâand you donât lean against the doorframe to wave him goodbye, up until the moment he disappears into the elevator. It was all a bit melancholy, as if you had just finalised a goodbye.Â
This feeling stayed with you, looming over your shoulder in the shower and as Trinity slides a cup of soup and sourdough bread over the kitchen countertop, sharing her two-cents about Whitaker and Amy. You chase the worry away beneath strained smiles and intermittent responses that has Santos look you up and down with that infamous curiosity that couldnât be shaken off. Â
âWhatâs up with you tonight?â She asks when she catches you staring at the front door.Â
You blink and straighten, âNothing. Iâve just got a lot of stuff on my mind.â Trinity tilts her head and a smile quirks on your face, âBabe, Iâm fine. JustâŚgoing to have an early night. Carpool tomorrow?âÂ
âSureâŚâ Santos agrees and you slide off the stool and pad towards your bedroom, looking once of your shoulder to see her thoughtfully chewing on a piece of soup sodden bread. She narrows her eyes, âIâm watching you, R-2.âÂ
âUh-huh, D-2.â you muse and bid her a goodnight.Â
You flop your weight onto the bed, face down in the tousled sheets from the previous rendezvous with Jack. A groan of frustration is smothered amongst it, your hand reaches out to blindly locate your phone that had been left on the bedside table.Â
The light from it makes your eyes blur before you focus on the notification from fifteen minutes ago.Â
The pad of your thumb slides to open it.Â
Jack (9:32pm): We doing this?Â
No. You think.Â
You (9:47pm): yup. get the roster going, abbot
You go to fling your phone, not expecting a response so soon. The phone vibrates in your hand.
Jack (9:49pm): Got it.Â
If it wasnât the text exchange last night that had your mood soured at the sound of your morning alarmâa different tune played to your sex time limit oneâit was the text you receive from Jack whilst the sun was still rising over the city of Pittsburgh.Â
It was about a female co-worker dressed in camouflage during the start of his SWAT shift. A hobby, he had told you. Jack let you in on the brief exchange he had with her, a sense of pride that he came across as interesting enough for her to hand over the digits to her phone number.
Roster, roster, roster. You had repeated to yourself as the pit in your stomach flourished at the thought; annoyed that the scent of him hadnât even disappeared off of your sheets before he was off on a woman-to-have-sex-with escapade.Â
Then the day went from bad, to downright worse. The water went cold halfway through your morning shower, you spilt coffee down the front of your scrubsâWhitaker offering you his abundance of spare pairs he had purchased since his first year of residencyâand then, as the three of you carpooled in your beat up sedan; symbols began to light up and flash all over the dashboard.Â
(You ignored it all the way to the PTMC car park.)Â
All of this shouldâve pointed to a bad omen. A premonition that your day was not going to get better, and the headache you were sporting was only going to get worse.Â
This Independence Day sucked.Â
Two additional residents, Joy and Ogilvie, were split between shadowing Whitaker, Santos and you. Joy was great. A bit macabre, but you two hit it off amongst the immediate shit-show that you had been flung into. Ogilvie? Tested your patience, knowledge and friendliness by stepping on your toes in front of patients and spewing out scripted knowledge at the worst of times.Â
He was strike one.Â
Then, as the day continued, the PTMC lost Louie Cloverfield to a pulmonary haemorrhage from the liver failure that had finally caught up to him. You stood by his bed in the Viewing Room, hand on the rails whilst Dr. Robby opened up about the secret family of Louieâs that he kept sacred to his heart.Â
That had been strike two. You adored Louie, the type of patient that made the end goal more palatable.Â
Strike three came in the form of camouflage and a bullet graze to the shoulder.
Dr. Jack Abbot entered the ED from the Ambulance Bay in a flurry of earthy tones and sweat. His attention on the patient he wheeled inâwho also adorned the SWAT uniformâthat had a high-velocity gunshot wound to the neck from a ropey shoot-out during a warehouse robbery; and was heading for respiratory failure fast.Â
âThat looks bad.â you mumble, more to yourself than to anyone as the SWAT officer wheels by you. Then in one swift move, youâre being guided into the fire by your Chief Attending, who was alsoâseeminglyâhaving the worst day of his life so far.Â
Robby cradles your elbow, âIt is. You can watch.â
âOh, goody.â you grouse, earning a chuckle from Dr. Robby. He guides you to stand across from Abbot and behind Dr. Al-Hashimiâa natural beauty with twinkling eyes and a good hair day.Â
And then, Robby decides to throw a bit of gasoline to the fire as he suits up to assist.
âScrubs are a little big on you?â he gestures to you with a nod, forehead wrinkles deep with judgement. You look down at your top and you were sorely reminded that you were sporting Whitakerâs scrubs that were doused in perfume to mask his scent. Robby tilts his head, gloves snapping at his wrists, âNot yours?âÂ
(What the fuck.)Â
You shuffle as you say, âUhâŚno. TheseâThese are Whitakerâs.âÂ
This earns a fleeting glance from Jack across the patient bleeding out from his throat on the gurney. The room swells with unspoken tension, something you canât address aside from widened-eyes and a prayer that Jack suddenly gained the power to read your mind. Itâs not what Dr. Robby is trying to insinuate, you promise in your head; Jack only frowns and returns his attention to the emergency beneath his fingers.Â
Robby passes you with amusement.
Shit-stirring bastard. His three-month sabbatical cannot come soon enough, you think.
They fly through in tandem with preventative measures to saveâyou soon learn, Officer Hiroâsâlife with an intubation, treating the transcended trachea with promptness prior to a visit to the OR. Dr. Al-Hashimi subjects you to a few quick fire questions and you succeed with flying colours and a sarcastic round of applause from Robby; all in fatherly-adjacent jest, of course.Â
You loiter, as you so often did when Jack was around. Fingers pinching the latex stuck to your hands, you find yourself peeling the gloves at a painfully slow pace with all the ambition to catch Jack for a conversation aboutâŚwell, his immediate succession in his roster.Â
Yes, you remind yourself as he matches his pace alongside Baranâs, you were the one to enforce it. It was the principle! Your bed wasnât even cold yet, and he was bounding around Pittsburgh in camo, finding other means for a good time.
Baran speaks first, âSWAT? Really?âÂ
âI suck at golf.â Jack retorts in a plain tone.Â
Baran goes onto briefly describe her humanitarian work in a severe conflict zone in Kabul. The whole time they talk, you think, what are the chances that the PTMC shook the state of Pennsylvania and a woman who had a similar history, and was visually astounding; fell right into Jack Abbotâs lap? Apparently not that slim.Â
You catch Jackâs eye over Dr. Al-Hashimiâs shoulder, which prompts him to state, âWe should grab a beer sometime, share war stories.â he tears his gaze from you to toss his own latex gloves into the biohazard binâalong with your pride, you suppose.
Baran affirms his beer-related question, a pretty smirk that radiates against her olive skin before taking her leave from the trauma room.Â
Itâs all very romantic.Â
Your attention miles away from maintaining spacial awareness, you bump shoulders with Dr. Robby who had been drawing up the procedure notes for Officer Hiroâs case. Itâs enough to halt his typing, an apology quick to form in your mouth from distrusting his flow.Â
He peers over the rim of his glasses at you, âYou seem distracted today.â Robby gives you the once over, âEverything alright?âÂ
âYes,â you say with a little shame behind it, âJust a little more observant of things going on today.âÂ
This earns an earnest chuckle from the back of Robbyâs throat, his head shakes, utterly impressed by your wit. He is fond of you, not in the same way that Jack has shown you fondness with his head ensnared between your thighs; but thereâs that familiar streak of softness when it comes to you. He begins to type the notes again and you risk the opportunity to peer over your shoulder to see Jack with his hands in his pockets, staring right back at you.
Robby cuts through to you, âCan we take our enhanced observance to another patient, perhaps?âÂ
âYes, boss.â you chirp with a two-finger salute and make a beeline for the doorârelief washes over you from escaping the roomâand Jack reaches to push the door open for you with one hand. Youâre feeling petty, and shoulder the door whilst you coolly say, âGot it, Dr. Abbot.âÂ
He retreats like a dog with his tail between his legs, the door swinging shut behind you, leaving you to miss the âOoh, brother.â taunt from Dr. Robby whilst you make way to the board of patients prepped and ready for treatment. You decide quickly that your head isnât ready for any of the list of ailmentsâdespite it being the sole reason that you were doing your residency at the PTMCâand choose the easier route of some charting before Robby or Dana chase you off.
The ED is hot and bursting at the seams with patients assigned from Westbridge, Jack has already designated two of his roster slots, and you were more thrown over it than youâd care to admit. You think of it all as you sit across from Santos at a workstation. She gives you a gesture of a gun to her temple and pulls the trigger; at least you could count on your roommate to be sorely relatable.Â
It takes all of three minutes for Santos to be pulled away from her own charting, in tow behind Dr. Al-Hashimi who takes on another patient through the sliding doors of the Ambulance Bay.
(Youâre ashamed enough to admit that you did duck your head below the monitor, in order to not be yanked from your seat.)Â
âYou probably shouldnât do that.â Abbotâs voice carries from close behind and you shoot upright. He idles up next to you, âYour gleaming recommendation just flew out those sliding doors.âÂ
You start typing alphabet soup up on a blank note, âI wasnât going to ask you to do it, anyway.âÂ
âOuch.â Jack sears in the juvenile burn, yet decides to stay putâhe kind of enjoys having you as a thorn in his side.Â
And you? You canât help but care. Your mind goes back to Jack expressing that he had a bullet graze his shoulder from being shot at amidst the warehouse robbery. So, you ask quietly, âAre you going to get your shoulder seen to?âÂ
Thereâs a pregnant pause.Â
âActually, I was going to askââÂ
âDr. Al-Hashimi? Sheâs busy with a seizing patient in Trauma Two. Sorry to break your heart.â your voice drips with false saccharine and you turn in your chair to continue your charting that had fallen behind. (Not enough to raise red flags for Al-Hashimi, but you were border-lining on it.)Â
It puts a good wedge between you and Jack, you think anyway. He steps away without a sarcastic retort, leaving you to watch as he rounds the workstation; all that fiery awfulness returns to your stomach, because you sounded outwardly ridiculous; like a jealous teenager.Â
Those days were supposed to be long gone.Â
The rest of the time spent at the workstationâ whilst intermittently ducking when someone like Baran or Ogivlie passâis as productive as expected. Charting becomes a blur, and not even a good gossip session with Princess and Perlah mend the bitterness moulding around your heart. The Fourth of July shift was truly shaping up to be top three of your worst shifts. The top being the PittFest shooting, of course.
Dr. Robby is the one that finds you, his finger gestures upward as he instructs, âUp.â
You oblige, not willing to fight the ticking time-bomb, and follow him through the ED as he explains a case that he wants you to take a hold of. It feels as if your attention span has settled back into place, until you pass theâwhat once wasâroom of Mr. Diaz; Dr. Samira Mohanâs patient. With the door open, you take in the scene of Jack shirtless and Samira tending to the bullet graze on his shoulder.Â
It throws you for a loop, even when it was clear to be an innocent assist on a hard-to-reach surface area of the body. Your steps stutter, the only saving grace of the immediate distraction was that Dr. Robby, too, bends a little to inspect the interaction happening between Mohan and Abbot.Â
The cherry on top was Samira gently promising âour little secret.âÂ
Thatâs where you cement the idea that taunting Jack Abbot to fall into bed with other women had, not only tremendously backfired, but unearthed the confirmation you had been seeking all along.Â
No strings attached.Â
It has you sulk for the next hour with Dr. Robby piling onto your patient load with every intention to push you to thrive under highly-pressured circumstances. In spite of your internalised turmoil over the Senior Attending, it doesnât reflect in your bedside manner, even after your cheek is sprayed with the collateral damage of a decompaction that was led by James Ogilvie with Whitaker on standby.Â
Santos is having her own version of a bad day, and you catch it in passing, the both of you linking pinkies with a squeeze before you go your separate ways; you to another patient with Joy, and Santos to the workstation to catch up on her charting and have a âroommateâ talk with Dr. Robby.
It proves effective as an imminent distraction from Jack to have your patient load increased, as well as having Joy as the say-it-how-you-see-it companion by your side.
You manage to fly through patients with concrete plans in place before you tip-toe back to the workstation to input your notes. Itâs then that the CEO, Trent Norris, Â emerges within the Pitt as a vision in offensively orange shorts and a crisp white shirt and the staff are gathered to be informed about the cyberattack identified at Westbridge.
Amongst his explanation and the occasional oohs and aahs from everyoneârather apt for the holidayâJack saunters up to stand across from you, and you are left to presume heâs doing it to distract you. Â
(He ultimately succeeds.)Â
His black t-shirt that replaced the uniform is taut against his chest and biceps, proves as an eye-catcher for someone like you. It presents his bodily assets well, and you have a hard time not fully dwelling on the sturdiness that lays beneath the cotton fabric. The CEOâs speech is merely background noise whilst you admire Jack like a piece of meat; something he catches onto quickly.Â
Jack lifts his chin and you swear he tenses the muscles in his arms on purpose.Â
You scoff and roll your eyes.Â
The non-verbal exchange is buried when Trent Norris advises that the computer systems are being preemptively shut down to prevent a cyberattack. The room descends into chaos and youâre sure that going analog may be the straw that breaks Michael Robinavitchâs backâŚjust in time for his three-month sabbatical.Â
Bodies move, blurry pictures are taken and Joy Kwon is labelled the saviour of the Pitt with her photographic memory.Â
You help where you can and maintain the cold-shouldered approach whenever Jack lingers around you long enough to provoke a reaction.Â
Itâs Santos that sheds light on it as your shredding filesâas if it were a two-man job.
âSoâŚAbbot, right?â Trinity tosses the ball in your court.Â
You smother the visceral reaction you have for something causal, âWhat about him?âÂ
âOh, come on, R-2. You really think Iâm deaf as well as blind? You two have been hooking up for, what, like three months now?â she remarks in a hushed tone, a quirk of her lip happens when you look exasperated, âItâs alright. Your secret is safe with me.âÂ
âWhat gave it away?âÂ
âThe sex-stopper alarms.â Santos responds.Â
You groan, âThose were mine. I calculated the times when you were at Garciaâs, or at the store and put a time limit to give us enough time to have him leave before you got home. It never really worked though. He called it weird.âÂ
Santos agrees.Â
You continue shredding for a minute until Santos strikes the topic of conversation again. (Curiosity never killed this cat.)Â
âIs he good?âÂ
You smack her with the papers in your hand, âTrinity Santos!â you seethe, heat prickling the back of your neck and ears in mortification. You mull it over, ââŚHeâs exceeded all expectations, actually.âÂ
âI knew he would.â Trinity mutters, âThe older ones usually have more experience with that stuff. If they care.âÂ
âYeah, well, I think it has reached its final stages of life.â you admit sourly, your shoulders drop in a concoction of reliefâin being able to openly talk about it with Trinityâand defeat, because Jack Abbot was slipping through your fingers from your own doing. âItâs a no strings attached thing, and he told me last night he hadnât slept with anyone else. IâUgh, I panicked and told him he needs to add a few more women to his roster.âÂ
Santos nods, âWhichâŚisnât what you wanted.âÂ
âNot really.â you vocalise for the first time, âI meanâHe has every right to. In fact, heâs had no issue wracking them up and I didnât think it would bother me as much as it has, you know?âÂ
âProbably because you have feelings for him, dumbass.â Santos cuts the fat out of the conversation. She looks to you, âWhat? Are you seriously telling me you donât have feelings for him? Have you slept with anyone else during this?âÂ
The answer was no. The crux of the matter was that you also had not slept with a single person other than Jack Abbot after the first night you had sex together in the back of his car. You liked Jack, a lot more than you had been letting on, and when he mirrored your own actions with an admission that he hadnât touched another person intimately; well, that was grounds for commitmentâsomething that terrified you.Â
Jack was good. He took care of himself by going to therapy, whilst taking care of others in his workplace and on the side with you. Heâd kiss you with a purpose, and touch you in ways that felt like you mattered. In the grand scheme of things, Jack Abbot was a segment in your life that brought all that goodness from a relationship without it being a real, tangible commitment.Â
The lines became blurry to you when his absence was met with hollowness; and you longed for that goodness to stay around for a while. (Maybe even overnight.)Â
The thought made your stomach churn.Â
You place the papers onto the desk beside you, and excuse yourself under the guise of fresh air in the Ambulance Bay. Only, you make a beeline for your favourite hiding spot within the PTMC: the supply cupboard for the cleaners.Â
Itâs cool, itâs dark. It doesnât have that invasive overhead light like the other rooms in the ED do.Â
Ten minutes go by before the door to the cupboard opens and you jump at the chance to make it seem as if you had been in search of a particular item on the shelves.Â
On your tiptoes, your fingers siphon through the stock; only hesitating when the door shuts behind you with a soft click.Â
You turn. Jack is stood with you.Â
âTag,â he prods you with a finger, âYouâre it.âÂ
A sigh escapes your lips, âWhat do you need, Jack? Iâm sort of in the middle of somethingâŚâÂ
âA stocktake of the supply cupboard?â he muses, âWhatâs going on with you today?âÂ
âJust..having an off day.âÂ
Jack sniffs, âA bad day, huh. In Whitakerâs scrubs.â
You turn on your heel, âWhat is that supposed to mean?â
âIs that some sort of claim? Is heâAre you twoâŚâ Jackâs voice drifts off awkwardly as he finds his footing in his words, âIs Whitaker part of your roster?âÂ
You gawk, âWhitaker? Heâs my roommate.â you fold your arms across your chest in defence, âPlus, you have no room to talk about claims here. Mohan?â
âMohan?â Jack recalls as his eyes search your face, âWhat about her?âÂ
âI saw you two!â you declare with a hot strike of jealousy that does not get swept under the radar. You continue, âYou donât think Iâm capable of helping with a bullet grazeâor, or have a shared beer?âÂ
It goes quiet.Â
Jackâs chest rumbles with amusement and you turn in frustration to glare at him.Â
âShit.â he drawls, âIs that why youâve been chewing my ass all day?âÂ
âNo.â Was the easier route for your deeply rooted stubbornness, you turn your head to the side and mumble, âIâm just giving examples of my capability.âÂ
âCapability.â Jack repeats. He raises a valid question in the next breath, âNot using either as an example, but isnât this part of what you asked of me? Do some drifting, add a couple of people to the so-called roster?âÂ
You cringe, âYes. But, I didnât expect you to be so vigilant with it.âÂ
The smug grin from the night prior returns to his face as he tilts his head, âIf weâre speaking statistics, I only have one from SWAT. How many do you have, sweetheart? Other than me?âÂ
His tauntingâas well as the humidity of the roomâdraws the confession out of you like a clean tooth extraction. Â
âNo one,â Jackâs smile ebbs with immediate realisation. âI havenât slept with anyone either. I just panicked when you also said it, because that makes usââ you gesture between the two of you, ââOn track to something more than regular hookups. Something real and tangible.âÂ
Jack scratches the skin behind his ear nervously, âIt doesnât have to be, if you donât want that.âÂ
âThatâs it, Jack. I do want it. I want the consistent good thing whilst staying the night or, you know, without alarms.â you blurt it out like word-vomit, all over the front of Jack who takes the confession chunder on the chinâdespite the emotional whiplash from the past 24 hours.Â
Jack inhales sharply, âWhatâŚis with your generation and not being upfront?âÂ
âMy generation?â you gawk and toss your hand out in front of you, âWhat about yours? I thought you guys were all for tossing your jackets over puddles for us. You havenât exactly been upfront either, Jack.âÂ
âYou want me to toss my jacket over the puddle youâve made crying over me in this damn supply cupboard?â Jack decides to tease, which makes you narrow your eyes at him. He takes a step into your space, his voice low as he speaks, âWe both agree weâre better than the hookupsânot that they havenât been greatâbut we can do the in the middle stuff. Iâll take you for a beer, you can patch me up after a day at my hobby. Iâll even stay the night.âÂ
He looks to you for confirmation.Â
You pick at imaginary lint on his t-shirt, âOkayâŚâÂ
âYeah?â Jack dips his head to meet your eyes, warming instantaneously when you catch his gaze, âSounds like fun.âÂ
âNo more roster.â you canât think straight, dizzy from the supply cupboard confessional.Â
Jack smooths the crease between your brow, âAre you kidding me? Youâre like lightening in a bottle. Didnât need that roster shit. Which, by the way, wouldâve been easy for a guy like me to muster up.â he then adds as you revolt, âIf I cared. But I didnât.â
(All bad feelings and the three strikes throughout the day relinquish in that moment.)Â
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his cotton t-shirt, his own warm hands coming to hold them in place for a moment. You could lean up and kiss him, itâd be reckless but exhilarating; much like the secret keeping from your two roommates and the entire PTMC, if they cared to look in your direction.Â
Jack nudges your nose with his own and smiles before pulling away, âAlright. No kissing on company time. I want to show you how this fax machine works.âÂ
You exit the supply cupboard five minutes apart, and you spend the entirety of Jackâs explanation of how the fax machine works with your chin in your palm; radiant from the sudden breakthrough between the pair of you.Â
Itâs only when Santos passes you, does it really seep into your bones.Â
She dips her head and jokes, âIâll make myself scarce tonight. Heard the two of you are in the holiday spirit.â
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synopsishi again(im gonna be so annoying with this). i had some voices whisper into my ear about a shared tattoo with jack abbott and wife(pediatrics doctor?) reader? reader and jack having two tattoos. one that everyone would see and the other where only the two of them would. and what if, their marriage is like not known to everyone except for Robby and Dana(?hehehe) request!
warningstattoo talk? general hospital stuff, language, making out, smut-ish
authornotein honour of tom holland and zendaya coming back to screen soon i dedicate the tattoo's to them. i had soooo much fun writing this, i can't believe i'm slowly moving into being a jack girlie. ignore the fact that Jack is for some reason in day shift. this one's for @expreissionism
My Pitt masterlist. other Jack fic!
The first time the Pittlings made the connection they thought nothing of it. Some ink swirled around the skin of two doctors wasn't anything, many of them had tattoos themselves.
Doctor McKay had the sort she got in collage and regretted, Robby had one or two that meant something to him, that he'd find himself tracing in times of despair. Doctor Santos had lost count of how many she had and what they all meant.
Javadi herself was pretty terrified at the idea of putting a sharp needle to skin. She was afraid of the permanence of it. The pain.
And her mother finding out.
That was until she spotted yours.
âYou have a tattoo,â she noted standing behind you, paying close attention to how you examined the boy in front of you.
You nodded like you weren't trying to listen close down your stethoscope as you asked the boy to breathe in, listening at his back. âI do.â
âThat's... really cool,â she said.
You smiled, small. âThank you.â
Javadi watched your wrist move and arm flex as you put the stethoscope back around your neck, holding onto it either end. She'd called you down for a pedes case but was finding herself distracted by the beauty of the ink on you.
There were hard strokes of black and lighter ones, all drawn around in swirls that came together to make a sun. She thought it looked like the sun from tangled- one of her favourite movies. But you were a grown woman. Maybe you liked the movie as much as she did.
Javadi shook off the idea as you stood, telling the parents what you found. A small crackle in his breathing but as he'd been down with a flu and fever it might not mean anything terrible. Kept for observation and some blood work was ordered before the two of you were slipping away.
âWhat does it mean?â asked Victoria, hot on your heels as you walked to the nurses station. âThe-the sun, I mean? Not crackles in the chest, I-I know that.â
You chuckled, tapping in to chart. Although you worked floors above on the pedes ward, your vintage disney top under the lab coat representing that, you were down enough on emergency and trauma cases to be a familiar and welcome face.
âOh, you know,â you said, balancing your elbow on the table and checking on the ink. Your lips quirked at looking at it. âJust a little sun, for brightness and stuff.â
Javadi thought it was fitting. You were a sunshine person, hopeful and kind, like a ray of light in the depths of hell she called the ED. She supposed it came with the job, having to be the hope for the sick children.
Everyone down the Pitt could afford to be miserable, with a good enough excuse in working in the emergency department. You were with kids, helping them and their parents through anything minor to the worst days of their lives.
âKinda, look to the light, kinda thing?â Victoria asked.
You slowly glanced up at her, finding a new perspective. âYeah. I like that take.â
âWell, well, well,â said a hoarse voice coming closer to the two of you.
Beyond Javadi you looked past her.
Jack Abbot casually strolled over, hands behind his back, arms pulled in tight muscles and freckles in his dark scrubs. âYou know, you're down here so often anyone would think you're after a Pedes attending job.â
You rose a brow, challenging him. âAre you offering?â
âOh yeah, anything to keep sunshine down here.â
You rolled your eyes playfully, leaving Javadi to look between the two of you. She hadnât realised the two of you knew each other so well.
Sure, you were the first everyone went to for a pedes case but how often was that?
âSunshine! Thatâs funny,â said Javadi, standing between the two of you
Jack rose a brow. âIt is?â
âYeah- yeah,â she said with a clear of her throat. âCauseâ- she has a sunshine tattoo.â
Jacks lips quirked up to a smirk. âReally?â
You leaned over the counter, chin resting in the palm of your hand. âYeah. Got it some time ago.â
âIs it somewhere PG-13?â He asked.
âWell to know that youâd have to buy me a drink first.â
âI plan to.â
The two of you shared a smirk.
Suddenly, Victoria thought she was stuck in the middle of something.
It was Whitaker who discovered it next.
He was working with Abbot and Shen on a patient in trauma one, still waiting for the feeling in his feet to return to him after a twelve hour shift. But he wanted to see this patient through first, even if he could have left now the night crawlers had swept in.
He was shooting an x-ray for the guy in a car crash, checking his ribs after being found pressed up against his steering wheel.
Somewhere else you were stitching up his young daughter.
âThe car came from nowhere,â fretted the patient, wincing with every breath. âI swear- I swear!â
âDonât you worry, sir, weâre gonna get you sorted,â assured Jack, peeling off his jacket and replacing it with a vest.
âIs my- is my daughter okay?â
âShe just needed a couple stitches,â said Denis.
Jack stretched up, moving the x-ray machine over the patient. âDonât worry, your daughter is in the best hands. They lumped you with the second best, Iâm afraid.â
The patient gave a huff of a laugh that evidently hurt more than anything.
âOkay⌠shooting!â
Everyone without a vest backed away.
It was at that moment as Jack hovered shooting the x-ray that Whitaker got his first glance at some ink peeking out from his wrist. His watch hid most of what Denis could make out as a tattoo but he thought it strange that Robby should have his own tattoo also typically hidden behind his watch.
Robby and Jack always called themselves brothers, from their years of friendship and shared experiences in the Pitt.
He just hadnât realised they were that close.
The x ray was quickly done and the machine pushed away as everyone focused on stabilising the man.
A couple broken ribs, a severely bruised chest.
An OR was free to check on any internal bleeding, get the chest sorted.
The doors pushed open and you walked in, a maybe eight years old propped on your hip, little arms hugging around your neck.
Jackâs lips tilted up at once. âSecond visit in one day, upstairs must be boring.â
âWell we do like to call this place the circus,â you teased. âThis is Mr Peters daughter, she wanted to check in on her daddy.â
Jack tugged off his gloves and Whitaker watched as he approached you and the little girl. âYour daddy is doing fine, heâs strong. I reckon just as strong as you. Heâs gonna go upstairs for a closer look but you can go with him, if you like?â
The girl hid her head closer into your shoulder, mumbling something that Whitaker could just about make out.
âWill you come up with me?â Sheâd asked you.
You bounced her gently. âCourse. Upstairs is where all the fun is anyway.â
Jack hummed. âHm. She has the best candy too.â
Whitaker watched the young girls eyes light up.
As a team from surgery came to drag the father away you followed behind with the daughter in arms, Abbot and Whitaker following out and taking a moment to watch the crowd dissapear.
âDid good in there, Whitaker,â said Abbot, the both of them tearing off their gowns and gloves.
âThanks,â he said. The both of them went separate ways. Oddly enough, Jack was following in the steps of the team that took up the man and his daughter.
Doctor Robby wondered over, sliding into his seat. If even one of his day shift was left, so was he. It was his own morale code to not go till everyone on day had, Denis was learning.
âHey,â greeted Denis. âYou know I had no idea you and Abbot had matching tattoos.â
âHuh, yeah...â said Robby of absent-mind as he watched the computer. It took him a second to register what he was saying and look up. âWait, what did you say?â
Suddenly Whitaker felt like he'd said the wrong thing, seeing his attending look over his glasses at him. Maybe nobody was supposed to know? Maybe it was super personal? Or it was a stupid drunk choice they were both trying to forget and he'd just brought it up.
âOh god, I didn't, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-â
Robby scratched at his beard. âJack and I do not have matching tattoos.â
âOh.â
âWhat made you think that?â he asked. âDid someone... say something?â there was something akin to mischief in his eyes, alight.
âNo! No! I just- I saw something that looked like a tattoo under where he keeps his watch, and I know you have one there too. Or- well- don't know but I've- I've seen-â
âYeah, yeah I've got one there,â said Robby, looking back to the computer bored. âSo does Jack. His is a moon. Mine's something to do with my grandmother.â
âA moon? Oh.â
Somewhere beyond Whitaker, past his shoulders, Victoria passed by, catching the conversation.
A moon on one. A sun on another. Interesting.
Samira was only looking for her patient when she found a shirtless Jack Abbot hiding behind the curtain with you standing behind him.
Both your heads shot up when the whirl of the curtain pulled back.
âOh. I'm sorry,â said Samira. She was only momentarily shocked at Jack shirtless, SWAT gear discarded in the corner and the typical pedes case worker standing behind him, working on a bad obviously over eighteen.
Jack tried to shrug his shoulders but came away wincing. âS'alright.â
âHave you guys seen my patient?â she asked, going on to describe him.
âNo, sorry. This room was empty,â you said, rolling a q-tip along Jack's shoulder blade. âAnything you need help with?â
Samira deflated, taking a seat on the chair in the corner of the room. She was feeling sorry for the patient she couldn't get to in time she didn't realise the look you and Jack shared, one of mutual agreement of apprehension.
âWhat happened to you?â Samira asked.
âHe got shot,â you said.
âYou were shot?â
Jack made a 'pfft' noise at the two of you. âShot at. It was nothing. Hardly a graze.â
You scoffed, reaching over for some bandage and applying it to the wound. âI'll be the judge of that.â
âYou my doctor now?â asked Jack.
You bit back a smirk. âSomeone has to be.â
Samira had worked with Abbot a handful of times, you maybe more on cases with children that required delicate matters. She never realised the two of you were close enough to tease. Close enough that you would be the first person he runs to for help.
Curious, Samira walked around Jack, standing on the other side of his bed as you showed her the wound.
âOh. Ouch.â
âSee?â you said with a raise of your brows.
Jack's freckled arms crossed over his chest in protest.
âYou have a chart?â asked Mohan.
âNo,â you said. âWe're keeping this off the chart.â
Samira nodded, lips quirking. We?
âDon't need the paperwork from the hospital,â said Jack. âGot big plans tonight, can't have paperwork getting in the way.â
âBig plans?â asked Mohan.
Jack hummed in affirmation.
With your careful bandages around his shoulder he stood and reached for his shirt on the side.
It wasn't just a quick glimpse Samira got of where another tattoo lied. It was a long look as Jack made work at pulling over his navy shirt overhead. At the ache in his shoulder you helped pull it over him and he didn't object, he let you help him like it was natural.
But just under his armpit, on the side of his chest there was a clear stroke of black ink in the curves and strikes of a letter. Just one simple there, no bigger than a finger nail next to his heart.
âAll good to go solider,â you said, rubbing his un-injured shoulder.
âThank you, Doc.â
You smirked. âDon't go straining yourself this evening.â
Jack chuckled, low in his throat. âI make no promises.â
It was only when watching the two of you leave that the hole in her heart for her own devoid love life sung with something other that sorrow. With hope and joy. It was only when she noticed Jack's hand linger on the small of your back as he leaned into say something to you that she realised the slope of the letter at his chest matched the very first letter of your name.
A week later and slowly Samira was forgetting the whole thing. Not forgetting the patient that had ran out on her but forgetting the state she found Jack in, forgetting how you helped him and the letter etched into his skin.
She hadn't told anyone either, because what business of others was it.
It wasn't even hers.
Maybe Jack knew someone in the army had the same initial as you. Maybe it was his mothers name. It didn't have to be yours. It was only seeing him shirtless, seeing you with him that had her thinking of you, she was sure.
But a week later she was brought back to that room.
âWoah- what happened to you?â Robby chuckled as you walked through the ED, a mixture of bodily fluids over your scrubs.
âEmergency c-section, twins,â you said. âI had no time for a gown.â
Robby's smile creased as you squelched closer. Your blue scrubs, typically a baby blue, was dyed darker due to blood, amniotic fluids and what he guessed might have been urine. âThey didn't call OB?â
âOB was busy, apparently.â
âApparently?â he asked, tablet in hand as he followed next to you as you walked to the scrub bin. You walked, arms slightly raised to not let them drop. Robby walked close but not close enough to touch the mess of you.
âSomeone in OB has it out me.â
âEvil ex?â
âYeah, one of yours,â you teased.
âOuch.â
âI'm cranky.â
âI can tell.â
Santos and Samira were on a case together but stopped when they got a look at you. âWoah, what happened? A pile up?â
âDon't ask,â you grumbled.
From behind you Robby mouthed 'twins' and both knew not to say anymore.
âYou know we have gowns for such messy procedures,â said Trinity.
You flashed her a grimace. âYou're funny, Santos, must get it from this guy,â you said, slapping Robby in the chest as you stood in front of the scrub bins. However, as an official upstairs pedes resident you didn't have authority for more scrubs. âIs Jack around?â
âNo,â said Robby, tapping his own ID cared on the pad and getting you an order of scrubs.
âThanks.â
Samira wondered, briefly why you asked for Jack when it was probably easier to find some woman for your size. Like herself, for instance.
But in seconds you were pulling off your scrub top, leaving you only in a bra. Your scrub pants were next but you had a thin pair of leggings underneath. No one batted an eyes, except maybe Robby who cleared his throat and turned away, hypothetically hiding you behind his back.
âThanks again, Robby,â you said, gaining his new scrubs.
âNo problem,â he said, leaning over to you. âBut you can bring this up to Jack,â he added in a mummer that Mohan just caught.
As you reached up, pulling the scrub top over you Samira caught it again. It was a smaller trace, a think line but there with no doubt.
A simple J in black ink in almost the exact spot as Jack had one of his own.
âIs that-â Mohan didn't get the words out before your scrub top was pulled over, swallowing you from Robby's scrub.
Robby and you looked to her as you pulled on the pants. âWhat?â
They were all looking at her, expectantly.
âNo, nothing, it was nothing.â
âOkay, then.â
But now there was a knowing in there. That she didn't believe in coincidences, not when they were etched into skin.
âYou look lovely.â Jack crept up behind you, his voice falling upon your ears with his head quick over your shoulder. He was like hot breath on a glass, there and gone the next second.
You understood why. Knew it had been easier to keep it quiet when things were fresh, yet, things had moved on from new and simple a long time ago and neither of you made to say it. Did you get a banner? Make a public announcement? You had no idea how to do it.
Keeping it on the low was all you knew how to do.
And anyhow, it made things far more exciting.
âThank you,â you said, passing him a quick smile.
Jack hummed, crowding next to you at the station, leaning an arm on the counter and looking you up and down. âYou'd look even better in scrubs that were mine.â
Your eyes rolled. âThey're Robby's-â
âRobby's-â he scoffed, shaking his head.
âI had a messy C-section and it was this or several bodily fluids.â
âI'd have rather bodily fluids,â he said.
You hummed. âYou think that but then you see me and you'd think different.â
âOh, yeah?â
You turned your attention onto him, knowing he wouldn't give it up till he had it all. It was something about Jack and un-divided attention, he thrived on it. Giving it to you, or taking it from you. He needed it like sustenance. âThink wet. Think baby fluids that should be in a body on me. Think blood. And probably puke on there somewhere too- I don't even know how.â
âAnd I bet you still looked beautiful,â he said.
âI wouldn't be so sure about that,â you chuckled.
âI would.â
His hand crept up to your ribs, holding there. As if he was anaesthetic himself, his touch was soothing.
He held over where your initial of his name was, just as you did with him where yours was. It still felt fresh though the ink was imbedded into skin for almost a year now.
It was the soft knowledge of carrying each other closer than you already did. Working in the same building wasn't enough, falling asleep next to each and waking up next to each other wasn't enough but the soft initial of each others name might just have been.
Even if it weren't romantical (which it certainly was) the two of you had at least always respected each other in the work setting. It was a bond running deeper than blood, than respect, than love.
Something the people hadn't come up with a word for yet.
Robby passed by the two of them. âI thought you two were being discreet.â
âWe are,â you said, you and Jack turning to face Robby as he took his space behind the nurses desk.
âHe's all but holding your breast,â said Robby.
âPhysical exam,â Jack shrugged. âAnd I thought I told you to stop making moves on my woman.â
Robby held up his hands in surrender. âI don't want any funny business in my scrubs,â he warned, s sharp look past his glasses at the two of you.
Jack quirked his lips, pretending his innocence. âWe'll change into mine.â
You smacked his shoulder.
âHey,â said Robby, leaning on the counter next to you as if you were all gossiping nurses and not different attendings in your own rights. âYou know, Whitaker thinks we have matching tattoos,â he said, nodding to Jack.
You laughed, tilting your head down.
âOh yeah, I have an R over my heart,â he teased.
Robby scoffed. âYeah and I got a J on my-â
You looked pointed at them both. âDon't you have jobs to get to?â
Robby surrendered and headed off, making himself busy.
Upstairs would need you soon enough too, there was only so much time you could leave your pedes ward alone. Your hands were gentle on Jacks, squeezing lightly.
Meaning to let go, Jack squeezed and pulled you back.
âJack? Woah- what- where are we going?â
His thumb worked up and down the back of your hand as he dragged you off. He found an empty room, checking the room before closing the door and pulling the curtains around.
âJack!â
His hands found their ways up Robby's shirt on your body, pulling at the skin of your waist and drawing you in till he was kissing you, open-mouthed. It was as if he hadn't kissed you that morning, hadn't stole a make out in the car before heading in, hadn't text you in his spare five minutes that he wasn't thinking about you.
He grinned into the kiss, licking into your mouth.
As bad as it was, stealing a kiss in an empty exam room, your hands wound up to his hair, tugging at the strands. Your body curled into his as his hands moved from under your shirt to over, pulling at it.
âTake this off.â
Biting back a smirk you pulled it off you as Jack leant down to kiss at your neck. He bit and sucked, dedicating time to one mark that would be a tattoo on your neck.
Jack was obsessed with marking you, considering you tried you best to be secret.
This wasn't very secret.
âJack,â you moaned, own hands clawing at his shirt.
He pulled back long enough to toss his off. âWhen we're done here... when I've made you come on my fingers,â he uttered next to your ear, breath hot. âYou're gonna put my scrub top on, you understand?â
Your lips pursed and nodded.
Jack pulled back enough, lips ghosting yours. âYeah, baby?â
âYeah,â you whined.
âYeah.â
His lips crashed into yours again with fire like need. Hie entire body moved over yours, hands steady on your hips to bring you in. You were stumbling around the room, trying to find a wall or bed.
âGod,â Jack whined at your lips. âI could eat you.â
He kissed down your neck, over your chest and leant to press a kiss over his initial. He'd been there when you'd gotten it done, as you had when he got his. The two letters in each others hand writing.
Jack came back up and kissed you again before the door sprung open.
âRoom three's open why's nobody-â
Jack jumped in front of you like jumping in front of a bullet for you, his arms fell on either side of you, caging you in behind him.
A woman was sat on a gurney, eyes wide at the two of you.
Dana was leading the charge, Mohan, Whitaker and Santos following and eyes falling wide, jaws agape at the sight of you.
Robby walked past, shaking his head and- taking one look at Jack- decided it wasn't a HR nightmare he could deal with.
âWe were just...â said Jack, hesitating. âDoing a physical.â
Dana smirked. âI'll say.â
âSorry, we'll just-â you apologised.
The two of you fumbled with scrub tops but Jack still found enough time in the mess to pass you his own scrub top and take Robby's himself. In sheepish moves the two of you moved by the group, catching only a couple words.
âDid you see those tattoo's?â said Samira.
âEach others inititals, right?â
âHow longs this been going on for?â
Jack threw his arm over your shoulder, bringing you in close and peppering a kiss to your forehead. âGuess we told them, huh?â
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, AFAB reader, unprotected (PIV) sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), (planned) pregnancy, hurt/comfort, implied age gap (jack is in his early forties. readerâs age is unspecified), original characters (that are awful humans), military inaccuracies, canon divergence, happy ending
authorâs note: this is set before jack is an attending at PTMC and during his time in the military, before the would-be injury that led to his below-the-knee amputation. also set around christmas time because i started this over a year ago and just now decided to finish it up and kick it out of the drafts, so if my writing reads worse differently, itâs because it is! no, i donât want kids. yes, reader is pregnant by the end. we exist.
The arrivals parking lane is crowded. Bodies move left to right, back and forth, searching for their loved ones or their rideshares as they exit the terminal.Â
The air is charged with the nervous anticipation of getting home before the rush of lunchtime traffic and the pileup of December snow expected later this evening.
You take a look outside your curbside window at the sidewalk between the terminal exit and the pickup lane. A patch of grass there, with dying strands jutting out from the snow, makes you think of the garden back home.
Itâs just as lifeless. You tried to winterize the stalks of broccoli, chard, and spinach you had been given as seeds from a friend, but it all ended up dying. The garden was the last bit of life you had besides your own left in the house, and even with your best effort, you couldnât keep it alive.
Present. Just like someone else.
Youâre so nervous to see him again that youâre nearly hyperventilating, fogging up the glass. You crack it open a bit. The earthy scent of the grass, caked with dirty snow, even from afar, makes you wrinkle your nose.
You spot him walking out the exit directly across from where youâre parked, and you have to convince yourself not to jump out of the car and run into his arms.
Jack.
He stops just outside the exit, sees the familiar shape of your car, and smiles wide when he catches your eyes through the window, his gleaming. You can tell from his physical appearanceâdark under-eyes and mussed hair and a loose grip on his luggage and how he walks toward you, slowly and with a heavy gaitâthat heâs exhausted from his travels.
Nevertheless, being the good soldier he is, Jack walks in a straight line, keeping his posture just as straight, to accomplish his mission: getting to you before he collapses into the pillowy heaps of snow shoveled to either side of him.Â
Heâs a few feet away from the car door when you step out to greet him, closing it behind you.
He drops his luggage and wraps his arms around your waist, pressing himself tightly to your form, pushing you back against the car door. You return his hug just as easily. Heâs all muscle. Solid. Youâre already thinking of recipes to cook to get some more fat on him. A few deep inhales of the skin on his neck, and you donât recognize his scentâa combination of time apart and the places heâs been without you, seemingly having obscured the scent you have come to know as being distinctly his.
Jack begrudgingly lets you go after a few seconds, and you lightly pull at the tuft of curls at his nape. Itâs slightly overgrown. You also make a mental note to help him trim it later.
You look into his hazel-green eyes, and they meet yours with the same intensity. Tears pool at your lash line, and you see them in his eyes before you feel them rolling hot down your face. Jack wipes them away with the pads of his thumbs, smiling softly at you.Â
âLetâs go home, sweetheart.âÂ
You only nod in response.
Jack refuses to let you drive both of you back home, so now youâre in the passenger seat, looking at him. Or more like staring.
Time is a devilish thing. No matter how many times you try to memorize the lines on his face or the blemishes that make him Jackâyour Jackâyouâre surprised to be reminded of them. Not only does your sense of smell fail you, but so does your sight. Your memory.
Itâs been eleven months. Eleven months since heâs been home. Nearly a year since youâve shared a laugh, a meal, a bed. Heâs back now, though, for a dwell time of a year, and you plan to make the most of it.
His palm rests lightly over your tattered jeans, his warmth seeping in through the thinning material. You shiver from the cold and his touch, and you twist the dial on the climate control to turn up the heat.
You wouldâve dolled up more before seeing him, but you were only headed to the airport to pick him up, and he rather likes seeing you like this. Casual and comfortable.
He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the back of it, your wedding band ice-cold against his face.
âHow have you been?â he asks, facing the road ahead of him.
âHow have you been, Jack?â you ask right back. âIâm worried about you. The last time you came back, you wereââ
ââIâm good. Trust me, sweetheart. Iâm okay. Iâm sorry I scared you last time, though. I donât ever mean to let my darkness weigh you down.â
You sigh. âNo, no. Donât apologize. I always want to know when youâre not okay. But you need to tell me. Donât keep everything bottled inside.â
âI know. You wonât have to worry anymore. Promise.â He gives you a quick glance, the corner of his lip ticking up.Â
A few seconds pass in silence. You donât know how to continue the conversation. You could never quite get over the bit of initial awkwardness upon Jackâs arrival back from his service, even after all these years together.Â
Luckily, Jack fills the gap for you.Â
âWhatâve you been up to all this time?â he asks, genuinely curious.Â
The floodgates open, and you start to mindlessly run through everything youâve been occupying your time with over the past eleven months.
Youâre a teaching aide at an elementary school. With no kids and the money Jack makes from years of being in the service, you donât need to work, but it keeps you busy. And itâs fulfilling. You love working with the little balls of sunshine day in and day out. Otherwise, you keep the house tidy and enjoy a myriad of hobbies, ranging from reading to visiting friends to killing the garden in the backyard.
Itâs a simple but nice life.
The only thing that could make it better is if Jack could spend it with you.
Heâs already served his twenty-year sentenceâor rather, commitmentâand was able to retire from the service four years ago. He said he would retireâpromised, in factâbut instead, he extended his assignment for another four years, something about not being ready to let go. The contract is almost up again, but you havenât asked him what he plans to do. You donât have it in you to rehash that argument right now.Â
All you recall from the day he left for deployment was deafening silence and a pitiful look as he walked out the doorâas if you were the one being unreasonable for being as upset as you were.Â
You didnât reach out to each other for those first few months he was overseas. But thatâs how itâs always been. You get upset when he leaves, distance yourself, get lonely. Then you reach out again for a connection, a lifeline, to him, through rare phone calls and the occasional letter. And the cycle repeats.
Jack joined the army at eighteen, and itâs been a foundational part of his identity. Itâs not easy to cut ties with the part of your life thatâs stitched you together, even if you and your loved ones are suffocating because of it.
He listens to you drone on, grinning softly the entire time. You know heâs tiredâprobably too tired to hear what youâre sayingâbut if he wants you to stop, he makes no sign of it.
âAnd thatâs pretty much everything.â
âThank you for filling me in, sweetheart. Iâm sorry I couldnât make your friendâs wedding. You know how I love them. Weâre almost there. Do you have anything in mind for plans tonight?â His hand is still on your thigh, but itâs inched up closer to your core over the past few minutes while you were rambling. Cheeky bastard.
âNot really. Iâm going to prepare dinner, and we can catch up more. Does that sound good?â
âThat sounds perfect.â
The rush of heat blasts your face as you open the oven again, checking on the chocolate torte youâre baking. Decadent notes of chocolate, hazelnut, and melted butter escape as the hinges creak.
Youâre impatient tonight. You want Jackâs first meal back home to be absolutely amazing. Enough that he reconsiders re-enlisting just so he canât part from the thought of your home-cooked meals.
Normally, youâre a patient person, both when it comes to cooking food and when waiting for Jack to come home from deployment.
But as time stretches on, itâs gotten more and more difficult to differentiate between anguished longing and eager awaiting. No spouse handbook ever prepared you for how lonely you would feel when he was gone. The winter months, when holiday cheer should bring you joy, only seem to make the loneliness worse.
And the worry. The worry that one day there might not be anyone to wait for.Â
Your friends, family, and job fill the gaps in your heart while heâs away, serving the country as a combat medic, but it isnât enough.Â
You have thought, once, about leaving him. Not because you didnât love him, but because youâd have rather left with hope for something easier, lighter on your soul, than stayed in between a rock and a hard place.
You wipe your hands on your apron, though theyâre dry, calming your frayed nerves.
Braised short ribs lie in a baking pan along with a healthy helping of gravied mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus in separate containers. You arenât used to making so much food, as you usually eat alone most nights.
Another five minutes and the torte should be ready.
Jack walks into the kitchen after having woken up from a light nap. He rested for about twenty minutes, but itâs better than nothing and more than he has in the past year.
You hear him approaching but hesitate to turn around, eyes fixed on the timer, counting down the minutes left. One look away and suddenly it will be thirty minutes later and your torte will be burnt to a nice crisp.
Jack grumbles your name, his voice gruff from sleep, mere inches from you now. He hugs you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist. His nose is pressed to your neck, and he takes a deep breath in.
âYou smell so good.â
You chuckle, resting your hands over his. âItâs all the food I made. But thatâs a good sign, right?â
Jack spins you suddenly, and you gasp. He slaps your ass lightly and squeezes the sides of your waist, pushing you back to sit on the countertop. Hopping on, your legs wrap around his middle, and he kisses you. Softly, almost scared, as if youâll disappear at a momentâs notice. Your arms circle his neck.
âIâve missed you so much. I think this is the most Iâve missed you. And thatâs saying something,â Jack whispers, breaking the kiss and nearly choking up. Your eyes follow the trail of saliva that breaks apart when he licks his lips.
âIâve missed you too. More than you know.â You canât help the few tears that start flowing again.
Jack takes a second to admire your teary eyes and pouty lips.Â
Youâre beautiful when youâre cryingâcrying for himâbut guilt tugs at his heartstrings because he knows why. Heâs left you too long this time. But thatâs going to change. Heâs just not ready to tell you yet. It hasnât even sunk in for him that heâs really doing itâheâs retiring. He needs time to process, to figure out how to tell you in a way that youâll believe this time.
When his retirement papers were processed and approved a few months ago, it felt like he could breathe again. But now that heâs on terminal leave, burning time until heâs out, all heâs left with is fear.
Fear of what comes next and what heâll do with so much time on his hands. His father only ever told him one thing:Â donât be a stranger to hard work.
Fear that he wonât be a man you want by your sideâlost, without a purpose, directionless.
Fear that itâs already too late to make up for all the time lost. Youâre already showing signs of cracking, even if you cover it up with a smile. Thatâs Jackâs biggest fear: that he wonât be able to figure out whatâs nextâwith you by his side.Â
Your sniffling draws him from his thoughts. Only now does he notice what youâre wearing when he takes a peek at your chest.
âMrs. Abbot?â he asks.
You look down at your apron and canât believe you forgot the little surprise you got him. âOh, yeah, I had this custom-made while you were gone. I thought youâd like it. Itâs cute, right?â
Jack takes this opportunity to openly stare at your chest and responds, teasing, âI love it. Is it weird to say you look sexy in an apron?â
You chuckle at his reaction, predicting he would love it. âNo, not at all.â
He grabs your hand and lays a gentle kiss on your ring finger before finally taking in the state of the kitchen. Pots and pans lie strewn across the countertops, and dishes are piled up toward the ceiling, nearly toppling over in the sink.
âDo you want help setting the table? I donât want you to do all the work, honey. Let me be useful,â he says, sighing at the smell of the torte and stepping back to let you off the counter.
âI can do it. I want to treat you. I figure this meal will be the best thing youâve eaten in months. You can do the dishes and clean the kitchen after, though, okay?â You wink.
âGladly.â
âGo get washed up, and Iâll serve you a plate,â you say, nudging him toward the restroom.
âOkay. I think your pie is done, by the way,â he says, pointing at the oven before he turns the corner.
You yell back, âitâs a torte!â as he walks away, then whip your head toward the oven.
Is it starting to burn?
After dinner and some conversation, you both decided to watch a movie. But now youâre too distracted making out on the couch to pay attention to it.
An eighties Christmas horror score swells in the background, and you flinch, breaking the kiss when a piercing scream reaches your ears. You look up at Jackâs irritated face, hovering over you while you lie flat on your back, and giggle. He looks back at the television like heâs considering unplugging it for interrupting, the remote lost somewhere between the cushions.
You offer, caressing Jackâs cheek with your palm, âmaybe nowâs a good time for dessert? Itâs definitely cooled down by now.âÂ
âOh, I definitely want dessert. But your torte, which Iâm sure is delicious, isnât quite what I have in mind.â Jack laces your fingers with his, locates the remote, turns off the TV, and drags you down the hallway into the bedroom.
You canât say youâre surprised at this turn of events, but butterflies flutter inside your stomach anyway. Itâs been so long. Is it possible heâll no longer be attracted to you? To your body? But you shut down those thoughts as Jack pushes you onto the bed, landing ungracefully, and tears at your housedress, the most comfortable, unattractive thing you own.
Thank goodness youâll have more than your own fingers and a vibrator to get you off now. At least until he leaves again.Â
In a matter of seconds, youâre left in just your underwear. Youâd laugh at Jackâs hastiness if his eyes werenât pinning you with such an intense stare.
ââm gonna toss these now that Iâm back. Makes things easier,â Jack grumbles as he nearly rips your panties off, inhaling their scent with a deep groan, your face going hot. He pockets the flimsy thing in the back pocket of his sweats.Â
Only once youâre fully naked does his pace slow, and he savors the moment. Youâre bare to him, writhing on the bed, and looking up at him with pleading eyes, silently begging him to touch you. What more could a man want?
You pull him in by the collar to kiss him, wanting to be as close as physically possible. The fresh scent of cedarwood and lime body wash permeates your nose, and his face feels smooth and freshly shaven after his shower earlier.
Jack chuckles into your mouth at how needy you are, but heâs just asâif not moreâpent up and aching for you. After nearly a year away from you, surrounded by nothing more than death and the pain wracking his body, only his fist and a folder full of nudes kept his yearning at bay.Â
The guilt he should feel for walking out of duty is replaced with the joy of knowing that the end is near and he can have you. All twelve months of the year for years to come.Â
You shiver as Jack trails his fingers down the sides of your neck, stippling the skin as he presses lightly. Light strokes dance further down toward your shoulders and upper arms before Jack stops at your breasts. He cups the fat there with both his hands, using his thumbs to rub tight circles into your nipples. They perk up, sensitive to his warm touch.
âJ-Jack, please,â you whine, grabbing his hands. He pinches your nipples in response.
âWhat is it, baby? Tell me what you want me to do.â
âTake off your clothes. And I wantâI want your mouth. On me.â
Jack obliges, stripping his clothing. His cock twitches, erect, but so heavy it slaps against his thigh as he throws them to the floor, where your house dress lies.
You catch sight of your underwear falling out the back pocket of his sweats as they hit the ground. You make a mental note to snatch it up later. Knowing him, your underwear drawer will be empty by tomorrow.
He returns his attention to your chest, lapping at your nipple, swirling it with his tongue while pinching the other. You run your fingers through his hair, pulling at it when he bites down on the peaked flesh.
âHurts!â you bleat, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.
He kisses your nipple, murmuring a soft apology. ââm sorry, sweetheart, just got too excited. Want me to kiss her now to make up for it?â Jack splits the seam of your wet cunt, groaning when he feels the slick dripping from his fingers. He shoves them into your mouth to give you a taste.
âAre you going to let me eat your cunt? Nod if yes.â
You nod, moaning at the taste of your dew around his fingers. You suck harshly on them to distract from the sting.
Jack pulls his fingers out of your mouth with a wet pop, and he gets down on his knees, pulling you down so your ass hangs slightly over the edge of the bed. Your legs are draped over his shoulders, your glistening pussy clenching around nothing.
âPoor thing, I think she just said hi to me. Missed me, honey?â he coos.Â
âJack, stop talking to my vagina like Iâm not here.â Your face heats from embarrassment, and you cover your face with your hands, but he just laughs, peering up at you from the floor.
âOkay, okay. Hands off your face. Donât hide from me.â
You move your hands to grab fistfuls of Jackâs hair, pushing him toward your cunt. âIâm going to suffocate you for that.â
âAnd Iâll die with a smile on my face.â
Jack takes your cue and parts your folds with his thumbs. He groans at the sight, leaning his head on your knee.
âO-oh, honey. Youâre so fucking wet. Is this all for me? For your husband?â
He doesnât let you respond as he envelops your clit with his lips, tongue delving in and out of your hole.
Youâre perfect, he thinks. Always so good for him. Always ready, wet, and willing for him to take. The least he can do is make you come on his tongue.
You sob, stuck between wanting to push and pull him away from how good it feels when he sucks on your clit, but his hands grip your inner thighs, tethering you to him.
He kisses and laps your folds while his nose rubs into your clit, eating you out like a man starved. Not even you could stop him from finishing his meal. MREs nourished him during his deployment and kept him going, but only enough to make it back to the real delicacy. You.
âJack, Iâm about to come. Please, please, please,â you beg.Â
âBe a good wife and come for me, huh? Fuck, your cunt tastes divine,â he grunts into your pussy.
You feel your orgasm pummel toward you, and you scoot up the bed, trying to push Jack away, feeling overstimulated. But he doesnât let you get far.
âJust lay there and take it like a good girl.â He yanks you back down by your hips.Â
You come, your clit pulsing and cunt clenching onto his awaiting tongue. He rubs gentle circles into your thighs as you spasm, then still, loose-limbed, a tingly sensation lighting you from head to toe.
After a few minutes, you whisper, voice hoarse, âJack, f-fuck, that wasâŚâ
âI know, sweetheart. But weâre not done yet. Give me a few more?â
He eats you out for what feels like an eternity before easing into you, guiding your thighs to your chest and folding you into a mating press. Youâre spent, your clit swollen and raw from his ambush. You let him rut into you as he pleases, sloppily kissing him, your fine motor control gone with the wind. Some time later, he comes inside you with a rumbling groan, catching himself on his elbows so he doesnât crush you under his weight.
After a few minutes, you turn your head to the nightstand and see on the clock that itâs nearly 10 p.m. You gently push Jack off you, and he rolls onto his back, pulling you to his chest in the process.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
âI have work tomorrow. Letâs get ready for bed?â you ask.
âDo you have to go tomorrow? Just⌠stay home. Please. I missed you.âÂ
You have to yank the words out through your teeth. âAs much as Iâd like to⌠I canât. You understand, right?âÂ
This isnât new. He should know better than to ask. Itâs a slippery slope. If you were to skip work tomorrow, what would stop you from skipping the day after that? Or just quitting?
And when Jack is deployed again, what then?
You wouldâve started a family by now if he had just retired when he said he would. But unless it is to raise a family, you donât want to quit a job you love just because you can afford to.
âSweetheart⌠Iââ Jack wants to tell you. Now. Iâm retiring. He should. But heâs still not ready. The last time he told you that, when he then went on to re-enlist, he betrayed your trust. The fight that ensued is still fresh on his mind, like an open wound, raw and smarting when he thinks about it.
Heâs known for months that he would be retiring, but he wanted to tell you in person. Heâs not sure when he can lay it out in the open, though. But he only just got back. Thereâs time.
He doesnât finish his sentence, and you pull yourself from his arms and walk into the restroom on baby deer legs, his come seeping out of you. He trudges in behind you with a small smirk.
âBy the way, Mr. and Mrs. You-Know-Who are having an early Christmas party this Saturday.âÂ
Youâre now curled up under the covers with Jack, using his body as your personal furnace. The comforter is almost unnecessary with him by your side, but as the night drags on and the snow falls, itâll only get colder.
âAre we going?â
âWell, she invited us, knowing youâd be back this week. I said yes.â
He groans. âHoney, you know how I feel about them. Theyâre assholes.â
âItâs good to keep friendly with the neighbors. Plus, Adamâs been helpful. He came over the other day to fix the fridge after I bumped into him at the hardware store. Perfect timing, too, because all the ingredients I needed for today wouldâve gone bad, and I had no idea what I needed to fix the thing.âÂ
Jack stiffens at your side, but you donât notice.Â
How often has Adam been over? Has he tried anything? Why couldnât have Jack been here to fix things for you instead?Â
He trusts you. He doesnât trust the slimy neighbor who ogles every pretty thing in sight when his wife isnât looking.
âDonât talk about Adam. Heâs a weasel. Iâll be doing the fixing from now on.â
âDonât tell me youâre jealous,â you tease, poking his side. âIf anything, I should be the jealous one. Abigail always asks about you. Youâre the only reason she even talks to me.â
âYou see the problem here? Why are they even married?â Jack drags a hand down his face, and you laugh at his exasperation.
âItâll be fine. Weâre going. End of discussion. Mâkay?â
ââŚFine. But no gifts.â
You roll your eyesâeven though he canât see you do itâand snuggle in a bit closer. You fall asleep to the sound of his soft snores.
The chatter of Adamâs and Abigailâs guests is audible from outside the house, giving Jack a slight headache. His lips are drawn in a firm line, impatient, as he rings the doorbell again.Â
In your hands, you hold a wrapped present, a bath set, shivering as the cold nips at your fingertips.Â
You chance a glance at Jack and can tell heâs not happy. You elbow him to get his attention.
âHey, you said youâd come, right?â
âI did. Iâm here,â Jack gestures outward, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. âDoesnât mean I have to be happy about it.â
âDonât be a grinch. Try the doorbell one more time.â
He does.
Abigail opens the door, greeting you both with a plastered smile.
âGoodness, I didnât think you guys would actually show up!â She turns her attention to Jack, a little pinprick of jealousy gnawing on your heart. âJack, so glad youâre back, looking as handsome as ever. Iâwe both missed you so much. Come on in. Itâs freezing out here.â
You squint slightly at her, and Jack looks at you out of the corner of his eye, raising a brow at you, as if to say, I warned you.
You both step inside the foyer.
âThank you so much for inviting us both.â You extend the present toward her. âHere. This is for you and Adam. From Jack and me.â
Jack just nods beside you, offering her a tight smile, not wanting to give Abigail room for further conversation.Â
âThank you. Iâll just add this to the pile under our tree.â She gestures to the coat rack by the door. âPlease, hang your coats and make yourselves comfortable. Thereâs food and drink in the kitchen. Mingle and have fun. By the way, Jack, my husband would like to speak with you. Itâs been a while since the two of you last saw each other. Heâs in the living room.â
You nod at Jack, signaling him to go on without you. He helps you shrug off your coat before hanging them both up. He kisses your temple, then heads toward the living room. Abigailâs face subtly falls as soon as heâs out of sight.
Youâve taken no more than one step toward the kitchen when she stops you with the palm of her hand held out in front of her, blocking you off.
âI have something very exciting to share. Did you know weâre pregnant?â
âOhâcongratsâŚ?â You must look confused, because she rushes to explain.
âWe found out a few weeks ago. Weâve been keeping it between us for the time being, but I just had to tell somebody.â She giggles as she adjusts her hair and pouts her lips in front of the foyer mirror, rubbing her palms over her belly, before looking back at you.Â
âSay, werenât you and Jack planning on starting a family a few years back? Guess we beat you guys to the punch.â She tilts her head at you condescendingly, patting your shoulder lightly as if sheâs scared youâll give her something.
You regret coming here. What were you thinking? That Abigail would be a little nicer to you since Jack would be by your side? Always listen to Jack, you remind yourself. Heâs always been better at putting his foot down and saying no, except to you. In this case, he shouldâve.
âYeah, we were. Um, the timing never really worked out, soâŚâ
âThe clock is only ticking, hun.â She leans in conspiratorially and whispers, âis it possible he just doesnât want one with you?â
Your eyes go wide in shock.
She laughs a little too loud, a shrill, forced thing, shrugging off what she said as a joke. âAnyway, go help yourself to some of the food. Enjoy the party! Kiss Jack under the mistletoe⌠or Iâll do it for you!â
She glances back at you with a cartoonishly evil smirk as she walks into the kitchen.
This guy is fucking ridiculous.
Jackâs sitting on the couch with Adam, whose feet are propped up on the coffee table. The room is packed to the brim with other guests, who are chatting amongst themselves.Â
Itâs funny. No one seems too keen on speaking to the esteemed host.Â
Jackâs been forced to listen to Adam recount the events of the Christmas party he went to last year, at his parentsâ house. Jack tried to think only happy thoughts when Adam went into explicit detail about the sexual escapades he and Abigail got away with, without his parents noticing.
The only thing keeping Jack on the couch and not escaping out the nearest window is the beer he was offered as he sat down and the soft holiday music playing in the background, drowning out some of what Adam says. All he wanted to do was say hello and get back to you. But Jack didnât see where you went, and heâs too stubborn to leave the conversation first.
ââŚwas totally insane.â Adam takes a quick glance at Jack, whoâs staring off into space. âAh, shit. Iâm rambling, arenât I? How are you, my friend?â
Jack shakes his head, pulling himself out of his distraction. âIâve been great, actually. Been spending some much-needed time with my wife since I got back.â
âSpeaking of her, I visited the other day because of a wrecked condenser coil in your fridge. I fixed it up nice. You know, when you leave again, Iâd be glad to offer more of my services. Sheâs kind of helpless, have you noticed?â Adam scoots closer to Jack and wraps his arm around his shoulder, jostling him. âAt least sheâs a cutie, am I right?â
Jack sees red. He slams his beer onto the coffee table and throws Adamâs arm from around his shoulder, knocking his beer out of his hand. It spills all over the couch, but Jackâs already up and out of the living room before he can watch it seep in and stain.Â
He canât make a scene here. Itâll end badly for Adam. With nearly twenty-four years in the army as a combat medic, Jackâs learned how to incapacitate and dispose of bodies. Cleanly. Efficiently. But this is his neighborâs Christmas party, so he wonât do that. Yet.
The plan was to show up. Exchange pleasantries. Give gift. Mission accomplished.Â
He needs to find you and take both of you home.
âJack, where are you going? Can you give me her number in case the fridge goes out again?â Adam hollers over the couch, but Jackâs already walking toward the kitchen.
Jack searches for you in the kitchen, but youâre nowhere to be found. Abigail is chatting with a girlfriend but excuses herself when she sees heâs looking in her direction.
âJack, honey, are you looking for something? A drink, perhaps? We have spiked eggnog, if youâd like.â She twirls the ends of her hair around her finger, a blush creeping onto her cheeks.
Jack ignores her flirting and asks if sheâs seen you.
âOh. She went upstairs to use the master bathroom. The one down here was occupied,â she explains in a dry tone. âSheâll be back soon. In the meantime, why donât weââ
ââThanks.â Jack turns around and heads up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.
A foot stops the door from closing, and you open it slightly to see Jack.
You came up to the master bedroom to use the restroom but also to give yourself the privacy to cry.
The conversation with Abigail had been⌠tense, to say the least. Speaking to some of the other neighbors helped get your mind off it, but with Abigail throwing you nasty looks or the occasional comment every now and then, you couldnât stand to be down there anymore.
Youâve always known, but were never confronted by how terrible a person she is. She more or less pretends you donât exist when Jack is around but is still polite for the sake of social etiquette. But with Jackâs return and his attention stolen by Adam, that seemed to stir her up into what you saw firsthand tonight.Â
You can understand her behavior. Jack is a catch. Itâs unsettling that sheâs married and now pregnant with Adamâs baby while being so blatant with her affections, though.
âI need a little privacy right now. Iâll be out in a few minutes.â
You sniffle, trying to close the door on him, but heâs immediately on you. He gently pushes you away from the door and closes it behind him, gesturing toward the bed.
You plop down on it, spread like a starfish, while Jack sits upright next to you. Youâre not willing to put up a fight. He reads you like an open book. Thereâs no use. Heâll get it out of you, anyway.
âWhat happened?â he asks.
âAbigail just said some stuff that put me in a really weird headspace.â
Jack looks down at you, silently urging you to continue.
âSheâs pregnant. And she asked me when we would try for a family. And Iâm sad because it wonât happen anytime soon. And maybeâŚâ Your tears fall freely now. âMaybe you donât want to start one. Maybe you keep extending your contract because you donât want me.â
Jack is stunned for a split second. But thatâs all he allows himself.
He lowers himself on his side next to you, cradling your cheek, thumbing at your tears. You look into his eyes, waiting with bated breath for his next words.
He says your name softly. âYou have no idea how untrue that is. Extending my contract was never something I did that had anything to do with how I feel for you. I love you so much and with all my heart.
âIâve been meaning to tell you something, but didnât know when would be a good time. I realize now that it was unfair of me to have kept this from you.â He exhales. âIâm retiring. Iâm using my last bit of saved leave to ride out the last three months of my notice period. But thatâs it. Itâs over.â Jack closes his eyes, bracing for your response.Â
âWhy didnât you tell me before?â You shake your head. âThat means you knewâŚÂ months ago you wanted to retire.â
He lets out another breath. You donât sound too upset. More curious than anything. A curiousness tinged with a sliver of hope, and his heart aches.
âI was scared. Hell, I still am. I donât know whatâs next for me. And I donât want you to think less of me as a manâas your husbandâfor giving up something thatâs kept us fed. But I promise you that Iâll still take care of you, no matter what. Even if things are going to be different now.â
He pauses, but you know he has more to say. You reach for his hand and interlock your fingers. Your touch is all he needs to forge on.
âI have guilt from the last time I promised you that Iâd be retiring, when I knew I wasnât ready yet. I didnât know if youâd believe me when I told you this time. But Iâm doing this for us. Because Iâve served my time. Because I canât stand another deployment overseas knowing that youâre here waiting for me to return home. Because I also want to start a family with you. And that needs to happen when Iâm around.â
Your mind flits back to your garden. Youâd gladly sacrifice your vegetables if it meant youâd have Jack back permanently.
âJack, I believe you. Iâm happy that you were ready to make this decision, even if I was ready for it long before. I know Iâve given you hell about it⌠but I want to try to put that past us now. All I care about is supporting you through your transition. Weâll figure it out together, okay? Please, please, donât keep things from me. If I had known earlier, well⌠I wouldâve been able to sleep a lot better at night these past few months.â
Jack nods, brushing an eyelash from your cheek. âIâm sorry. This is the last thing Iâll ever keep from you.â
You smile at him, wide and genuine, and he returns it with a peck on your nose.
âAre you ready to go? I want to fucking leave this place,â Jack asks, offering you a hand.
He pulls you off the bed, and you stretch, feeling relieved after the news.
Jackâs home. For good.
You both know thereâs more discussion to be had, but certainly not here.
After sharing the news with you, Jack recapped what had happened with Adam, and you with Abigail in greater detail.
âDid Adam really ask for my number?â you ask.
âYes. Did Abigail really say she would kiss me under mistletoe?
You nod.Â
Jack scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest, obviously pissed. âWe need to leave. Now.â
âAgreed,â you say with an emphatic nod. âI just⌠I still have to use the restroom.â
âMake it quick, sweetheart.â
Jack nearly runs down the stairs in front of you, holding your hand in his, guarding you in case the awful As peek their ugly heads out.
Unfortunately, Adam catches you both at the bottom of the staircase.
âHey, where did you both go? Well, never mind. Actually, I was hoping I could get a chance to speak to her. Alone.â
You notice he has a sprig of mistletoe clenched in his palm. Thankfully, Jack is too intent on leaving to notice; otherwise, you think heâd start throwing punches here and now.
Adam is trying to get a better look at you from behind Jack, but Jack keeps blocking his view.Â
âWeâre leaving. Get out of the way.â You feel Jackâs hand tighten around yours.
âWoah, whatâs with the hostility, man? Is that how you treat the guy whose party youâre at? Youâve been a dick all night, dude.â
Adam addresses you by name. âIs he forcing you to leave? If you donât feel like leaving, I canââ
ââActually, Adamââ you poke your head out from behind Jack, ââIâm not at all interested in what you have to say to me. In fact, if you and your wife never spoke to either of us again, itâd be too soon. Weâre leaving. Merry Christmas.âÂ
Now youâre the one pulling Jack toward the exit, giggling at Adamâs dumbstruck expression. You two pull on your coats, and before you leave, you throw out, âAnd by the way? Your repair job on the fridge was shit.â A lie. But he doesnât need to know that. âThe coolant started to leak minutes after you left.â
The door shuts, and Jack watches you with hearts in his eyes as you walk him to the driveway.
âItâs official. Iâm a civilian as of today,â Jack says after getting off the phone with his former superior officer.
Itâs been three months since the Christmas party, and today marks the start of spring. The March air is still nippy, but the days are overall warmer and longerâmuch deserved after a harsh winter.
âWe should celebrate! Letâs do something. Your treat, of course.â You wink.
Jack chuckles, placing his palms over your lower belly. These days, itâs their favorite place to go. âWeâll go to dinner after I finish moving these boxes.â
âYou know I can help. Itâll be quicker.â You wrap your fingers around his wrists to push him away, but he doesnât budge.
âYouâre pregnant.â
âIâm only two months!âÂ
âIâve got it, honey. The movers will be coming later to handle the rest, anyway.â
Jack accepted an offer at PTMC as an E.R. attending after getting an employee referral from one of his former military associates, Emery Walsh. Youâre moving to be closer to the city. Youâll miss this house, but it was lonely, anyway.
You couldnât be happier for him. He warned you about the long hours from the very beginning, but you canât complain too much. At least heâll still come home to you every night. At least heâll still be in the same country as you.
And youâre happy that he can still do what he lovesâeven if it isnât overseas on a battlefield.Â
Having to quit your job at the elementary school was devastating, but youâre willing to take a leap of faith in starting this next part of your journey with Jack. Thereâll be other opportunities for you to work with the little ones later.Â
Now, youâre expecting one of your own. And raising them is a full-time job in itself.Â
You look outside the porch window at your garden. The array of seedlings is growing again, but youâre growing something else now. With Jack by your side.
âFine. Is there anything I can do?â you ask, putting your hands on your hips and pouting.
âYou can lie pretty in bed and wait for me to finish up here,â Jack says, lips lifting in the corners. âPlenty of time to make the most of the bed before the movers get here.â
You lightly shove his shoulder and roll your eyes, a smile escaping you. âWhatever you say, cowboy.â