d

Using your tablet had been a more recent development. Andrew was shy to use your things, that timidness and sense of obtruding never fully leaving him the way you hoped it would after so long together. It started one night when you were watching tv, splayed out on the sofa while Andrew showered. You had chosen one of your favorite sitcoms, choosing an episode at random and letting it play while you buried your head into one of the throw pillows, listening to the show more than watching. It was comforting, hitting the familiar beats you knew so well after rewatching it so many times without taking any more of your mental energy. It gave just enough noise to fill the quiet, not overwhelming you, but giving you something to laugh about when you did bother to pay attention. 

You lifted your head from the pillow when you heard Andrew’s footsteps, leaving a crater in the soft fabric that you would be sure to return to. 

“Whatcha watching?” He didn’t look at you, level eyes fixed on the tv as a laugh track played. His stoic expression and dark shirt and sweatpants, the collar pitched even darker as drops of water fell from his damp curls, made him stand out even more harshly against the overly animated characters on screen. 

You sat up slightly, making room for him on the couch beside you as he came closer. 

“An old sitcom. Probably not something you’d like.”

He lowered himself down next to you, sitting as far back as the cushions would allow, until his straight spine pressed against the backing. He didn’t say anything when you shifted closer, hugging his arm to your chest and resting your head on his shoulder. You could hear the quiet drips of the water as they landed on his clothed back. 

“I can change it if you want,” you offered, glancing up at him as much as the angle allowed.

Andrew frowned. He was thinking, eyes still glued to the tv, as if trying to puzzle out what made it so appealing. After a moment, he shook his head, head dipping to glance down at you.

“No,” he said simply. “You like it.”

A small smile pulled at your lips. “Well, yeah,” you agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.” He only looked at you with those big brown eyes you’d come to love, his jaw flexing as he thought.

“You know, there’s another option,” you offered, reluctantly sitting up and releasing his arm, your heart warming at the small frown that tugged at his lips at your absence. “I could watch this, and you could watch something you like, like a documentary. I saw one on Netflix the other day I don’t think you’ve seen yet,” you tempted. “It’s all about squids and the way they think, and how they can get out of all kinds of situations. I added it to my list so I wouldn’t forget to show you.”

Andrew frowned, but you could see the way his eyes widened ever so slightly. He was interested. 

“There’s only one screen,” he said, confusion drawing his voice out lower. He gestured to the tv, as if you had forgotten the set up of your own living room. You had to bite back a smile, knowing there was another tv in the bedroom, but that he didn’t even consider it an option without you by his side.

“You’re right,” you conceded, standing up to walk behind the couch, crossing the room to where your bag hung from a hook in the hallway. “And yet you’re also wrong.” You pulled your tablet out of your bag, unzipping a smaller pocket and feeling around blindly until your hand closed on the small case that held your wireless earbuds. You held it in a closed fist as you walked back to the living room.

You held the tablet out triumphantly to show Andrew when you plopped back down next to him on the couch, leaning against his chest as you beamed up at him. 

“Behold,” you announced, “another screen. And-” you opened your closed hand, showing him the small bag you’d brought him. “Look at that, fresh ear pieces, just for you!” You were unable to stop the proud grin that took over your face. “Entirely unused, and kept in protective packaging. Ergo, or should I say ear-go, ha,” he rolled his eyes at your bad joke, not even trying to hide his small smile, “no germs!”

His brows furrowed as he looked down at the little baggie of ear pieces, turning them over in his broad hands like he expected them to disappear. 

“Why do you have these?” he asked.

You shrugged, leaning forward to press a kiss to his shoulder before resting your cheek on it. 

“For you. Figured you might want to use my earbuds someday, and I don’t want you stressing out about germs when you’re here. Not when I can help.”

He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His hand closed around the little baggie, his other dragging up your thigh where it rested halfway on his lap, giving it an appreciative squeeze.

“Thank you,” he said, quiet and low, the words wavering slightly.

His breathing stuttered a bit more when your hands found the nape of his neck, nails dragging soothingly through the wet curls. 

“Of course. Anything for you, Andy.”

All of that led you to today. Andrew was having trouble sleeping. Story of his life. Usually, it was easier when he slept over, finding the warmth of you pressed against him and the weight of your body enough to ground him in reality and push away the thoughts that plagued him both in sleep and wakefulness. But tonight, not even that was enough. He might have left the bedroom to pace or settle in front of the tv and listen to the calm drone of a nature documentary had you not looked so peaceful beside him, stretched out further onto his side of the bed than usual in your search for him. He couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving. 

He was relieved when an idea clicked in his head.

He peeled back the covers as smoothly as he could, careful not to expose your sleeping form to cool night air. He moved quietly out of the bedroom and down the hall to where you kept your bag, removing your tablet and earbuds, making sure to also grab the small canvas pouch with an embellished A embroidered on it that you’d made once he’d started using your earbuds more regularly. He’d thought it was ridiculous that you carried an extra little pouch in your bag just so he could steal your earbuds, but he would never complain, especially after he saw how happy it made you. He crept back to bed and slipped in beside you, making sure to tip the screen of the tablet away from you as he opened its case.

The screen leaped to life, and he blinked rapidly at the sudden brightness, wishing he could curse without risking waking you. He repeated the action you’d shown him once when he was frustrated that he couldn’t see things well on the screen, successfully lowering the brightness to a more reasonable level before moving to unlock it. He felt satisfied with himself for thinking of such a plan, and knew you’d love finding out that he turned to you, even by extension of your belongings, to find comfort in the night. After he’d entered your passcode, the screen unlocked to a webpage. 

The air stilled in his lungs when he skimmed the text scrawled across the screen.

You may be hurt by your loved one’s distance and moodiness or struggling to understand their behavior—why they are less affectionate and more volatile. You may feel like you’re walking on eggshells or living with a stranger. 

He blinked, hard, and read it again. When the letters didn’t rearrange themselves into something more palatable he brought his finger to the screen, scrolling to the top of the page as quickly as the device would allow. 

How to Help Someone with PTSD

His heart dropped. An article. One from a medical journal no less.

His eyes slid over to where you slept, one of your hands now tangled in the fabric of his pillow case. You’d picked out these bedsheets together, insistent that you wanted something that felt good for him too, even if he didn’t officially live with you.

Your comfort is still important too, you’d teased him, tossing a fabric sample at him in the middle of the department store. 

How long had this been going on? How long had you been researching, dissecting him without him knowing? His hands clenched, and he was aware that he was sitting much straighter now, any drowsiness he had once clung to long gone from his tired body.

You knew something was wrong as soon as you’d woken up. Your hand had stretched out before your eyes had even opened, unconsciously searching for Andrew. Only when your hand found cool linen in his place did you peel your eyes open, squinting in the morning light coming through your sheer curtains. Andrew was right. Blackout would have been the more practical choice, but you loved the morning light when it shone in, catching the red undertones of Andrew’s hair as it darkened with age.

You looked around, half expecting to see him in the adjoined bathroom, already brushing his teeth, or getting dressed to go meet his family. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have to leave early in the morning, and you tried not to take it personally, but something felt off. His spot in bed was cold, the covers thrown off instead of neatly pulled back up like he’d tried to make the bed as well as he could without waking you. 

“Andy?” you called hoarsely, suddenly feeling a bit worried. 

“I’m here.” His voice carried through the cracked bedroom door. “I’m in the kitchen. Didn’t want to wake you.”

He didn’t turn to face you when you padded out to join him. Normally he would at least glance over at you, his usually carefully guarded mask slipping for just a moment at the sight of you in your pajamas, still rubbing sleep from your eyes as you wrapped your arms around him, letting his nose dip into your hair as you nuzzled against his chest. 

This morning was none of that. He faced the wall, waiting for the toaster to go off, not even glancing over his shoulder at you. He was more rigid than usual, the muscles in his broad shoulders tense and his arms crossed over his chest, scowling down at the poor toaster as if it was its fault his life had gone this way. 

You didn’t know what had changed since last night, but you didn’t want to push your luck first thing in the morning. The last thing he needed was to clam up and storm out, clamping the lid down on his feelings like he used to do when he first realized you noticed more than you let on.

“Good morning, handsome.” You walked closer, waiting until he hummed his acknowledgement before sliding up next to him. You’d learned a long time ago it was wisest to let him see you before touching him, especially when he was this deep in his head. His eyes flashed with something unreadable when your hand came to rest on his shoulder, his muscles trembling as if they didn’t know whether to relax or run under the warmth of your palm. 

“What’s wrong, Andy?” You keep your voice soft, concern showing plainly on your face as you peer up at him. “You’re looking at the toaster like it owes you money. What happened?”

His jaw works, and his grip on the edge of the counter tightens, fingers flexing impatiently as he thinks. 

“I found your tablet,” he mutters after a few seconds. His eyes are still locked down, smoldering so hot they might cook his bread faster than the machine could. Your head tips to the side in confusion, and only then does he look at you.

“How to help someone with PTSD?” He says it like a threat, anger and disbelief bleeding through his words as he looms over you. “How long? How long have you been reading that shit, researching me like I’m some wild animal you don’t know how to be around?” His voice cracks at the end, and he turns, teary eyes fixed back on the counter, fighting to maintain even an ounce of composure.

It clicks then, what he’s talking about. You’d been doing some reading, noticing that he seemed to fall asleep easier when there was white noise playing in the background. A friend had casually mentioned that it helped her after she’d survived a violent ordeal, something about the one noise being easier to focus on than all the little noises that she was always worrying might be signs of danger. You’d used it as a jumping off point, seeing if there was anything else small that might help the man you loved so you could keep it on hand and accessible to him. God knew he had a hard enough time asking for things that he wanted, and even then, half the time he didn’t know what he wanted.

You scolded yourself for being so careless. You knew Andrew had blanket permission to use your things, and you’d even encouraged it, finding it comforting to see him do something as domestic as using your phone to look up something. 

“Honey, I can explain-” you began, before being cut off.

“Are you scared of me?” His voice broke, and he couldn’t meet your eye. “Is that why you were looking at those things? Trying to find ways to calm me down, to make me less crazy?” Memories flashed before your eyes. Conversations you’d had, slowly revealing some of what his home life had been like before his mother died. Crushed pills hidden in his food, his brothers telling him to knock it off and be less intense, that he scared everyone away.

“No, of course I’m not!” you insisted. “I love you, I could never be scared of you.” 

He scoffed at that, eyes smoldering as he shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.” He swallowed painfully, the first of his tears following as his anger subsided. “And clearly you are or you wouldn’t be looking at those things. You’re scared, and you want out. You don’t want this,” he gestured towards himself, the anger in his voice breaking your heart in two. “It’s too much, I’m too much, and you needed a reason to leave.”

You were shocked enough to struggle to find words. Andrew had had his bad days, where he went right back to the dark place that he had spent so much of his life in, but he had been doing better. Slowly, he had learned to trust you. He’d had his backslides, like early in your relationship when you were sick with the flu and hadn’t responded to his messages for a day and a half and he’d assumed you were either in danger or wanting nothing to do with him. It had been a long time since his insecurities had flared up so fiercely though, and you were worried.

“What? No, that’s-that’s not what I was doing,” you protested, but it was too late. He was already gone, pulled under the tidal wave of guilt and self-hatred that lingered within him, slowly festering under the surface until it reared its ugly head again. Of course you had to read up about him like he was some case study. Of course you didn’t know how to act around him. He was a weirdo, just like everybody said, how they’d always said, ever since he was little. “Andrew, I promise that’s not what that was.” You pleaded with him, desperate for him to look at you, to do anything but glare down at the counter as his shoulders slowly caved in on themselves, his chest heaving as his breaths came faster. “Darling, I-I just didn’t want to make anything worse for you. I was just fact checking myself, and then I got interested in what I was reading, and I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you, or anything that I was doing wrong.”

When Andrew spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper, and the crack in his voice made your chest clench painfully.

“You wanted to fix me.”

“No.” You said it firmly, heart aching again when he lifted his head to look at you. His brow was furrowed, beautiful hazel eyes red as tears trickled down his cheeks. You bit down on your tongue not to let out a whimper at the sight. It took so much for him to crumble, years and years of walls he’d built up to protect himself all coming down around him in an instant.

“Andy, I don’t want to fix you,” you said, speaking as firmly as you could. You cupped his cheek with one hand, your thumb wiping away tears and your heart shattering even more at how he leaned into your hand, one of his own coming up to hold your wrist, as if he was scared you might disappear. “I don’t want to fix you because you’re not broken. You’re beautiful and wonderful and amazing, and yes, you have your troubles and things from your past you still struggle with, but who doesn’t? You went through hell, actually you grew up in it, but you came out the other end still caring and funny and good. You’re not broken because of what happened to you. You’re just hurt, and I’m so so sorry you’re hurting. That’s why I was looking at those things.” You sigh, so annoyed at yourself for causing this situation. You knew how he felt about therapy, how his hackles went up at the mere mention of it. Why wouldn’t they? Every time he’d ever spoken to someone about his mental health, they’d made him feel like a freak, or taken him away from the only home he’d ever known. 

“You don’t think I’m broken?” His weak voice shook, but his chest wasn’t heaving anymore and his tears had slowed to a trickle. “Even after everything that I’ve done?” His face fell, brow furrowing as he forced his words out. “All the people I’ve hurt. Some of them were innocent.”

You cut him off before he could continue down the slippery path back to the depths of shame that still lived in his mind. 

“You don’t do those things anymore,” you reminded him, keeping your voice gentle but firm. You trailed the fingers of your free hand through his hair, letting your nail gently drag down his scalp the way he once quietly admitted he found soothing. He needed to focus on where he was and ground himself in reality before the voices in his head swallowed him whole.

“You don’t hurt people anymore, love. You left that behind and you’ve been good, so so good. You help people now. You provide a place for kids to go with your skate park. You bring them food and look out for them even though no one asked you to. You help me in a million ways, and you’re always there for your brothers, even when they’re being idiots and causing their own problems.”

He exhaled at that, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make you smile.

“You mean Craig,” he said roughly.

Your smile widened. “I mean all of them,” you teased, “but Craig is certainly top of the list.” You wiped away the last of the tears from his face before slowly letting your hands slide down his chest and around his waist, pulling him in for a strong hug. His head dropped to your shoulder, his wet face buried into your neck. 

“I’m sorry the world made you feel broken,” you murmured against his shoulder, rubbing his back. You weren’t sure he could even hear you at first, but the warm breath fanning against your shoulder hitched and you knew he did. “And I’m sorry for letting you think even for a moment that you were anything other than the best man I know. I just wanted to make sure I was helping you as much as I could. I don’t want to let you down.”

Andrew’s grip around your shoulders tightened for a moment before loosening as he stood back up to his full height.

“You don’t.”

His words were simple, but the weight of them weren’t lost on you. How could they be when he looked at you like that, all softness and warmth. That kind of vulnerability didn’t come easily to him, and you would be damned if you didn’t treasure it every time he pulled back his armor to let you see him. 

He pulled you back to him without another word, pressing a slow kiss to your temple before tucking you back under his chin, just needing to hold you and know that this wasn’t what his mind had made it out to be. You weren’t going anywhere, not without him. And just in case he needed to hear it, you said it aloud.

“I love you, Andrew.” You could say it a hundred times a day and mean it fully. “And I always will. Because you’re the best part of me. You’re my whole heart.”

You could hear his sharp intake of breath, feel his chest press even more firmly against you as it rose with a slight tremor. It never failed to make him emotional to hear you say those words. 

His hand combed through your hair, his thumb sweeping gently over your cheek.

“I love you too.”

You both jolted as the toaster popped. You laughed when you realized what had happened, but Andrew only scowled at the machine over your head.

“Guess it had enough of our theatrics,” you joked.

“It’s burned.”

You shrugged, starting to pull away. “I’ll make you more.” His grip on you tightened, pulling you securely back against his chest.

“No. You’re staying here. And I’m buying you a new toaster. This one’s a fire hazard.”

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

You'd tried joining them earlier, but once they started in on howling at a ref that obviously can't hear them, your feet gained a mind of their own and led you into the kitchen, which you're gradually working on cleaning until it's as sterile as an OR. Force of habit. Can't be helped.

A sort of trauma response, maybe. A way to self-soothe in moments of fear.

You know it's something you should deal with: your physiological response to raised voices—even harmless ones. But they all sound the same to you; like angry parents hounding each other from another room as they go for the other's throat in a moment of rage while you try and pretend to sleep, hoping they don't come for you next.

Setting the mug on the nearby drying rack, you start in on the abandoned plate from a moment ago. You have no idea what quarter the game is at currently, so you can't even take comfort in the reassurance that it'll be over soon. You just wish Robby would sometimes watch them at his own place, because once he gets Jack going, they become an endless feedback loop—yelling about unfamiliar terms which all mean the same thing to you: another restless night where your heart continually beats out of your chest, despite drinking cup after cup of chamomile tea to calm it.

You set the plate next to the mug and frown at the quickly emptying sink.

Maybe you should mop next.

Just as you reach for the only remaining utensil left to be washed and rinsed, Jack throws an arm over the back of the couch and eyes you from the other room. "Could you bring me another beer, baby?"

You blink at him. "Oh, sure."

Robby turns in your direction. "Could I get one of those, too?" His lip twitches, knowing he's probably about to earn a smack upside the head. "Baby."

Your cheeks heat, so you quickly turn around and pad over to the fridge. "Okay."

You hear a quiet slap, followed by Ow! I was just messin' around!

You retrieve two amber-colored glass bottles from the fridge, leaving the door to click softly shut behind you.

"That's the excuse I'll give when I accidentally slice you open with a scalpel next time I'm ticked off at work," Jack retorts.

You roll your eyes, fighting against the smirk that's trying to force its way across your lips as you pad into the living room to dole out the requested refreshments.

Handing Robby his first, as he is the guest tonight, he grins mischievously and you wince quietly at whatever is about to come out of his mouth. "Thank you—"

Jack shifts to face him, granting him his full attention.

Robby raises a brow, but finishes with a simple "Sweetheart."

"You're welcome," you reply quietly before handing Jack his bottle as well.

Before you can make to leave, however, he grabs your hand and pulls you down to him while patting his lips with his index finger. You roll your eyes, but ultimately oblige by giving him a swift peck on the lips before returning to your chores.

"I mean, if we're handing those out, too—"

"You're on thin fuckin' ice, buddy," Jack snaps while twisting the top off of his beer.

Robby merely throws his head back and laughs while you scurry back into the other room, not wishing to get between them and the flatscreen that has them so enraptured.

By the end of the third quarter, you're a nervous wreck. You've washed and put away the dishes, mopped the floor, tossed out expired leftovers and condiments that were in the fridge, wiped down the counters, and rearranged the spice wrack. But it's all done little to distract you from raised voices the next room over.

The game is going to take over another hour before it's through, and they're each having such a good time that you can't bear to ruin it by causing a scene. Or, at the very least, an awkward confrontation as you try and explain your trembling hands or shaking body, and how you'd really appreciate it if they could please use their inside voices for the remainder of the evening.

Instead, you head in the direction of the front door—acting almost as if you're on autopilot—grab your coat, slip on your shoes, and pocket your housekey before slipping out and into the night for a long walk and some fresh air to clear your head and calm your nerves, forgetting to make a note on the whiteboard stuck to the fridge that you're just popping out and will be back soon.

He's been pacing for an hour, worrying himself sick and calling every hospital in the tristate area—including PTMC—asking whether you've been brought in tonight. Jack even went so far as to contact multiple non-emergency lines, desperate to hear them say 'No, sir, we've not had any women fitting that description called in tonight'.

You just...left. No note, no message written on the fridge—You were the one who insisted on buying that damn board in the first place!—and worst of all? Your cellphone left behind, mocking him from your beside table where it rests atop a wireless charger.

So here he sits at home, about to have a goddamn coronary. Meanwhile, Mike is out driving around, scouring the streets for hide or hair of you. If you were stepping out to pick up a couple groceries—since you apparently cleaned out the fucking fridge (it'd been sort of shameful just how much the two of you have let go to waste by practically living at work)—you could've told him as much.

If it were the middle of the day, he'd be far less concerned. Instead, however, it's now bordering on midnight.

Just as he's about to speed dial Robby yet again, his head shoots up at the sound of the front door peeling opening.

Leaping up from his side of the bed, Jack practically races out of your shared bedroom, and quickly advances on you. You, who is just hanging up your coat like you've just come home from a casual jaunt around the neighborhood. "Where the hell have you been?" He demands.

You turn back to him with a sheepish look on your face. "I know. I forgot to bring my phone with me, I'm sorry."

"Do you have any idea what fucking time it is? I've called every hospital in the area, including the Pitt. Robby is out driving around looking for you and—" He immediately goes silent when your lip trembles and tears well in your eyes.

"I just wanted to go for a walk," you say between quiet sobs. "With all the yelling... My head was pounding, and it was scaring me."

His greying brows furrow. "Scaring you..."

Jack breathes a sigh of frustration, but also relief. You're back and unharmed. That's what matters.

But he's still pissed.

"Why didn't you say something? Tell us to keep it down if it was getting to you. And why didn't you use that board you were all excited about buying?" It's initial intention had been so you could—in your own words—'leave each other cute little notes'. Instead, it's mostly used for grocery lists now. Coffee, medleys, chicken breasts and the like.

You nervously rub your arm, lowering your head so you don't have to face him quite so one-on-one. "I—I was worried it'd upset you. Both of you. If I told you what to do in your own home, I mean. How to act. I just wanted some fresh air."

He sighs. "Baby doll, it's your house too. You have just as much of a right to feel comfortable in it as me." Jack chews the inside of his cheek while he thinks. "We haven't had much chance to talk about them—our folks. Yours used to fight, didn't they?"

You nod solemnly. "Constantly," you murmur between sniffles.

He pulls you into his chest before folding his arms around you and kissing the crown of your head which smells of fresh air, if not a little like the sandwich shop down the street. Perhaps that's where you went tonight to decompress.

"I'm sorry," he says lowly. "From now on, no more yelling at the TV like a couple of idiots. I swear."

You nod and snuggle closer, enjoying the warmth being enveloped in his arms and against his brawny chest provides.

And then his ringing cellphone breaks the tranquil silence.

"That'll be Robby," Jack explains. "He's been out driving around, looking for you."

Guilt fills you to the brim. He must be so tired, and you kept him out later than needs be. And for no good reason.

Jack answers, putting him on speaker. "She's home. Just went out for a walk, she said."

"Thank God," he sighs, his baritone voice crackling slightly on the other line. "Where the hell she'd go?"

Sandwich shop, you mouth, not entirely wanting him to know you're listening. It'd require a long explanation if you answered yourself. And an even longer apology, which you'd prefer to give in person instead.

"Mr. Beef. That place with the hoagies and philly's down the street."

"Long as our girl's alright," Robby says.

Jack rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, but ultimately lets it slide, given his friend's good efforts tonight. "She is. We'll both see you in a few hours."

"See you then," he replies before the line clicks off.

You suck your lips inward to keep from laughing. The comedic side of you—wanting for a bit of relief from all this pent-up tension—wins out, though. "Our girl, huh? So...do I get two for one twice in one night?"

Jack crosses his arms in irritation. You can't believe he's actually taking you and Robby's sarcasm seriously. You'd never really taken him for the jealous type, in truth.

Maybe he's just playing along?

"Keep it up. And twice? So you could've brought an extra sandwich home, but chose not to?"

You snort, then shrug. "I made you both burgers, fries, and a whole charcuterie board to snack off of. Figured I was owed something in repayment when I slipped a twenty from your jacket before leaving."

He barks a laugh. "Oh, you are so on my shitlist now, honey."

Before you can react, he sweeps his arms under you and tosses you over his shoulder before planting a firm smack against your ass. "Oh God, put me down!"

This had to be the day from hell. Y/n had stayed up the entire night before finishing last-minute details for a work project and didn’t get a wink of sleep until around 2 AM. She ended up completely sleeping in while her husband, Jack, kissed her sleeping form goodbye to go on a SWAT shift. She woke up to her latest possible alarm in a cold and empty bed. 

To make things worse, this was the day of her big presentation. People were relying on her to lead the meeting on the said work project. She rushed to get ready. But there was a difficult balance between a full face of makeup and an impossible time crunch.

She ran out the door, but then forgot her keys. She ran back out… then realized she forgot her laptop charger. Then ran back out and growled in frustration upon realizing she forgot her wallet. Definitely not something she wanted to leave behind.

By the time she sat in the car, ready to pull out, she was sweating profusely. The heat outside was heavy and dry, and the running back and forth had caused stains to appear under her arms. 

Naturally, she cranked the AC, turning the knob as she backed the car out…

Holy fuck- hot air blasted right at her face. Her brows scrunched. What? It was on the lowest possible setting it could be. That didn’t make sense.

She tried turning it on and off. Ensuring that it wasn’t on the heater by accident. Pressing buttons and turning the knob back and forth. All while trying to drive. But nothing worked. It just blasted hot air that made the car go from hot to sweltering. Sweat dripped down her face, and her lip began to quiver, knowing her makeup was going to be ruined.

With a deep breath, she turned the AC off and rolled down the window. Goodbye, fancy curled hair. But the whipping wind outside wasn’t that much better. The temperature was pretty much the same inside and out. 

She turned on the radio to try to distract herself.

“This is radio KISS 44.6. And we’re in the middle of this huge heat wave-“

“YOU THINK?” She grumbled to herself as she stopped at a red light. 

She had managed to stop at every red light on the way to the office. It was as if god was throwing every sign at her not to do this stupid presentation.

As she got closer to the office, her eyes started to get really dry. Her vision blurred. So she blinked hard to get the focus back. Damn contacts. 

Her mouth was incredibly dry as well. Her tongue felt swollen against the roof of her mouth. A sudden sense of self-awareness overtook her. God, let’s hope she didn’t have bad breath before the meeting. 

Her head started to pound. She took a wavering breath, feeling that something was wrong. But she shook it off. Now was not the time for health anxiety. Once she got to the office, she’d chug a water bottle and call it go time.

But by Murphy’s law, naturally, the only parking spot available was the furthest possible one. That’s what I get for being late. Her mind kept replaying that sentiment as she made the trek toward the building, body tingling. It felt like she couldn’t think or process anything going on around her. 

Her eyes slowly became half-lidded as a wave of nausea overtook her. She gagged a cough, but fortunately, nothing came out. She didn’t really have time for breakfast that morning. The woman was set on her goal- making it to this goddamn work meeting. 

She was so set in fact, that when she finally reached the front of the building, she didn’t realize that the world around her was blacking out. And she was fully collapsing to the ground with no one to catch her. 

Dr. Robby had been having a pretty normal morning. With the heat wave, he had just about as many dehydration and heat stroke victims as he figured he would, and it wasn’t even noon. He was in the middle of convincing a woman that an IV does not inject microchips when Dr. Mohan knocked on the door frame. 

“Dana said to tell you there’s an incoming trauma. ETA less than five minutes. Some friends from SWAT got very ambitious. GSW.”

Robby clapped his hands, “Great. I’ll finish up here and get to lecture Jack about him and all his adrenaline junkie friends.”

She nodded and walked away, leaving Robby to convince this woman for another four minutes. 

A few minutes later, he walked out to see Jack pumping an AMBU bag on a man being rolled in on a stretcher. Both in full-camo uniform, they were surrounded by EMTs. Robby walked up, helping take the stretcher from the medics. 

“Take him to the trauma bay,” Robby instructed the nurses who took over for the EMTs.

Jack looked to Robby, “This is Peter. GSW in the right shoulder. Has an entry and exit wound. Carotid’s a little tachy, and had to give him an AMBU bag after he started to hyperventilate.”

“Hi, Peter. You got lucky today, having Dr. Abbot by your side.”

The man blinked hard as if to say, ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Robby looked to Jack, who was sweating much more than his usual, and the guy sweated a ton on the regular. 

“You been drinking water?”

“Of course. How do you think I can sweat through this goddamn jacket?”

They chuckled and rolled the man into the bay. 

Mid-bleed, Langdon was able to take over for Robby as he seemed to be pulled in every other direction. He peeled his bloody gloves off and threw them away as he rushed out to see a woman being rushed in from the ambulance bay. His attention immediately piqued. She looked… familiar. 

He started to rush forward as he would any other patient. But as he got closer, his footsteps quickened because this wasn’t just any other patient. This was Jack’s wife, and she lay unconscious on a stretcher being pushed. Her hair was drenched, presumably from sweat and paramedics spraying cold water on her. Ice packs covered her neck, chest, and stomach. 

“Shit.” He said, getting to her side. 

One of the paramedics began to speak, “This is-”

“Y/n Abbot. 25-year-old female.”

McKay, who had taken over for one of the EMTs, looked at him, confused. She didn’t even register the last name at first. 

“Do you know her?”

Robby’s brows raised, and he hissed a sigh, “This is Dr. Abbot’s wife.”

“Oh shit. Do you want me to grab him?”

He looked over and saw Jack in the middle of giving compressions to Peter. If he took him, they’d be left with no one but Langdon. While he was sure he could handle it… that was an all-hands-on-deck situation. And he knew that Jack would come sprinting if he learned. 

“No. Don’t tell him yet. We don’t need more chaos and a husband working on his wife.”

The paramedic continued, “Her coworkers found her unconscious outside their office. No idea how long she had been out there. Heat stroke. She was at 105, and we got it down to 104 through ice bags, but she hasn’t budged since being admitted. Laceration on the right side of her scalp from the fall. Bad bleed, but the wound’s shallow. Surprisingly, no indentation.”

“Doesn’t stop the possible concussion. Was she conscious and speaking at all?” 

The paramedic shook his head, “No. She’s been unconscious from arrival to here.”

“Shit. Perlah, Princess, get an ice bath ready in South 20,” Robby called out. 

The women nodded and started prepping the room. They didn’t necessarily have ice baths at the ready, but they did have the ability to fill a body bag with ice. They set up the blue bag on the bed and rushed to grab ice from a freezer nearby. 

They wheeled her in just as the two nurses were setting the bottom bed of ice. 

“Perfect, okay. We’re gonna lift her and move on three, ready? One two three-”

Everyone moved her onto the ice, so Perlah and Princess could overlay ice on top of her. Robby stepped back and ran his hands down his face. He looked over to see Jack and Langdon directly across the pitt. They were focused on stopping the bleeding and seemingly starting to finish up. Shit. 

“We need to hustle people. Start checking core temp again. We’ve only got around thirty minutes to get her to 102 before organ failure.” 

Organ failure. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Jack this. He didn’t want to tell him at all, actually. But part of him knew that if he didn’t tell him, he’d hate him for a long time… and it’d be even worse if this went awry. 

McKay took her hand out of the ice, “She’s at 104.4 right now.”

Robby barely registered it. He wrung his hands behind his neck.

She walked up to him with raised brows, “You know someone who could have her entire medical history? Someone who can answer for her? Abbot.” 

“Yeah.” Robby looked down at his shoes and shook his head, “Yeah. I know.”

“We need to tell him.”

He looked over at Jack and Langdon doing some sort of insane procedure. Par for the course of those two. He shook his head, then looked back at Cass. 

“I don’t think you understand how fragile this is, McKay.”

Her head bobbled as she stared at him in disbelief, her red ponytail swishing. 

“I’m not saying he scrubs in. I’m saying we need to ask him questions because his wife can’t do so.” 

Robby tried to hush his voice, but it came out in his upset growl, “Someone else’s life is in his hands, and if we tell him right now, he will let it slip through his fingers.”

“Well, her life is in our hands for the next twenty-five minutes, and if she turns out to be allergic to a medication we push-“

“Fuck, McKay! Let him finish up on that patient, and then we’ll tell him!” He exclaimed, rubbing his eyes. 

Perlah and Princess sent each other a wide-eyed look. They’d be talking about this in Tagalog later for sure. 

McKay put her hands in the air. “Okay. Fine.”

Robby ran his hands down his face.

“Keep monitoring her. Every few minutes. If she’s not lowering in ten, we need to prep for the worst. Keep the fans going and fresh ice and ice packs added.” He instructed McKay before heading out.

“Got it.” She said, knowing at the very least, he was right about the treatment.

Robby stormed out a bit more abruptly than he meant to. He had to check on other patients and needed to get his mind off Y/n and Jack until the time passed. 

Ten minutes later, Robby came back around to her room. McKay, Javadi, Princess, and Perlah were all doting on her. Perla was switching out an IV bag. 

“Update?” Robby crossed his arms.

“She’s still 103.8. Far from 102.” Javadi said, “We’ve given fluids, but she started seizing and had to push Keppra.” 

“Fuck. Okay. Her brain overheated, but hopefully, we may get some meaningful movement here soon. At least she’s cooling down, that’s what? .6 degrees in ten minutes? If we keep on this track, we should be okay.”

McKay stood up from her bedside. “Update on Abbot and his patient?”

“I uh- I haven’t checked.”

“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes went wide at him. 

“Not my patient, not my monkeys. I will ask Langdon for a status once we get her temperature under control.” 

McKay scoffed in complete disbelief. Just then, Mohan peeked her head through the door. 

“Dr. McKay, we need you back in West 14.” She said, then looked around, sensing the tense atmosphere. “Do you have a moment-”

“Yes. Yes. Dr. Robby, care to take over?” 

He nodded, “Of course.” 

She slipped out past Robby and started speed walking away, leaving Mohan to catch up with her. Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum.

“What’s going on?” Dr. Mohan held her clipboard to her chest.

“That heat stroke victim? That’s Abbot’s wife.” 

They both immediately turned to see Abbot watching their trauma patient get wheeled away to the ICU, then turned back to each other. 

Dr. Mohan’s eyes widened. “Have you told him?”

McKay’s jaw ticked. She raised her hands in innocent defeat.

“I’m about to.” 

Jack Abbot had just finished a miraculous pull-through. Peter had started to lose too much blood due to damage to an artery, but he and Langdon managed to use a balloon to pressurize it. He took a moment to catch his breath and throw off his camo zip-up, leaving him in just his black T-Shirt. He’d have to get back to HQ and report that Peter was alright. A full write-up and a nap were waiting for him at home before he’d have to come back to the pitt for the night shift.

Just then, Dr. Mohan walked up to him. He brightened a little at the familiar face, but her face was incredibly stoic. Did something happen to her? 

“Dr. Abbot. I need you to talk to Dr. McKay.” 

His brows furrowed, “Can she not come up to me herself?” 

“Just come with me and don’t talk to Robby.”

He followed her fast footsteps as she led him to the side of the nurses' station that couldn’t be seen from the South wing. He tried to look around for Robby, but was shielded by the walls and columns. For the most part, he figured it was just Mohan dealing with Robby breathing down her neck again. The guy was way too hard on her. So sometimes Jack lent an ear to listen. 

“What’s going on?” He asked as they approached Dr. McKay. That’s when he slowly started to realize that maybe this wasn’t just about Robby’s teaching techniques.

The red-headed woman clapped her hands gently. “Dr. Abbot, I need to tell you that your wife is in this ED right now.”

His heart completely dropped into his stomach. His mouth dried up as he blinked, surely not hearing her right. This couldn’t be true. He had to be hearing things after the adrenaline rush of being shot at. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It couldn’t be her usual dropping by to give him food mid shift because, well, he wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

“What?” 

“She’s in South 20, right now. Her co-workers found her outside unconscious. Heat stroke. We’ve got her in an ice bath and her temperatures coming down, but it’s slow.” McKay explained. 

He immediately started trying to look over her shoulder, trying to get a better vantage point of South 20. He couldn’t get a view, so he started walking past McKay. His walk at first was slow, but then he started to nearly sprint. The women ran after him as he 

“How long has she been here? How come nobody fucking told me?” 

He burst into the room and immediately covered his mouth at the sight. His beautiful wife lay unconscious in the ice, most of her clothes off. Her skin pale and her face covered in dried blood. He choked. And after everything that man has seen, it was hard to get him to react this strongly.

Javadi immediately stood up with wide eyes as if she had just been caught. Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Abbot crossed his arms, his horrified eyes morphed into anger. He slowly shook his head. His jaw clenched.

“I need patient status right now.”

Robby reached out, putting his hands on Abbot’s shoulders, “Jack, the best thing for you to do right now is to sit by her side and not-”

“Just tell me the fucking status of my goddamn wife!” 

Javadi spoke up in a shaky voice, “She’s down to 103.2 from 104.8. She started seizing, but we gave her Keppra, and she responded positively. Her pupils reacted, and we’re waiting for meaningful-” She saw the disapproving look from Robby, so her voice trailed off, “Movement…”

Jack didn’t even look at Robby as he shrugged him off. He pointed to Javadi. “I want 2,000 milliliters of saline delivered. Her seizure could be from losing electrolytes from sweating.”

“You’re not even on shift, Jack!” Robby exclaimed.

“Scrub me in. I’m not just gonna sit around while my wife’s kidneys fail and her brain swells.” 

Princess stood on the sidelines getting a surgery gown for Abbot ready, but Robby pointed to her. 

“Princess, do not get that dressing gown. Jack, sit down. If something happens, you do not want that responsibility to be on you.” 

Jack got slightly in his face.

“So you want it to be on you? My best friend, who didn’t tell me that my wife has been here the entire time? When I had to learn from fucking Dr. McKay and Dr. Mohan?” He said through gritted teeth. 

His chest heaved like he would cry any second. His heart was held together by the tiniest string, and at any moment it was ready to snap. Robby shook his head. 

“I’ll give the order for the saline, but you can go sit down. I’m not budging on this.” 

Just then, Javadi looked down and noticed her hand starting to twitch and move. Reaching out. Reaching to grip the blue medical bag. 

“We have movement!” 

Jack glared at Robby, but shook his head in defeat. “Give the order.”

Robby sighed and gave out the order for the saline. Perlah was already on it.

Jack rushed over to her side as McKay ran in and gave him a chair to sit in next to her. He noticed her pointer and middle fingers twitching. Her wrist struggled to pull up. He reached down to hold it. 

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart. I’m right here.” He didn’t take his eyes off her, “Lighten the sedative. I wanna see if she can squeeze my hand. Give a neurotest.” 

At first, Robby didn’t say anything. With crossed arms, he had a look in his eyes as if he were thinking it over. Perlah looked to him for approval, and after a moment of consideration, he nodded. 

“Yeah. Do it.” 

Perlah shot an activator into the IV, and after a few minutes, her eyes began to waver. Her head began to shake side to side. Slurring words stumbled out of her mouth. 

Javadi shot up excited, “102! We can move her.” 

“Perfect.” Robby called out, moving over to her side, “Let’s get a fresh bedside and dry her off.” 

Jack squeezed her hand, “Good job, baby. Coming back to us.” 

She made a half-conscious noise before her eyes grew completely heavy again. He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, thankful to whatever god out there that her temperature had made it down in time. 

An hour later, she woke up in a proper ICU bed. Her entire body ached like she had been hit by a truck. All her muscles felt wrung out to the point where even breathing felt like a challenging task. Her eyes fluttered open and then closed again at the bright hospital lights. She grumbled before forcing herself to look around. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” Jack said in the gentlest voice he could muster. 

She looked over at him and blinked, confused. Last she remembered… she was heading to work. How did she get here? And why did her husband look so… fragile? The bags under his eyes looked heavier than usual, and he sat hunched over as if his bones were too heavy for him to bear. 

He reached out and squeezed her hand. 

“Can you say something for me?”

“What happened?” 

He put her hand to his forehead and shut his eyes tight, grateful to hear her voice. He brought it to his mouth to kiss it again, then looked to her. 

“You had a bad case of heat stroke.” His voice cracked, “I don’t even know how you managed to get such a bad case.”

She swallowed, slowly putting the pieces together.

“I was running late… And I kept running back and forth to the car cause I kept forgetting stuff. Then- then my car AC broke. Just blasting hot air.”

His eyes widened in horror, “Did you roll the window down?”

“Mmhm.” She nodded, then winced. It felt like her brain was weighing down her skull with a pounding headache. She sniffled, “Then I had to park in the far lot today… And I felt a little weird… Now I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He reached out and brushed her messy hair back out of her face. He tucked a few strands behind her ear. “It’s been… It’s been a rough day, huh?” 

Her eyes suddenly popped open, and she tried to sit up. 

“THE PRESENTATION. I don’t know if my boss got the files to-”

Jack immediately stood up and pressed a calloused palm against her shoulder, gently guiding her back to lie back down. 

“I don’t think your boss is worried about that. They’re probably more worried about a personal injury suit.” He reassured, “You can contact them after you get better, and if they don’t understand, you shouldn’t be working for them anyway.”

She slowly nodded with a pathetic, “Ow.”

There was a moment of silence. The hospital beeps and the whir of the air conditioning were the only noise filling the air. Jack took a shaky breath, trying to exhale all his worries away, but failing. 

“You gave us quite the scare.” His voice cracked, “I-I was in the ED because of a SWAT shift. I didn’t even know you were here until McKay told me. And it was… a close call, sweetheart. A real close call.”

She melted at his words. It was a rare sight to see Jack choked up. She’d only seen it a handful of times before. Even in his darkest moments, he preferred to cry to himself, not in front of her. She squeezed his hand. 

“W-why were you in the ED? Are you okay?”

He let out a gruff laugh, “You’re seriously worrying about me when you’re the one who passed out?” 

She nodded, and he sighed with a small resting smile now. His love apparent in his softened eyes. 

“I’m okay. There was a hostage situation, and my buddy Peter was sent in to negotiate. Came out with a bullet through the shoulder.” He explained, “I was out of the line of fire. So nothing scary for me.”

“And Peter?”

“Peter’s okay too.” He reassured, “You hungry? The doctors are gonna give you a bunch of tests soon for your blood and kidneys, and you’ll need to eat after.”

She shrugged, “I’m really thirsty… And exhausted.”

“I bet, sweetheart.” He stood up and leaned down to kiss her forehead, “I’ll go grab you some water.” 

Suddenly, she tugged at his hand, “Don’t leave.”

He froze, looking down at her nervous expression. The quiver in her lip and the way her brows slanted down. There was no way he was gonna leave his girl like this. 

“Okay.” He sat down at her bedside again, “I’ll just text Robby to send a nurse, okay?” 

“Okay…”

He sent the quick text on his phone, then pocketed it in his cargo pants. 

“Rest. I’ll be here the whole time… Quite literally, I have a shift here in six hours.”

She huffed, crossing her arms, “Then you should sleep too.”

“Fine. Fine, we’ll take a nap together. How’s that?” 

And when she nodded with a small smile, he scoffed playfully and shook his head. 

“Always worrying about everyone else.” He murmured under his breath, making her giggle.

Shifting her back down against the stiff hospital bed, she did her best to get comfy. And once she found a decent spot, she looked over at Jack with half-lidded eyes. He was in the middle of trying to configure some sort of sleeping position in an armchair that looked practically plastic. 

He eventually leaned back and crossed his arms against his chest. Shutting his eyes, he tilted his head back. She was glad to see him somewhat comfortable. 

“I love you, Jack.”

One eye opened in a comedic fashion, making her giggle before his head lulled to face her. He looked at her with exhausted eyes.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

You tiptoe into the house, not wanting to wake Jack since it’s nearly midnight. You’re already tugging off the long diamond earrings that have been weighing down your lobes the entire evening when you see that Jack’s still awake, the living room lamp feeding light into the entryway. You head over, the crystals of your dress flinging rainbows all over the place, and murmur, “Hi, Jackie. I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

“Can’t sleep if you’re not here,” he replies gently, leaning up to catch a kiss before returning to his reading. “You’re home awfully late.”

“Yeah, it was my award banquet thingy,” you remind him as you slip out of your heels. You flash the trophy that says ‘Pittsburgh Small Business of the Year’ and add, “I won, by the way.”

Not even glancing up from his book, Jack replies, “That’s great, hon.”

Your heart falls a little, but you swallow it down. He’s had a long day; you read about the train derailment on the news earlier and know he must’ve been in the middle of all the ugliness, staying late to make sure things went well. So you don’t say anything more about your night. In the morning, you know he’ll apologize for being short with you and ask all about it and tell you how beautiful you looked.

Swallowing hard, you turn back around and head to the kitchen to have a glass of water before bed. After a beat, you hear Jack’s footsteps padding up behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind and kisses up your neck. You hum a little and sip your water. Usually, you’d turn around and kiss him hard, play with his hair, take him to bed.

When he pulls away, Jack sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re mad at me for missing your thing tonight.”

You turn around and give him a soft kiss, trying to reroute him before it turns into a thing. “I saw about that train thing; I’m sure you had a really hard shift.”

“Honey,” he replies gently, “I can tell you’re upset; don’t deflect.”

“But I’m not mad.” You give a small smile, trying to put on a brave face because you know he needs to get to bed. “I understand; it’s no big deal.”

Jack prods, his tone light but with an edge you don’t like the sound of. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not mad,” you insist again, voice getting tighter and higher, admittedly getting a little mad that he won’t drop it when you don’t want to get into anything with him this late. The two of you are really good communicators, but you’re both exhausted and you’re in opposite moods, so you know it’s a recipe for disaster. You reach out and give his bicep an affirming squeeze.  “Let’s just go to bed, Jackie; we can talk about it in the morning when we’ve both had some rest.”

Jack shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest, taking up an army stance with you like he does during fights. “I’m definitely not going to sleep if you’re upset with me.”

“Fine, okay.” You sigh and shrug and look at your feet, at the cute pedicure you got to match your pretty dress. “I wish you’d been there tonight. It was important to me and it kinda sucked to be there by myself. But that doesn’t mean I don’t-”

Jack gives a sharp sigh and you both know he’s taking work out on you before he even starts speaking. “You can’t have expected me to miss work for something as trivial as-”

You cock your head to the side. Offense crawls up your throat. “Trivial? I know it’s not exactly rocket science, but since when have you thought what I do is trivial?”

Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He looks at you like you’re dumb and you want to slap him. You’ve been looked at like that way too many times by way too many people. But never by Jack. “Seriously? I was at the hospital dealing with a train derailment that had twelve casualties and you were at some glitzy dinner for local business owners. Expecting me to leave my job for something like that isn’t the same as-”

“God, I don’t care that you missed it! I didn’t even ask you to go because I knew you wouldn’t be able to; stop putting words in my mouth!” You dump out the rest of the water and set the glass down with a ringing thud. “I know how important your job is; you literally save lives and, trust me, you never let me forget it. Do you really think I’m so shallow that-”

“If the shoe fits,” he scoffs, the sound way too harsh and way too judgmental, “and you sure own a lot of fucking shoes.”

You nod slowly, blinking back tears. You hate that you cry when you’re angry; you just want to be able to yell at him, but you can’t because your throat is too thick with emotion. After a deep breath, you set your jaw, meet his eyes with blistering contact, and reply, “Sorry about that. I guess I forgot for a second that I’m just the smart important doctor’s dumb fiancée and not a whole person. I’ll make sure to check myself before I dare to succeed on my own merit again.”

Jack sighs, but he still doesn’t have much apology in his tone, “Baby, I wasn’t trying to imply that-”

Voice wobbling, you cut him off, whispering to stop the tears, “I just wanted you to be proud of me. That’s all. But you didn’t even say congratulations. Not once since I got the nomination. I just told you I won a huge award that recognizes my whole career and you didn’t even look at me. I work so, so hard to make you feel appreciated and to respect what you do and to make time for you and even your coworkers and- and the one time you have the chance to do the same for me, you don’t even try. That fucking hurts, Jack.”

He can’t remember the last time you called him ‘Jack’ instead of ‘Jackie.’ It punches him in the stomach. Hard.

He’s barely even processed the pain in your sweet voice before you’re turning around and heading for the front door, zero hesitation or doubt in your step as you snatch your purse from the kitchen island.

“Fuck, where are you going?” Jack hustles behind you, touching your elbow as you grab your keys and shove your feet into your fluffy pink slippers. It’s the dead of winter and you don’t even bother with your fuzzy boots. The thought of you being so hurt you’re going to risk frostbite makes bile rise in Jack’s throat. He rasps, “Don’t- Baby, please don’t go out there by your-”

But you’re already gone.

The door slams.

You drive aimlessly for a long time, not even realizing you’re heading toward Robby’s place until you’re parking out front. After a deep breath, you collect your bag and drop into the slushy street before marching to his door. 

It takes a minute for Robby to appear; it’s late, after all. He pulls open the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and takes you in. Beautiful glittering dress, running mascara, pink bunny slippers wet from the snow. “What’s going on, peanut?”

Even in distress, Robby’s refusal to let you forget the Halloween party anaphylaxis incident that led to the two of you becoming real friends independently of Jack makes you laugh. Maybe that was the point. You swipe off the most recent layer of tears and explain, “Jack and I are in a fight. Can I stay here tonight?”

Robby steps back and opens the door wider, letting you push in past him. “You wanna talk about it?”

You sniffle and give a bashful sort of smile. “No; I just wanna be alone and sleep, if that’s okay.”

“Casa Robinavitch is a great place for that. I’ll get the guest bedroom made up, alright? Grab a glass of water or something.” Then, seeing your eyes going misty again, he tentatively offers, “You need a hug, don’t you?”

You nod and whimper pathetically as he opens up his huge arms. Folding against his body, you let out a few shaky breaths to fend off more tears. “Thanks, Mikey.”

“No problem,” he soothes as you let him go. Once he started seeing you as more of a baby sister than his buddy’s girl, he realized how important hugs could be to a person and how good he is at giving them out. Because of you, he's become a hugger.

Embarrassed to even ask, you gesture to your getup and mutter, “Um, could I borrow a shirt? I wasn’t really thinking about pajamas during my dramatic storming out thing.”

“Gotta do what you gotta do when it comes to making a point at the end of a fight with our boy,” he sighs. If you’re showing up on his door instead of having makeup sex, it must’ve been bad. Jack lives to make you happy. “Tees in the bottom drawer, sweatshirts in the closet. Knock yourself out.”

Robby scrounges up an extra toothbrush and towels for you to warm up with a shower before bed and then he leaves you be for the night with a reminder that he’s just down the hall if you need anything. Then he turns in, exhaustion still heavy in his body from the day’s shift. On his side, he grabs his phone from the nightstand and sighs as he texts Jack.

You hate fighting with Jack. The two of you have always been so good about never going to bed angry – or at least never going to bed without agreeing to talk about it in the morning – so, before sleeping, you still send him a text

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then the texts flood your phone right in a row.

But you don’t text back.

You go to work early, checking Jack’s location to make sure you won’t overlap with him at the house when you stop home to change for the day. He sends you a few things throughout his shift like he always does, little reminders to drink water and notes about his interesting cases. But you don’t say anything back. Each of your read receipts feels like a gunshot to his gut.

Then, as you close up shop for the night, you get one more message, this time with an address attached to it.

Meet me for drinks. Please?

Your fingers hover over the letters for a long time. It’s not like you were planning on going back to Robby’s for another night. This wasn’t, like, a relationship-ending fight. You needed a bit of space and you got it. Jack’s still the man you want to marry more than anything at the end of the day. But, you reason, a little groveling over fancy cocktails definitely wouldn’t hurt.

I’m fifteen minutes away.

It’s a rooftop bar you haven’t been to before, twinkly string lights along the fences and happy couples sipping overpriced designer cocktails around patio heaters that keep the snow and the cold at bay. Jack’s waiting by the entrance in your favorite suit, sage green that brings out his beautiful hazel eyes and shiny silver hair, the top few buttons of his shirt undone just the way you like.

When you walk up with a tight smile, he touches your waist, kisses your cheek, and says, “Hi, baby. I got us a table over on the far edge. Great view.”

He leads you over, hand on your lower back, pulling your chair out and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. When he sits across from you, it’s easy for you to see the nerves written all over his face. Call it schadenfreude if you have to, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction in your gut knowing he’s been torturing himself over what he said.

After ordering some whiskey for himself and your favorite pink wine, Jack reaches into his jacket and says, “I’d like to start with the ceremonial apology jewelry, if that’s alright with you.”

Already fighting a smile because he’s, well, perfect, you nod and agree, “That is our tradition, after all.”

He presents you with a small dark red leather box, which he pops open at the hinges to present a golden bangle of countless small diamonds in a half pave around it. He confirms your sparking, delighted suspicions, “Enticelle collection from Cartier. To match your hoops and necklace from Christmas.”

As he removes the bracelet and clasps it around your wrist, you admire the delicate glamor and squeal, “Jackie! This is so beautiful. Absolutely perfect.”

“There’s three more at home,” he tells you sheepishly, relief flooding him at hearing you say his nickname again. “I know you like to wear your bangles stacked. And, ah, felt a little more fitting to go overboard since I fucked up so bad.”

The drinks arrive but you don’t drop Jack’s gaze, going to assure him, “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t-”

“Don’t,” he interrupts softly. So softly. “I’m sorry, angel. You’re brilliant and talented and you work so damn hard for yourself and this whole community.” He takes your hand and looks at you intensely. Like he means it – because he does. “I’m so fucking proud of you. I mean, Pittsburgh Small Business of the Year? That’s huge. I should’ve been there clapping and cheering and showing you off because that’s what you deserve. The hospital’s got a hundred doctors, but I’ve only got one you.”

Your heart melts as he kisses your fingers slowly.

You’re ready to tell him he’s forgiven, but he goes on, “I wish there were a word stronger than ‘sorry’ to tell you how I feel. I wish I could take back every word I said. Christ, you're the least shallow person I've ever met. I was mean because I felt guilty and exhausted and I should’ve just listened to you and gone to bed instead of lashing out.” With a final sigh, he moves his hand to the side of your face, guiding you close enough to kiss but waiting for you to close the distance. He tells you firmly, “I love you more than anything. I still can’t believe you agreed to marry me. And I’m so fucking grateful for you.”

All of a sudden, before you can talk or kiss him, he checks his watch, curses under his breath, takes your hand, and stands up to get a better look at the city. “Here, kitten, I got you something to go with my apology.”

“Something besides thousands and thousands of dollars in gold and diamonds?”

Laughing at himself, Jack nods. “Well, you wouldn’t be the girl for me if you didn’t appreciate grand, over-the-top romantic gestures. Come on, I don’t wanna miss it.”

Your brows wrinkle as you stand, slipping easily into Jack's arms. “Miss what?”

He stands behind you, one hand on your hip to line up your bodies, and points down the street. There, right in the middle of downtown, is your smiling face, blown up by a thousand, on a beautifully designed electronic billboard. You recognize the photo as a close crop from your engagement shoot, edited and maneuvered by a professional to look more like a skincare ad. You’d never realized Jack made you smile like that in those pictures: A million watts, lit up for the world to see.

Charm Made Effortless Kismet Boutique & Beauty Bar Pittsburgh’s Small Business of the Year

You turn back to Jack with tear-filled eyes, lips parted softly open. “It hasn’t even been 24 hours. How did you do this?”

“It was extremely expensive,” he replies with a smile as a few tears slip onto your winter-pink cheeks, “and I may have had to stay awake all night and call in a hell of a lot of favors. Did you know I saved the mayor’s life a few years ago?”

Eyeing him carefully, you warn, “Be serious, Jackie.”

He tugs you close and explains softly, “I hired the graphic designer for the ad as soon as you got the nomination.” Then he wipes the tears from your cheeks and tells you, “I was going to surprise you with it next week because the lead times for billboards – even the electronic ones – are insane. Like, months. But apparently calling the company sobbing about how you need to apologize to your fiancee and then offering, ah, a lot more money will get it up a week early.”

You twine your fingers in the curls at the base of his neck and ask gently, “You had this planned the whole time?”

“I knew you were going to win, baby, from the first moment we saw your name on the shortlist. I’m always proud of you. And I always believe in you.” After kissing your forehead tenderly, he sighs and whispers, “Apparently my attempts at being coy and subtle came off uncaring and shitty. And sometimes I’m still just a stupid asshole who puts his foot in his mouth when he’s stressed. I know I don’t deserve-”

You quiet him with a kiss that he softens into, so thankful to feel your lips on his after a day without that he whimpers. “You’re forgiven, Jackie. We’re okay. I love you.”

Jack presses his forehead to yours and pinches his eyes shut, telling you reverently, “I love you so much.”

You hug him again, but this time it’s mostly so you can press your lips to his ear and murmur, “I’d like to finish off the apology with the ceremonial forgiveness fucking in the nearest empty stairwell, if that works for you.”

He turns the hug into a grinning kiss, dipping you back by your waist and groaning, “You really are the perfect woman for me.”

"And don't you ever forget it."

jack abbot: the pitt

just a little taste — the one where jack finds reader smoking in their new place.

current boyfriend — the one where reader introduces her silver fox of a boyfriend to her tiktok followers.

the periwinkle stanley — the one where jack and reader are in a secret relationship.

in the garden where forever blooms — the one where they get married.

another double shift — the one where jack visits his pathologist wife.

jack x shy! reader series:

the first time she met jack — the one where a shy reader meets the one. jack abbot.

you really had no idea — the one where jack asks her on a date.

shaky breaths and beating hearts — the one where they have sex. authors note: smut

the gala — the one where jack takes her to a charity thing for work and there’s a shark in the crowd.

sammy bryant: southland

test the theory — the one where reader challenges sammy to see if he can actually handcuff her like one of his suspects.

iced lemonade — the one where sammy finds reader in the not so squeaky clean side of town.

communication — the one where sammy is used to a toxic relationship. reader reels him back in.

sammys girl — the one where sammy’s new girl surprises him after work & ben can’t help but tease his partner.

teachers pet — the one where sammy visits his teacher!girlfriend on career day.. he has ulterior motives.

pope cody: animal kingdom

just another maniac party — the one where pope finds reader in pain and she has her own way of calming him down.

the librarian — the one where pope loves the library. it’s quiet. and clean. and most importantly, she’s there.

there she is [part two of the librarian] — the one where pope sees her in a coffee shop.

work those muscles — the one where a guy is flirting with her and pope sees red.

passenger princess — the one where pope cheers her up after seeing something on the side of the road.

texts w jack: the pitt

i’ll take care of it baby

you forgot your stethoscope

lost at the farmers market

trader joe’s

text me when you’ve eaten

accidentally added

ice cream run

would you still love me if…

after an argument

jack finds a smutty book

don’t touch

blurbs & concepts: jack, sammy, pope

coming home to you — sammy comes home to reader.

candy shop — sammy knows what love at fist sight is.

tanning by the pool — pope notices that she’s burning from the sun.

Most of your time is spent at his place so you can cook for him like you are tonight. Usually, while you wait for the food to finish, you find yourself cleaning up a little. The way he practically drops to his knees every time you take care of him has your sixth sense going off. 

You know it’s coming soon, him asking you to move in with him. Your female spidey-senses are primed to go off the second you find a man ready to commit. It is such a rare trait nowadays. 

It would be smart to say yes to him; you practically live with him already. But something is holding you back. No matter how much you care about him (maybe even love him), there is this gnawing thought that’s been plaguing you. Everything's been going good. 

Perfect, even. 

You’re crazy about each other, your fights are always resolved quickly, and he does anything he can to make you happy. But things are too easy, too conflict-free. Something bad is coming, you just know it. 

The lock clicks on the door, and you find yourself smiling, already untying your apron. Turning the heat down on the stove, you turn in time to see Sammy walking in. His face lights up as he sees you. 

He drops into your embrace the second you open your arms. You laugh a little, shifting your hips so his holster isn’t digging into you. He mutters into your neck how much he missed you, and you feel the rest of your carefully enforced independence shrink away. 

It’s inevitable. You’ve gone full housewife. 

“How was work?” You ask, dragging your hand through his hair as he pulls back. He shrugs you off, and you sigh, realizing this is going to be a man-no-talk-about-feelings night. He huffs and tosses his jacket on the kitchen island. 

Your gaze narrows, and you click your tongue once. Sammy’s eyes widen before he picks it up, moving it to the entryway closet. Where it belongs. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, smirking when you see the color that grows on his cheeks. 

He comes up behind you, arm winding around your waist. You glance down at his thick forearm and physically hold back the urge to dig your teeth into him. “God, sweetheart, this looks amazing,” he lets out a breathy exhale as he watches you finish up dinner. You grin, making him a plate as he lets go and takes a seat at the island. 

“Beer?” You ask, already getting it for him. I’m a traitor to my people, you think as you hand your man a cold one to go with the steak dinner you’d cooked. You’re making yourself your own plate when you catch him frowning at the stove. 

“What’s wrong?” He finally looks over at you and raises his brows. “I thought you liked this,” you tell him, nodding toward the food. 

He lets out a scoff and gives you an incredulous look. “‘Course I do, are you kidding? I love anything you cook.”

You fight back your smile at such simple praise. “Alright, why do you look like someone pissed in your beer, then?” 

His face screws up and you can’t help but laugh. Almost sheepish, he rubs the back of his neck, no longer meeting your eyes. “Got a couple guys from the station coming over.”

Shrugging, you finally take a bite of your dinner. Compliments to the chef, you think smugly. “What’s the big deal? Ben comes over all the time.”

Sammy moves his food around his plate and you glare down at the action. “They might be a little hungry.”

You let out an astonished scoff and he shrinks back with that boyish grin on his face that makes it nearly impossible for you to be mad. “Jeez, what am I, Sammy? Your girlfriend or maid? You know I don’t cook for any man.”

He glances down at his plate and then back at you with a pointed look. Rolling your eyes, you wave him off. “This is a rare exception because we have such amazing chemistry in bed. I swear, if you were an inch smaller down there, you’d be nuking stouffers.”

Sammy lets out a small huff of laughter that makes the constant tight feeling in your chest ease ever so slightly. “Glad to know what I’m worth. I’ll just order a pizza.”

“Shut up,” you tell him, already digging around in the fridge for some food to make his friends. You cut open a pack of kielbasa and toss it in a pan, your dinner going forgotten on the counter. Pointing a spatula at Sammy you warn him, “Don’t get used to this.”

He laughs at the sharp look on your face, his smile dropping when you pinch your lips, openly glaring at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”

You turn back to the stove with a weak sigh. “I’m only doing this because you’ve got that pathetic kicked puppy look on your face.” Quietly, he makes his way up to you, arms once again tugging you into his firm chest. 

“I promise,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a soft kiss there that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “I’ll make this up to you with my amazing bed chem,” he mocks. You laugh but it trails off as you melt further into him, an ache between your legs getting stronger the longer he kisses you. 

“You play dirty,” you mutter, and he smiles against your skin, knowing exactly what he’s doing. 

The guys he invites over seem nice enough. They’re loud, brash, and a little abrasive in the way your dad’s old friends used to be. Nothing you can’t handle or don’t expect from a group of off-duty cops. 

Though, your skin does crawl when you set the food out in the living room and you realize just the type of men you’re currently serving. Never ever again, you swear to yourself. There’s a knock at the door and you go to open it. 

A little piece of you relaxes when you look through the peephole and find Ben waiting on the other side. He smiles as you tug open the door. “Hey,” you greet, already pulling him into a hug. He presses a brief kiss to your temple and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the apartment. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” you tell him. 

“Yeah?” He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disaster area that is Sammy’s kitchen. “When’d you have time for all this?” He chuckles, plucking some of your leftover steak and popping it in his mouth. 

“When I skipped dinner,” you grumble, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you. “It’s just a one time thing,” you tell him. “Sammy’s seemed a little off lately, I figured he needed an easy night.”

“Yeah,” Ben walks up to you, hand once again finding your shoulder. “I’ve noticed that, too. Was getting a little worried.”

Any further conversation is interrupted as someone shouts, “Beer!” from the living room. You shoot Ben an astonished look that he only laughs at. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Sammy trails off, eyes narrowing at Ben’s completely platonic touch on your arm. He walks over and swats his grip away, tugging you back into his chest. 

You let out a short chuckle at the amused look on Ben’s face. “I’ve been designated the beer wench,” you tell Sammy. He scowls, brows furrowing as he scoffs. 

“I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over for the dinner you’d abandoned and places it firmly in your hands. “Finish eating, sweetheart.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, redirecting you to a seat as he points at Ben. “You’re with me, come on.” Ben shoots you one last grin before he helps Sammy carry the beer into the living room. 

The living room gets louder the longer they stay. For the most part, you manage to ignore it, flipping through your book as you pick at your dinner. 

“We need more dip!” Your brows furrow and you look up with a scoff. There’s no way they think you’re actually going to bring them any. Right?

Shaking your head, you settle back into your seat and resume reading. “Dip!” 

“Fuck me,” you mutter, shoulders tense as you work to ignore the assholes in Sammy’s living room. 

It’s not much longer until Sammy’s walking into the kitchen. His brows raise when he spots you at the table. You give him a tense smile that’s met with a confused frown. “I thought you were in my room.”

You shake your head, “Nope. Been in here the whole time.”

Sammy glances between you and the living room with a cute little furrow between his brows. “Can you hear us in there?”

“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “Loud and clear.” Your point is almost instantly proven by a loud round of jeering laughter that makes your skin shrink back. 

“Oh, well,” he hums, digging through the fridge to grab the dip. “How come you didn’t bring this?” He asks, holding up the container. 

Your eyes narrow sharply. “Maybe because it’s not the fifties and they’re grown men who can walk their asses into the kitchen themselves. Besides, you’re the only one I’m sleeping with, you’re the only one who gets to ask for it.”

A grin breaks out on his face as he walks over to you. You lean forward, chin tilting as his hand slides around your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. “I’ll get them under control,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips. 

You just nod, head tilting as you admire his ass as he makes his way back into the living room. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself out of your chair and start cleaning up the disastrous array of dishes. 

Your hands are pruny and dried out by the time you’re done. So, with the most reluctant gait, you force yourself out into the living room to fetch your favorite lotion. A football game is playing on the TV at an obscene volume, but they seem to be ignoring it in favor of whatever card game they’ve got going on. 

Ben shoots you a small smile as he catches you creeping around the perimeter of the living room. Just as you’re about to sneak out, he calls your name, cutting through the buzz of chatter. “Gonna join us?”

His smug grin is met with a stare that promises death. “Oh, sure,” you grit out, wishing you could choke him out. Sammy waves you over and you perch on the edge of the couch’s armrest. “You winning?” You ask, glancing over his cards and finding yourself completely lost on whatever game it is they’re playing. 

One of his buddies lets out a loud laugh and Sammy’s cheeks go red. You’ll take that as a no. The guy reaches over, slapping Sammy’s shoulder. “Hey, who knows, maybe your little lady can be a good luck charm.”

“Don’t love that,” you whisper to Sammy as he takes you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap. 

“What,” he teases,  “you don’t like being my little lady?”

You slap at his shoulder and he just laughs. You make yourself comfortable, head resting in the curve of his neck as you watch a few more rounds of this odd game play out. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s particularly good at it. Every turn ends with someone muttering something obscene under their breath. 

When your brain has reached its threshold for drunken cheers, you turn your lips toward Sammy’s ear. “I’m going to bed,” you tell him. Already struggling to keep your eyes open. 

He peers over at you, eyes a little wide. “You’re staying the night?”

You pull back, slightly offended by his tone. “Don’t I always?” 

Something shifts on his face, this fleeting emotion that he doesn’t let you get a decent read on. “Yeah, yeah,” his tone is too light, so casual you don’t believe it. “I just don’t want us being loud and keeping you up.”

You just shake your head and press a firm kiss to his cheek. “You know I sleep through anything.” Balancing slightly on his shoulder, you push yourself up to your feet. 

“Calling it quits?” Ben asks, looking just as bored as you are. You just offer him a tired smile and move to head to Sammy’s bedroom. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you mind clearing some of this away so we can use the table?” Turning, you’re shocked to find one of Sammy’s buddy’s addressing you. Although, you’re not sure how you can be certain considering he doesn’t even look at you when he’s speaking, eyes too focused on his cards. 

“Excuse me?” You mutter, so taken aback you forget to tell him off. 

“You’re a doll,” he dismisses, swiping one of the other men’s cards. Stunned by the audacity and such blatant dismissal, you actually find yourself doing what he asks. It feels wrong as you bend down and scoop up the plates. You practically made them a feast, the least these assholes could do is help you clean up. 

With a low huff and a pointed glare at Sammy, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You don’t even want to clean them. You’ve already spent half an hour doing that tonight. But the idea of all this food being dried on the ceramic tomorrow disturbs you just enough to grab the sponge. 

Ben walks in from the living room, a couple of plates and glasses in his hands. He drops them by the sink and you send him a grateful smile. “Thought you were going to bed,” he muses, digging around in the fridge for another beer. 

A little bit of shame curls in your stomach as you clean up after the men in Sammy’s apartment. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I just don’t want to worry about this in the morning.”

He lets out a snort which snags a laugh from you. “Why would you worry? This ain’t even your place.”

Your hands still, soap and soggy crumbs dripping beneath your fingers as you hesitate to meet his eyes. “Well,” you force a cheeky smile and shrug. “Not yet, at least.” God, how pathetic are you?

He holds his hands up, surrendering even though you can see there’s more he wants to say. You watch him as he heads back into the living room and drop the dishes in the sink. You’re done for the night, you’ve done far more than you even wanted to. Sucking in a sharp breath you dry your hands and try to head back to bed. 

A quick, “Beer!” has you pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. It pains you, but you’re already in here and you don’t feel like looking petty in front of Sammy’s friends. Grumbling under your breath about men and getting off their fat asses, you pluck a beer from the fridge and plop it in the first outstretched palm you see. 

The man chuckles while Ben shoots you a surprised look. “Nice, Sammy. You’ve got her well-trained. Must’ve learned from the first marraige.” Your jaw actually drops as you stare at the balding man addressing your boyfriend. 

Another one pipes up, his laughter making your skin crawl. “Everyone knows the first is just a starter. It’s not until, at least, the third that you actually land a decent broad.”

You suck your teeth, staring pointedly at Sammy while you wait for him to pipe up. When he doesn’t, a low chuckle leaves you. “Hear that, baby? You got one more after me.”

Sammy finally meets your eye, just barely. His head ducks down as he shrugs. “They don’t mean it like that.” You let out an astounded gasp, looking around for anyone to support you on just how insanely backwards this whole conversation is. But the only one who will meet your eye is Ben and his stupid face just says “I told you so.”

“Right, okay.” You finally make your way into Sammy’s bedroom, just to grab your bag and turn your happy ass right around. “I’m going home, Sammy,” you call over your shoulder. 

“Wait- What?”

You hear Ben let out a little laugh while you grab your coat from the hook. “Hope you’re ready to get reacquainted with your right hand, man.” His tone is malicious. 

It’s strange, going to your own place after work. Not immediately starting on dinner. It’s a slight wake-up call that you’re committing too much of your time to a man who hasn’t even asked you to move in yet. 

Still, that doesn’t make you miss the smile he always greets you with any less. Tossing your coat on the back of your couch, you head into your kitchen. Your cabinets are hardly stalked, the majority of your meals taking place at Sammy’s apartment. Meaning your dinner tonight is going to be expired ramen and some saltines. 

You’ve had worse. 

Your phone rings just as you toss the ramen in the microwave. Glaring down at the screen you watch Sammy’s picture light up. Crossing your arms, you lean back on the counter and wait for it to stop. He immediately calls back and you decide to let him stew a bit. You allow three ignored calls before you finally pick up on the fourth. 

“Hey, sweetheart, where are you?” He’s doing a horrible job at masking the stress in his voice and it almost makes you smile. 

“I’m at my place. Where else would I be?” You turn to the microwave, watching as the water bubbles and froths over the lid of your ramen cup. Grimacing, you redirect your attention to Sammy. More importantly, the leftovers you know he has and you really want to dig into. 

“With me,” he supplies, laughter light and uneasy. 

You hum a little and shake your head. “I don’t know. Is this because you miss me? Or is it just because I’m so well trained?” You make zero effort to hide the venom in your tone. He should know he screwed up. He should have also already figured out that he was going to be put on a week-long sex probation after last night. 

Sammy lets out a low groan and you can picture the way he probably slides his hand across his jaw, eyes clenching shut. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I swear, I told them off the second you left. I just got drunk and…”

“And… acted like the sort of jackasses I’ve already spent a lifetime dumping?” You supply for him. 

He lets out another low laugh and you hate how you find yourself smiling at the sound. “Exactly. So, would you come over? Let me make it up to you?”

You let out a sharp breath, eyeing your boiling dinner with disdain. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to eat over here.”

You let yourself in with the key Sammy gave you. Not an invitation to move in, just an easier way for you to get in before him and have dinner ready. Maybe his friends were right, he does have you trained. 

Shaking away the disturbing thought, you narrow your eyes as Sammy walks out of the kitchen. He gives you that familiar smile of his you love and it takes every iota of self control not to return it. 

He frowns when you don’t reciprocate. “Really, sweetheart?” 

“What?” You take your coat off, kicking the door closed behind you. 

Sammy shoots you a flat look, palm finding a spot on your lower back as he guides you into the kitchen. “Is this how we’re playing it tonight? You want to be passive-aggressive?”

You scoff, some of your anger easing as you realize he’s made dinner, tonight. “I actually just prefer aggressive-aggressive, you should be happy I’m being passive.” Sammy just laughs and presses a firm kiss to your temple. 

“You’re impossible, you know that?” You hum, watching as he grabs two plates and drops them on the dining table. You follow him, moving to take a seat when his hands snake out and take a hold of your waist. 

“What’re you-” There’s no stopping the laugh that bubbles out of you as he tugs you onto his lap. And that knowing smile he sends you means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Yeah, I’m the impossible one,” you scowl, but it’s defeated by the smile tugging at your lips. 

He reaches up, brushing some hair over your shoulder as he shifts you in his lap. He’s got a better view of your face now, his expression softening into something sincere.  “I really am sorry about last night, hun. There’s no excuse.”

You bite your lip, arm lifting to wind over his shoulders. Inside, you’re still fuming, raging at him for not even attempting to defend you, just letting those guys speak to you like you were some maid. But you’ve spent years being the “cool” girlfriend, always letting shit slide so that guys don’t get tired of you after a month. 

So, instead of doubling down, you lean down and kiss him. “It’s fine, Sammy,” you tell him. 

Unfortunately, the cool girl syndrome has and always will be a chronic blight on your life.

“We, uh, have a schedule, now,” he tells you. His eyes drop from your face, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweater, instead. 

You swat his hand away before he ruins the hem. “What do you mean?” 

“Every Thursday night,” he tells you, head resting against your shoulder as you pick at the food he made. “There shouldn't be any more surprise drop-ins for you.”

You let out a huff that he tenses at. As much as you want to object, you’ve been on the receiving end of one of his rants when he was first divorcing Tammi. She had never wanted to go to his office functions. Never wanted to meet any of his cop buddies. She was always so neurotic and steadfast in being as separated from his work as she could be. 

You didn’t want to do that. You weren’t looking to be the girl that shit on her man hanging out with his friends just because you don’t like them (cool girl strikes again). You don’t want his friends to be right, you don’t want to just be the stepping stone while he looks for the third wife. 

“Alright,” you acquiesce and he perks up. That stupid, crooked grin almost makes it worth it. “But that bar-wench shit isn’t ever happening again,” you warn him, tone icy as you pull him back by his hair, forcing him to meet your eyes. 

Sammy nods eagerly, “I know, baby. We’re just gonna order pizzas from now on, you won’t have to do a damn thing.” Your gaze narrows into something sharp and he offers a timid smile. “And for the rest of tonight, I’m at your beck and call, promise.”

Slowly, you loosen your grip on his hair, running your fingers through the curls. And the way he preens when you call him a “Good boy” almost makes you think his friends won’t be a problem. 

There’s a game on the TV, soccer or football, you don’t know. Sammy’s got it turned down low so you can focus on your book. He’d dropped onto the couch an hour ago and hasn’t found the energy to move since. 

Peering over the edge of your book you watch as he pulls your legs into his lap, eyes never leaving the TV. A little smile curls on your lips as his hands idly stroke over your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s aware he’s awake and he still needs his hands on you. 

You hide behind your book as your smile grows. Asshole, making you all flustered over something so small. 

Really, though, it’s not your fault that all your exes were pieces of crap. That now your standards are so low you think a man respecting your “no” is a sign of saintliness. 

Just as you settle back into your book, Sammy’s door slams open, loud footsteps sounding through the entryway. Your heart jumps to your throat, legs jolting as you try and get a look over the couch. Sammy’s hands tighten around your legs, stopping you from bolting. Despite the way you can feel your heartbeat in your abdomen and are about to soil yourself, Sammy looks utterly unbothered. 

“Where you at, man?” 

“Shit,” you hiss at the unnecessarily loud voice coming from the door. Grabbing your phone you check the date and, sure enough, it's Thursday. Like an idiot you’ve already forgotten that he and his buddies are now on a strict schedule. You’ve been getting good at staying away or making yourself unavailable during his Thursday night games. Not tonight, though. 

The bald cop, Tony, you think his name is, makes his way to the living room. He eyes you and Sammy, cackling when he sees your legs in Sammy’s lap. “Shit, man,” he slaps Sammy’s shoulder. “She’s got you whipped.”

It’s almost subtle, the way Sammy brushes you off, reaching up to greet the man with one of those bro hugs. But you know him too well, you’ve gotten too good at recognizing the slight flush on his face is embarrassment. As if showing your girlfriend affection is something to be ashamed of. 

No wonder they’re all divorced.

Curling completely into yourself, you watch Sammy jump up, heading into the kitchen to greet the rest of his friends streaming in. At the very least they’ve decided the dining table is a better place to play than the living room. That way you don’t have to sneak past them when you try to head into Sammy’s room. 

With something venomous burning inside you, you pick up your book again. You’ll just ignore them, read, and go about your night like they aren’t a newfound plague on your peace. As they all settle, it grows increasingly difficult to try and drown them out. 

They’re filling the apartment with expletives and insults straight from the eighties, clearly none of them are any good at whatever they’re playing. You’re not even sure why they get together. You’ve never witnessed one successful game. 

Through the tin of rowdy men, you manage to make out a knock on the front door. You can’t imagine it’s anyone from this group, they prefer just busting through like the Kool-Aid man. 

Sitting up, you tilt your head, trying to hear if anyone’s moving toward it. Another knock and then Sammy’s shouting, “Babe, can you get that?”

“Babe?” You scoff, nose wrinkling as you push off the couch. Sure, you’ll get the door he’s five feet from. You send him a glare he doesn’t bother acknowledging as you throw open the door. 

Ben’s waiting on the other side with an easy grin. He’s balancing an obscene amount of pizza boxes as you pull him inside. “Glad you’re here,” you tell him, taking half of the stack from him. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, trailing after you into the kitchen. Without even thinking, you’re grabbing plates, already pulling out slices for the others. 

Ben gives you an odd look, leaning against the island, head tilted as he watches you. “You’re turning domestic.” His tone is teasing, but it’s not friendly. It seems like a warning. 

Swallowing thickly, you shrug, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You pause, finally looking up at him and he offers you a knowing smirk. “Right?” You whisper, suddenly unsure of yourself. 

“Sure,” he grins, taking some of the plates for you. “Whatever you say.”

“You’re such an ass,” you hiss, following him into the dining room. His shoulders shake a little as he laughs and you roll your eyes. Sammy gives Ben a brief greeting, smiling up at you when you pass him his plate. 

You toss Tony’s plate on the table with barely enough control to not have the glass shatter. Just as you begin to walk off, his arm snaps out, hand wrenching your wrist back. “Ow,” you curse, frowning down at the tight grip. 

“How about a beer, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look at you. 

You’re just about to tell him off when Sammy’s voice cuts through the chatter. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, Johnson?” The rest of the guys go quiet, looking up from their cards with nosy intrigue. Sammy’s just staring at Tony, and you swear you’ve never seen him so angry. 

You’ve heard him yell before, sometimes into the phone, a lot of the times when he’s ranted to you. But this was a lot colder than what you’ve experienced. Too calm to be safe. Slowly, Tony’s disgusting, clammy hand releases your arm. 

Sammy doesn't look away, cards splayed carelessly on the table as he leans forward. “You touch her again and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?” 

God, that’s hot.

Tony cows under Sammy’s glare. He shrugs, picking up his cards and muttering how he didn’t mean anything by it. You just scoff, glaring down at the bald bastard. Then, just as you’re thinking about dragging Sammy into the bedroom for being so commanding, he laughs. 

Your lips part in astonishment, Ben’s head snaps to him with a furrowed brow. Sammy reaches over the table and slaps Tony’s shoulder. “Ah, come on, man. I’m fuckin’ with you. No big deal.” The other men let out stilted laughter, trying to get over the sudden tension. 

Sammy looks over at you, “Right, babe?”

No, it’s a big fucking deal. If I feel those clammy palms one more time, I’ll cut off his fat fingers and serve them to you all on the next game night. 

And stop fucking calling me that!

“Whatever,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at him as you swallow every venomous word down. Your dignity burns as it tries to crawl its way back up your throat. But, you force it down, making yourself turn around before you say something you regret. 

But, then, Tony chuckles. “Well, the beer, sweetheart?”

That fraying thread of self-control unwinds just a little more as you turn around to glare down at Tony. “You got legs, don’t you? Go get your own fucking beer.”

One of the other guys pipes up, snickering at you like you’re just a little dog yapping at them. “You on the rag or something? Just bring us another round.”

At this point, you don’t even look to Sammy for help. You already know he’s not going to do jack shit. He’s clearly too much of a pussy to snap back at guys with seniority over him. “Pigs,” you mutter, not caring if they hear as you storm off to the bedroom. 

The door to Sammy’s room is closed in a poor attempt to block out the noise that’s starting to give you a migraine. You can still hear them, laughing and making fun of each other like they didn’t just humiliate you. Like they didn’t just drag your sweetheart of a boyfriend to the dark side. 

You glare down at your phone, an article about that jackass Tony glaring back up at you. You’ve seen multiple bodycam videos, smaller articles, all about this asshole who uses excessive force and has been involved in multiple internal affairs investigations. Sammy might have a shorter temper than most, but he’s not corrupt and he doesn’t just casually hang out with pieces of shit like this. He definitely doesn’t play about someone putting their hands on you. There’s something about this whole situation that seems wrong. You just haven’t figured out what, yet.

The door slowly creaks open and you look up with a scowl. Sammy never checks on you when these guys are over. So, it’s not much of a surprise when you see Ben poking his head inside. “Hey,” he offers a tentative smile. 

You sit up, patting the spot on the bed by the footboard. “What’s up?” You ask, anger simmering down slightly as he drops himself beside you. 

“So,” he flexes his hands, gaze darting to the door before landing on you again. 

You give him a shaky smile. “What’s up, Ben? You’re acting weird.” You tilt your head and shrug. “Weirder than usual.”

He lets out a low laugh, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up.” For the first time since game nights began, there’s a genuine smile on your face. “What do you think of Sammy’s new buddies?” He nods toward the dining room and you scoff. Whatever face you make clearly says everything you haven’t because he sucks his teeth and nods. 

“Yeah, I’m not much of a fan, either.” 

“What the hell is going on? I’ve never even heard half their names before and suddenly they’re infesting our apartment.” Ben’s brows perk at the slip up and you shake your head, brushing it off. 

He rubs the back of his neck, shifting further up the bed. “I don’t know, there was a change in the shift rotation, we’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately. I can’t believe he’s actually getting along with the assholes.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, but it does nothing to mask the hurt in your voice. “How the hell do you think I feel?” He looks over at you, expression softening at the pain on your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a brief hug. 

He seems hesitant to even touch you, probably out of respect for Sammy. But you’ll take whatever comfort you can get, as small as it may be. 

Just as you rest your head on him, the bedroom door creaks open completely. Sammy walks in, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he takes in the both of you. “Was wondering where you went,” he mutters, glaring at the arm Ben has around you. 

Ben lets out an awkward sigh, slowly letting you go. You almost complain, but you don’t feel like dealing with any more machismo drama tonight. 

“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. He stands in front of you both, arms crossed in that way that usually makes you want to bite him. But your attraction to him tonight has been severely and utterly depleted. 

“We were just discussing the impeccable manners of our guests,” you joke, trailing off when he doesn’t even crack a smile.

“My guests,” he corrects, tone painfully sharp. 

“Right, well,” you stutter, completely unsure of yourself. You’ve had too manny slip ups tonight. You’ve allowed yourself far too many moments of delusion thinking that Sammy might actually take the relationship a step further. 

Ben jumps in, a scowl on his face as he gets to his feet. “You’re acting like she doesn’t practically live with you, man. Cleaning the place and-”

“Butt out,” Sammy snaps, taking a step closer to Ben. You can feel it brewing, the tension that always seems to linger between them. They’re one pissing contest away from just beating each other bloody. 

“Hey, you know,” you get up and stretch with a dramatic yawn. “I’m pretty tired, think I might go to sleep.” Sammy’s eyes dart toward yours before he takes the hint, scoffing as he storms out of the room. 

Ben shoots you one last look before he follows after him. In the wake of their absence, something like shame seems to fill you. Your relationship is deteriorating right before your eyes, slipping through your fingers. It feels like you’re just letting it happen. Should you be doing something more?

Is this just a phase he needs to go through?

He did skip the whole bachelor pad thing after his divorce, pretty much already ready to date you. Maybe some part of him never got to expel that chauvinistic resentment of Tammi and he’s doing it now. Not that it makes it any better. 

Turning off the lamp, you lay down over the comforter and force your eyes to close. 

Barely a few hours later, you can feel the bed dipping behind you. Sammy’s arms wind around your waist, careful as they pull you into his chest. He’s trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you’ve been up the past few hours debating the future of your relationship.

There's a part of you that thinks you've figured out why he's acting like this, why he would ever possibly hang around these clowns. But it's not good enough to excuse how he's been behaving.  

“They gone?” You grumble, holding stubbornly to your pillow so you don’t give in and turn around to hug him. 

“Yeah,” he hums, the noise vibrating against your back. He pulls you closer, lips slowly trailing along your neck, hands dipping to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes narrow and you bite back a scoff. He can’t seriously think he’s going to get lucky tonight? 

“Just need to clean up,” he tells you, hands pausing their descent. The silence between you is loud, it takes a moment before you catch his meaning. 

“When the hell did I turn into your maid?” He stiffens behind you, arms tightening around you. “Not my guests,” you spit out, “not my fucking problem.”

“Oh, baby,” he rolls you over and you hold tight to the pillow. He frowns down at it as it pushes him back from you. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises, attempting to tug the pillow from your hands. 

You kick out at his ankle and glare. “What did you mean it like? And what was all that with Tony? You’re just going to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal?”

With a low grunt, he wrenches the pillow from your hands. You scowl as he pulls you into him. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he whispers, brushing some hair off your cheek. “That was just…” You raise your brows, so fascinated with whatever BS excuse he’s got this time. 

Sammy just sighs, forehead falling against your own as he gives up entirely. “Pathetic,” you whisper. “You’ve got nothing?” Your finger digs into his side and he lets out a low laugh. 

“No, nothing.”

“Well then-”

“‘Cept this,” he cuts you off, lips finding yours as he rolls over, taking you with him and settling you comfortably on his lap. You can’t help the little moan that slips out, hips Pavlov’d into immediately moving against his. 

His hands drift down, palms finding your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. “You do not play fair,” you mutter against his lips. He just lets out another laugh, thrusting up into you and shocking another moan from you. 

“Never said I did,” he teases, hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt. With a defeated sigh, you relent, sitting up and peeling off your top. His hands trail up your body, rough callouses ticking the sensitive skin as he cups your breasts. 

You fist his shirt in your hands, dragging him up to meet your lips. “Off,” you demand, tugging at his t-shirt. Sammy’s quick to oblige, soft muscles of his abdomen flexing as he tears it off. What little patience he has snaps as you finally take off your bra. You can't help the laugh that tears out of you when he grabs your waist and flips you over, pressing you into the pillows. 

His lips carve a path down your body, skin igniting under every touch as he hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks, shoulders already parting your thighs. 

You consider it, he does look handsome between your legs like that. But there’s a barbed hurt in your chest, and humiliation from earlier tonight that makes your tongue knot.

Mouth souring, you shake your head and pull back. “No,” his face falls and you can’t help the cruel laugh that slips from you. You tug him up by his chin and offer a sharp smile. “No sex until you get your little buddies under control.” His jaw drops before his head is falling to the crook of your neck. 

“You don’t play fair,” he grumbles, and you can feel just how unfair you’re being by how tight his boxers are. 

“Never said I did,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple and rolling over. Sammy follows, arms winding around your waist as he mutters to himself. 

He can clean his apartment by himself. He can cook his own meals and talk shop with his friends as much as he wants. But he does not get to disrespect you and think everything’s going to be fine and dandy. 

You’ll just have to discuss this with him when you’re both not pent up and disappointed. 

Your head is resting on his lap, his hands idly stroking along your spine when he laughs. You peer up, curious as you try and catch a glance at his phone. “What is it?”

“Come here,” he pulls on your arm and you sit up, curling into his side. “Just some stupid shit from the guys.” He offers you his phone and you take it, stomach already burning with anticipation. Please just be Ben being a sweet dumbass and not something horrible. 

T > Rookie lost it on me today

J > That one’s got a stick up her ass

T > I swear to God I can’t even get through a goddamn conversation without her calling me a Pig. 

Your stomach knots itself completely as you glance over at Sammy. He’s already turned his attention to the TV, completely unaware of your internal meltdown. Then, the kicker, Sammy, replying to J’s message. 

Pretty sure it’s just a tampon

It’s immediately followed by one of those morons sending a gif of Miss Piggy losing it.

Not only did your man just make a goddamn period joke, they dragged Miss Piggy into this. How the fuck dare they? 

You toss Sammy’s phone onto his lap and he lets out a slight groan as it nails his groin. “What,” he trails off at the look on your face. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal.”

Crossing your arms, you put as much space between the two of you as you physically can. “You really think that’s funny?” Sammy rolls his eyes, turning back to the TV and ignoring you. “Fuck that,” you hiss, reaching over and turning it off. 

Sammy’s glare is sharp and for the first time he looks like he has no interest in you. That look on his face is just flat, empty as he waits for you to get your rant over with so he can go back to his game. 

“So, you agree with that shit?” You demand, heart pumping a little too fast. 

Sammy’s head sinks back into the couch cushions with a heavy sigh. “No, come on, leave it alone. It’s just a joke.” Tears sting your eyes as you're reminded of every failed relationship. Every moment you were dismissed or appeased so they could just go back to whatever they want, not giving a damn about how you feel. 

“Seriously, Sammy. When I’m upset and just happen to be on my period, do you just dismiss how I’m feeling? Pretend to give a shit so you don’t have to deal with me? When I’m upset do you just think I’m being ridiculous?” 

You’re honestly not trying to start a fight. But you’d grown up around the type of men who knew blaming it on your cycle was the best way to shut you up. The most effective way to invalidate your feelings and make you feel so small. You need to know if the man you care so much about has secretly been that sort of man this whole time. 

Sammy scrubs his hand down his face and lets out an incredulous laugh. “This is different,” he defends, staring at you like you’re overreacting. 

And maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because there is no excuse for just how much he’s changed over a few weeks. “How is it different?”

Sammy just shakes his head. He gives you a flat look and scoffs, turning the TV back on. You purse your lips, biting your tongue so the tears don’t spill. “I don't like your new friends.” He either doesn’t notice how choked up you sound or doesn’t care. 

“Good thing you’re not my mom,” he mutters. 

“No,” you stand up and he sighs. “Just your live-in maid.” Sammy lets out another tired sigh, head sinking into his hand as you collect your things.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going home, Sammy. “ And as the door slams behind you, he doesn’t try to stop you. 

As you head to his apartment, making sure it's not a Thursday, you have to build yourself up. Give yourself a dozen pep talks before you manage to crawl up the stairs. 

You’re going to sit down. You’re going to have a conversation. After a copious amount of research on his new friends, you've come to your own conclusion. This has to be some sort of undercover shit he's doing for internal affairs to try and bust these asssholes. But that doesn't change the fact that prolonged exposure to their behaviors has shifted who he is as a person. Changed him into a man you want nothing to do with.

He should have given you a heads up. Told you to stay clear for a few weeks while he works on this. Anything other than throwing you into this deep-end blind.

By the end of the night you’re either going to be single, again, or have the man you care about back. 

Tonight, you knock instead of using your key, just needing another minute before you face him. When the door opens, you’re caught off guard by the wide smile on his face. “Oh, thank god.” He reaches out, arms wrapping around your waist as he tugs you into him. 

“Uh, hi,” you smile, taken aback by the sudden surge of affection. You barely have a moment to hug him before he’s pulling back. 

“Guys are coming over tonight,” he tells you, and your heart drops to your ass as the door closes behind you. “Think you could whip something up for us, baby? I didn’t have time to call the pizza place.”

You’re stunned, absolutely gobsmacked by his audacity as he pulls you into the kitchen. While you’re frozen, jaw permanently dropped, he pulls off your coat and positions you in front of the stove. He even goes so far as to tie on your apron for you. 

“I thought you guys meet on Thursdays?” You mutter absentmindedly, blindly pulling ingredients out of the fridge. 

“Had a change of plans today,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, and then he’s gone. A minute later you hear his shower start up. You stare down at the stove for a long time before you finally move. 

You whip up a feast for him, a last meal if you will. Because you don’t need a conversation anymore. You know exactly how this night is going to end. Might as well give him something decent to eat while you dump him. 

The guys start to flood in while he’s still in the shower. They don’t take their shoes off, tracking mud across the linoleum, something Sammy can look forward to cleaning up on his own. They don’t greet you, acknowledge your existence, just grab a beer and carry on. 

Feeling numb, you dig through the fridge, finding an expired carton of milk that smells nauseatingly like sulfur. You pour it into your pan, expression flat as the clumps begin to slough out. 

The door opens again, you can hear the person taking their shoes off and know who it is before he walks in. “Need any help?”

You don’t turn to face Ben, just toss a handful of vegetables into the pan. “Don’t eat the dip,” you warn him. 

“Uh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle. You turn, eyes narrowed as you shake your head. “Well, shit, alright. You got Visine in there or something?” 

“Might as well,” you shrug. Slowly, eyes a little wide, he backs out of the kitchen. You just swallow down another wave of fiery rage as you brew up a crime against cooking. But, it will absolutely give them diarrhea for the next week, so you’ll pardon yourself this one time. 

Your anger and hurt just builds and festers with every call for beer. Every shouting bought of laughter that makes your shoulders jump and your head throb. By the time Sammy makes it out of the shower, your mind has been entirely made up. Humiliation has gone cold and turned your blood to ice as you stand in his kitchen. 

No part of you melts or swoons when he comes up to you with wet curls and presses a kiss to your cheek. His hands hover over your waist, brows furrowing when you don’t turn to reciprocate. You quietly plate his food, giving him an extra serving of dip, and pass it off to him. 

“Hey,” he puts the plate on the counter, voice low and soft. “What’s wrong?” He tries to get you to look at him but you stay stubbornly rooted in place, idly pushing the food around in the pan. 

“Were you ever going to ask me to move in with you?” 

He goes stiff, backing up with a frown that somehow breaches your walls and makes your chest ache. Never been good with rejection, you remind yourself, poorly attempting to build those walls back up. “It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”

You can’t look at him. The second you do, you know you’re just going to cry. You finally thought you were good enough for someone. That someone actually liked you, flaws and all. But, like every other relationship you’ve had, you were just deluding yourself. 

Sucking your teeth, you just nod. “Are we okay?” He asks, taking the food and backing up. 

“Fine,” you tell him, turning to bring the rest of the snacks to the dining room. Sammy takes his seat, still looking worried as you set everything up. Ben reaches for the dip and you swat his hand, his eyes widen slightly as he remembers your warning and he backs off. 

The last plate you set down is with barely any care. You’re angry and hurt, about to leave the one relationship you really thought would last. So, a little sauce splatters on the guys shirts. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to have them bitching. 

“Damn it!”

“What’re you blind?”

Smiling, you straighten up and let out a sharp laugh. “Alright, I’m done.”

Sammy frowns, hand tightening around his fork. “With the food?” Oh, and that poor pathetic ounce of hope in his voice makes something in you burn. 

The TV is blasting behind you and it’s just another noise adding to the pain in your head. You pick up the remote, shutting it off for a moment of peace. Immediately, the grown men in front of you boo, one even tosses a napkin at you, hand reaching for the remote. 

And you just… snap. 

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, I am so sick of this, of all of you.” They go quiet as you slam the remote on the table, plates trembling. “You are grown men, you want a beer, then you go get it your goddamn selves. And before any one of you fuckers says some shit about me being on my period… I want it to be very clear that I have never been dryer in my life than I am looking at you pathetic excuses for men.”

Sammy stands as you undo your apron, tearing it off and tossing it at him. But you’re not done, it’s just pouring out- everything you didn’t say. Everything you held back for a man who never really wanted you. 

“God, you wonder why the female rookies don’t like you people! It’s because everytime she performs better than you, everytime she calls you on your shit, you undermine her and blame it on the ‘rag.’ You’re just pathetic little men who can’t handle a woman who is secure in her job because it reminds you of just how small you are.”

Your face is hot, chest heaving as you stand there, staring at them all. You’re sure they’ve seen this meltdown before. During their divorce proceedings, watching as their marriage fell apart or their daughters stopped talking to them. But, for once, they are blessedly silent and you feel like you can actually breathe again. 

There’s laughter and you look up to find Ben leaning back with a grin. He surveys the other’s faces and lets out a low whistle. You’re almost tempted to laugh with him. 

Then, Sammy reaches for you, hand hesitant as it lands on your shoulder. “Sweetheart-”

“No,” you snap, voice quieter now. He flinches as you slap his hand away, hazel eyes wide and shining with hurt. “I am done with you, Sammy. Alright?”

“What?” His eyes dart to the others and he takes a desperate step closer to you. But you just shove him back. “Hun, let’s talk about this.”

“No, no I’m done doing that. So, uh, enjoy cracking a beer with the boys without the drama of your untrained woman. You’ve got a right hand, what the fuck else do you need me for?” You grab your purse and shake your head.

Sammy chases after you but you’re not letting him weasel his way out of this again. You’d made a promise to yourself. You’re leaving single tonight, he’s had far too many chances to get his act together. 

Just as you’re running into the parking lot, you hear footsteps racing toward you. You whip around, watery glare turning confused when you see Ben catching up with you. “Hey,” he calls out your name and you let out a tired sigh as you stop. 

“Look,” he darts in front of you, slightly out of breath. “As entertaining to watch as that was, what’s happening… It’s not what you think.”

“I know,” you interrupt him. 

His mouth droops before snapping shut again. “Huh?”

“It’s got to do with an investigation, right?” Slowly, he nods, infuriatingly surprised by you connecting the dots. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago, Ben. But he didn’t give me any warning before he turned into this Don Draper wannabe. He didn’t prep me or just keep me out of this. This all being a part of something bigger doesn’t change or excuse how humiliated he made me feel.”

Ben wants to say more, you can see it on his face. His arm lifts before falling limply to his side. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and offers you a sorry smile. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks softly. 

“No, but I appreciate it.” He nods, and you blink, eyes burning as you stare down at the pavement. Hesitantly, his hand lands on your shoulder, softly squeezing before he backs up. 

“Take care of yourself.”

You hum, throat too tight for words and wait for him to go back into the building before you let the tears fall. 

When you wake up the next morning, your eyes are crusted from crying too much and your head is throbbing from, again, crying a ridiculous amount. Blindly, you grope around your nightstand until you find your phone. 

It shouldn’t be a shock that Sammy’s reached out, but the amount of missed calls on your screen is a number you didn’t think you could ever reach. 

He’s also blown your messages up. The majority of them promising to explain his behavior. Asking you to call him. Give him one more chance (he’s had plenty). And then there are ones where you can tell he’s starting to get pissed off that you’re just ignoring him. 

Serves him right. 

Your thumb twitches against the call back button. Almost wanting to hear how he’s going to explain this away. But you force yourself to put the phone down. You swore to yourself, no more cool girl BS. You’re not going to just let him treat you how he did and get away with it. 

So, as difficult as it is, you mute his notifications. You don’t have it in your heart to block him, not yet. But you can at least spare yourself the misery of watching his picture light up your screen every ten minutes. 

Occasionally, though, throughout the week you have a moment of weakness. You’ll check to see just how much more he’s reached out and then listen to a few voicemails. They all relatively sound the same:

“Please, sweetheart call me back” and then you’ll hear Ben in the background “Man, this is pathetic” Sammy will tell him to shut it and, again, plead for you to just give him a minute of your time. 

When you start to feel really lonely, when your bed is just too cold and too big, you almost do it. You’re so close to just calling him so you can hear something other than the quiet of your apartment. This space that has become foreign to you because Sammy’s place was becoming home. And then, you’re reminded of how he treated you, what he took from you both by not just giving you a heads up on the investigation. And you put your phone down, hurt and angry all over again. 

By weeks end, your friends call you out to go to a club with them. They don’t know you broke up with Sammy, they think you’re still the perfect couple. Which leads to a night filled with painful, barbed reminders of how alone you are now, while your friends bemoan how perfect and sweet your relationship is. 

You should have told them the truth before you went out with them. But they’ve witnessed so many messy breakups from you. They’d probably just blame you. If you can’t keep a decent guy like Sammy than it has to be you whose the problem. 

So, after a long night of playing the designated driver (because you’re the only one happy and dating someone, in theory) and being reminded of how amazing your relationship used to be… You’re already in a foul mood when a passing cop decides it’ll be funny to get a handful of your ass. 

Not just a slap or a quick squeeze, either. This man puts both palms, cups your cheeks, and nearly lifts you in the air he squeezes so tight. And you, completely ignoring his badge, treat him how you would any other creep. 

You deck him. 

Suddenly your face is pressing against the hood of a patrol car. Your friends are shouting “We’re recording this, babe!” And you’re being cuffed and thrown into the back of their car. 

But, hey, at least your friends recorded it. 

“Whoa!” Ben is the first one to see you as you’re pulled into the station. You’d consider yourself lucky if seeing him didn’t mean Sammy was around somewhere. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He snaps at your arresting officer while the piece of shit jerks your arm out of socket. 

“She assaulted an officer,” his partner pipes up. Your gaze goes to the deep black bruise ringing his eye and you grin. 

“All right,” you huff. “Like he didn’t assault me first.”

Ben’s eyes dart between the both of you, his jaw clenching when he sees the marks on your arm from your rough detainment. “What happened?” He asks you, holding up a hand when the cop tries to talk. 

“I was out with some friends and this asshole thought he could just stick his hand up my dress.”

“Didn’t take much,” that bitch smirks. “Look at the length of that thing-”

“Hey!” Ben snaps and it catches the attention of some of the others milling around. “That’s enough. Now let her go.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Ben pushes the guy away, taking his key and working off one of your cuffs. “This is Sammy’s girl, you’re lucky I’m the one that found you, not him.”

The guys eyes widen and he backs off with a huffy sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” your stomach rolls with disgust. “But if it were any other woman, you’d still somehow make yourself the victim? I see I only hold value when there’s a man attached to my name.”

“Alright,” Ben puts his hand on your back, turning you before you provoke another fist fight. “I’m sorry about that.”

He sits you down at his desk and watches you carefully. “I should file a lawsuit,” it’s an empty threat but you seriously considered it on the ride over. 

Ben snorts, eyeing you up and down carefully. “How’ve you been doing?”

“Fine,” you shrug. “About as well as anyone is after a breakup.”

Ben leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, a seriously concerned look on his fac. “He’s falling apart.”

“Ben…”

“Seriously, and not just because you poisoned him with spoiled dip,” that brings a small smile to your face. Ben returns it for a moment before his face settles into something more serious. “I don’t know how much more I can take. He’s snapping at any little thing. He won’t stop bitching at me. I’m losing my mind.”

“Look,” you rub your wrist and look away. “Am I being booked or not? I want to go home.”

Ben sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re not getting booked.”

“Thank you,” and before you can even get up, he’s grabbing the loose handcuff and snapping it to his desk. Your eyes widen, stomach sinking as you tug futilely at it. “Ben,” you hiss. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” he shrugs off his jacket, laying it over your lap so your dress doesn’t ride all the way up. “But I can’t take this anymore.” 

Your jaw drops as he walks off and you know exactly where he’s going. “Traitor!” You shout at his back, he gives you a sarcastic thumbs up that almost make you wish you had a gun. 

You’re sitting there for about ten minutes before Sammy’s rushing up. Most of the guys in here know you, but the few that don’t keep asking how much a night will cost. You’re starting to think it might be time to retire this dress. 

“Hey,” your name rushes from him in one panicked breath. “What’s happening? Why are you cuffed?”

You suck your teeth and give him a sharp smile. “Your partner decided to play Cupid.” Sammy’s brows furrow, his hands already working on taking the cuffs off. 

“Yeah, but why are you here?” He asks, thumbs brushing over the split skin of your knuckles. You jerk your hand back before his soft touch weakens your resolve. Sammy frowns and you can’t make yourself meet the hurt look in his eyes. 

“Some asshole grabbed a handful outside The Strip tonight.”

“What the hell were you doing over there?” His tone is far too sharp for a man you’ve already broken up with. Eyes narrowed, your face snaps to his. 

“Tone,” you snap. Sammy’s jaw clenches but he backs off a little. “I was out with some friends. Still, being near that place doesn’t just give guys an excuse to grope me.”

Sammy takes a hold of your arm, pulling you away from Ben’s desk and leading you toward an empty room. “I’m not saying it does. I just thought I’ve told you a lot about staying away from there. You know how many half-naked girls we’ve had to pull from their alley?”

“Jesus,” you huff, pulling your arm away as he closes the door. “I got it. I was trying to go home, anyway.”

“Why-” Sammy stops himself, taking a deep breath as color grows on his cheeks. You wait for another lecture but he seems to love proving you wrong. “Why haven’t you called me back?” 

Your jaw slacks, an unintelligible garble of words stuttering its way free. “Seriously?” You land on, voice pitched with anger. Sammy’s eyes widen, glancing through the windows of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention. Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to keep your voice mellow. 

You really don’t need to be arrested tonight. Again. 

“Sammy, that’s why you dragged me in here? Not because a cop copped a feel?” His expression falls flat at your poor excuse for a joke. Fuck me, then, God forbid you try and ease the tension. 

“Obviously I’m upset about that, sweetheart. But it’s not your fault and it’s not you I’m going to be telling off for it. I’ll deal with him later.” You’re sure that means Sammy’s going to beat the guy half to death and Ben will have to clean up the mess.

“Right now, I want to know why you’re just pretending I don’t exist. Like we haven’t been dating for six months.”

Your feet are aching from the obnoxiously tall heels you took out tonight. Not bothering to look at him, you take a seat at one of the desks and peel them off, letting out a low sigh of relief. Sammy just watches with his arms crossed, clearly at the end of his thread. 

“Look, babe, I don’t know what you’re not getting about me being done with you, but we’re through. No sex. No calls. No texts. This is what happens when people break up, Sammy.”

Sammy lets out a stressed sigh, lips pulling down as he drags his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. I had to act like an ass, baby, I’m-”

“Working on an investigation?” You finish, giving him an unimpressed glare. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m not a moron, I figured out why you were acting like a chauvinistic pig all of a sudden. The problem here isn’t that, it’s the lack of communication that led to me being completely humiliated.”

His arms drop to his sides and he just stares, mind spinning as he struggles to figure out a way out of this. Spoiler, there isn’t one. 

“I don’t- What do you want me to do, hm? What can I do to make this better?”

You’re ready to dismiss him when you catch an officer’s eye through the window of the room. They’re all out there, his buddies, the asshole that arrested you. Watching and trying to pretend like this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened tonight. 

Slowly, you drag your gaze back to Sammy, a cruel smile pulling on your lips. “Beg.”

He stills, eyeing you warily. “What?” His tone is incredulous, slightly taken off gaurd. 

You shrug, “You really want me back?”

“You know I do.”

“Aright, beg.” You tilt your head, wondering if he’s actually capable of swallowing down his pride. 

Slowly, Sammy takes another step closer. “Please, sweet-”

“Hm, no,” you click your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment. “Do this properly, Sammy. On your knees.” His jaw clenches and it's audible how he swallows. Sammy turns toward the blinds and you sigh. “Blinds open. Unless you’re just full of it?”

“You know I’m not,” he grits out, cheeks flushing as a few officers fail to hide their peeping. You almost think he’s going to give up. Before you can scold him for taking too long, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widen imperceptibly and it’s an effort not to give away your shock. Sammy’s hands skate over the smooth skin of your legs, squeezing around your calves. “I fucked up, honey, I know that. I will do anything I can to make up for it, just, please, give me another chance.”

It’s a power rush, having such a domineering man on his knees in front of you. That boost to your ego is almost enough to make you cave. But you know Sammy, he can certainly do better than this. He just hates the idea of any of his men seeing it. 

Pursing your lips, you lightly kick your leg out. “Put my heels on for me.” He huffs, clearly upset by the lack of response, but he listens anyway. Getting to your feet, Sammy follows, expression expectant. 

You pat his shoulder in that condescending way men always do to you. “That was cute, hun. But I’m not changing my mind. You want to fix this, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.”

Sammy doesn’t object, just scratches at his jaw and lets out a disbelieving sigh. You give him a sharp smile before you make your way to the door. “You're unbelievable,” he calls after you. You shrug, not bothering to look back as you make your way out of the station. 

A week after your “arrest,” you’re flipping through channels when a familiar face catches your eye. Tony, the crapbag that Sammy had around, has been arrested. As well as a bunch of other game-night regulars. Extortion, violation of civil rights, spoliation, and a list as long as your arm that just keeps on going. Truly, they are the epitome of scumbags. 

You can understand why Sammy was so bent on getting them put away. Even if it came at the risk of your relationship. As much as that makes him a good cop and an honorable man, it doesn’t make him a better boyfriend. 

Still, you find your hand inching toward your phone, finger hovering over his contact. You bite your lip, debating the risks when someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you toss your phone on the couch and get up to take a look through the peephole. 

It’s like he’s got a sensor for when you’re feeling weak. 

Sammy stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. You step back with a huff and glance down at yourself. Taking an extra minute to hike up your shorts and adjust your boobs, you throw the door open. 

“Can I help you, officer?”

He scoffs, lips pulled in an endeared grin. “Still mad, I take it?”

You pause, taking inventory of emotions. The sting of humiliation has eased slightly since you practically put him on a leash at the station. And you do genuinely understand the motivations behind his behavior, you just wished he hadn’t executed it all so stupidly. 

“No, I’m not angry, Sammy. I just wish you a happy life of erectile dysfunction and involuntary abstinence.” Pulling back, you go to close the door when he slips his boot inside. Glaring up at him, you frown. “Got a warrant?”

“Enough,” he scolds, pushing the door open. You stumble back with an affronted noise. “You’re not breaking up with me.”

If it were any of your other exes, you’d probably be terrified right now. But he’s not being malicious or threatening to stalk you or take out your family if you don’t unblock him. Instead, there’s almost a slight thrill coming to life in you. 

“What?” You scoff. 

“I’m not agreeing to this,” he says simply, eyeing your skimpy pajamas with an appreciative gleam in his eye. 

You scoff and cross your arms,“That’s not how this works, Sammy.”

He shrugs, “Tough.” When he takes another step closer, you’re almost tempted to run, to drag this out a little longer. But his arms are already winding around your waist and he’s heaving you over his shoulder before you even get a chance to blink. 

“Uh, Sammy,” you grasp at his shirt as he marches through your apartment. “What the hell are you doing, you neanderthal?”

“I’m going to make it up to you,” you lift your head and peer around him to see he’s walking you straight into your room. Oh, that’s how he’s going to play this. “Then,” you let out a shocked laugh as he drops you on your bed. 

His grin widens at the sound as he grabs your ankles, pulling you even closer to him. “I’m going to ask you to move in with me.”

Your heart races as your expression falls. Your gaze darts to his eyes, trying to figure out if he means this or if this is just a last ditch effort to get you back. “What?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let you pull away. “Sammy, do you really mean this?”

“‘Course I do, sweetheart,” he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek and leans down to kiss you. Your arms wind around his shoulders off muscle memory. 

But you force yourself to pull back, noses brushing as you take a good long look at him. “I’m not playing housewife anymore,” you threaten. 

He lets out a little laugh and nods. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you worry.” 

And god help you, you actually believe him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “No,” you whisper. Sammy draws back, brows knit in hurt as he shakes his head. “No,” you scramble back from him, arms wrapping around your stomach as you shake your head. 

“This isn’t how it’s going to work anymore. You don’t get to fix our problems with sex. Or just decide the course of our relationship. You fucked up, you made me feel like shit. For the first time, I felt safe with someone, and you just took that from me.”

Sammy’s face falls and he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. His head falls into his hands as he lets out a broken sigh. “I’m so sorry,” you believe him. There’s shame, disgust with himself in his voice, but that doesn’t fix this. 

“I’ll move in with you, Sammy,” you promise, and his head lifts. “But not anytime soon. I think… I don’t think I’ve been honest about who I am. I’m so used to putting on a show, to trying to keep someone’s attention, I haven’t been myself. I want you to be with the real me. To actually see me, not this glamorized version of myself perfectly made for your gaze.”

“Honey,” he reaches over, taking your hands in his. “Of course I see you. You’re not as good actor as you think,” you let out a watery laugh while he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “But I’m a patient man.”

You shoot him a look and he offers you that boyish smile you love. “I can be patrient,” he swears. 

Nodding, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. “Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay?” he questions, not quite believing you. You smile and let your head drop to the crook of his neck. 

“But if you ever treat me like that again… Not even Ben will be able to find your body.”

Sammy lets out a little chuckle, it cuts off as you pinch his side. “Trust me, I believe you.” You lace your fingers with his and let out a small sigh. A fresh start might be the best thing for both of you. The both of you could do with learning to be independent outside of your relationship. And he really needs to know what you look like not being the cool girl before he makes such a big promise as being with you for real. 

You’re not planning on making it easy on him. But you have an odd suspicion he might be into that. And anyways, how were you ever expected to say no to a man with arms like these?

𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘎𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘢𝘪𝘥

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 A mind that could flip like a switch 💿

Your stomach drops, and you’re like Jack in letting the fear overtake you enough that you almost forget you’re at the cash register. 

“Cute baby.”

The cashier smiles at you. Your hands tighten on the stroller. “Thank you.”

“She’s got perfect cheeks.”

“Yes, she does.” It’s true, and as her mother, you have every right to talk about her perfect, fat cheeks until the sun explodes.

“I'm very proud of them.”

But you’re too busy trying to convince yourself that you’re a little crazy. It’s a small store. People are allowed to buy only one thing, and awkward moments where your glance catches someone else’s happen all the time. 

By the time you look back to where the stranger was checking out, he’s gone. By the time you get to the parking lot, you’ve convinced yourself that you are ridiculous. Your nervous system has just been heightened by the beauty of motherhood.

There’s a beauty in that, even if it’s the reason you’ve been googling ‘is my baby choking or discovering she has saliva?’ recently. You have to find the silver linings. 

You load the bags and buckle Chubby in. You get behind the wheel. 

Your stomach turns when you see the man in denim near the cart return area, and you don’t think it’s your fear clocking that he’s watching you. 

But you don’t…you don’t panic. You see no need to peel out or to call Jack, because that would mean him asking a million questions that could turn a relatively good day cold.

If you were to even just slightly mention being uncomfortable because a weird man has decided to stare at you, he’d probably abandon his shift, and that would mean probably abandoning a patient. Poor, hypothetical patient. 

Calling or texting him your worries wouldn’t do anything but give a gruff n’ tough fear to a beautiful, thick, freckled body.

Yeah, let’s make it about it being for Jack’s sake instead of yours. That’s much easier. 

The park’s for kids, but it really does calm you down. Compare that to Chubby, who might excite herself in the swings so much that it’s not going to be hard to put her down for her nap later.

You press your mouth into the warm, sweet smell of your daughter’s hair. Inhaling all her sweetness is enough to cancel the sourness crawling along your nerves, and you’re just so, so enamoured by the squeaky-bellied laughs she gives every time you push her.

You hope it’ll always be this easy to entertain her.

“Are you having fun, my little tax deduction?”

Chubby kicks both feet, and your smile drops when you see that one is only socked. 

“Where did your shoe go?”

Just as she grins suspiciously proud with her gums, you look past the swing set to see a car you’re not supposed to recognize.

You don’t know why you do. It’s not like recognition in the way of seeing something you’ve seen 1,000 times before.

It’s an older, dark car. You don’t know how long it’s been parked. It gives you nothing as you watch it for ten to fifteen seconds. The windshield’s reflecting a blur, you’re not even sure if there’s anyone inside. 

..But you’re sure you’re recognizing it in the way of recognizing something you’ve just seen. 

You’re scaring yourself, but pretending it’s nothing won’t stop you from being scared. Time to go home. 

The thought comes with Jack’s voice, except Jackie would never tell you you’re scaring yourself. You take Chubby out of the swing, cooing when she fusses and not giving a damn about finding her shoes. Her dad would buy her every pair if she wanted. 

“Sorry, sweetheart. We gotta go.”

You drive home while checking the rearview mirror more times than you can count, but even as every dark car becomes that one, you’re selfish in the safety you feel as you walk through the door, past the plants you keep forgetting to water.

At least Jack keeps watering them without comment. He’s against plant murder. You can only try to be.

The camera Jack installed when Chubby was born watches you go inside. You remember rolling your eyes when he kept lecturing you on home invasions and the statistically unlikely but not impossible chance of some “freaky fuck” trying to get near you while he’s not home. 

You’re certainly not rolling them now, are you?

You lock the door. Then the deadbolt. Then the chain. You set your chubby baby down in her playpen, and you can’t even give a shit about the way your hands tremble once you’re not holding her.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Jack. 

You home?

You text back.

yes ❤️all good. Chubs kept kicking off her shoes in public and i think she's taken to trying to do the same with her socks

The dots appear immediately.

Send proof of life.

You laugh despite the day. You're home. You're safe. The both of you are safe.

You enter the playpen to take a picture of Chubby on her back, both fists around her bare foot. She looks innocent, like she's never committed the crime of wasting shoes in her life.

You send it. Jack answers immediately. Duh.

Sockless and disgraceful. That's my girl. You okay?

...You know what? For the sake of you both, you can take to half-truths.

yeah, just tired.

Eat something.

You smile faintly and look down to find your daughter has managed to take off her other sock.

You hunch over to kiss her baby belly.

"I think your dada's teaching me how to be a worry wart, are you gonna grow up to be a worry wart---"

A knock on the door interrupts your tease.

You nearly drop your phone as Chubby startles. After she decides to not care, she blinks up at you with mild interest. You do not move.

The knock comes again.

"Ma'am?"

It's the voice of a man through the door.

Your blood goes as frozen as you are.

...He sounds polite.

"...Yes?"

You try putting on your nurse voice, but it's cracked.

"Sorry to bother you, but I think you dropped something. At the park. Your baby dropped something. I didn't want you to lose it."

You slap your hand to your mouth.

Oh. What the fuck? What the actual hell?

You think you might black out, everything within your line of sight stretches and blurs with the beat of your heart harsh against your bones.

"...What is it?"

"A shoe."

At that, your heart just might lurch out of you and turn you into a screaming mess.

"I---thank you," You can hear yourself becoming smaller, even though you want to ask him if he followed you all the fucking way home to give you your daughter's shoe. "You can leave it where you now."

Being harmless might make this situation easier. Maybe not. Maybe you should scream at him to leave. Maybe you should call the police.

But you don't know how many windows are locked, and making him angry might make him want to figure it out.

“I don’t want it to blow away. It's pretty windy. I can hand it to you.”

“It won’t. Please, leave.”

Leave, weirdass! Leave---

You almost drop your phone when it buzzes again. Again.

What’s going on?

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard as the man knocks again.

“You there?”

You type fast.

Nothing

...Jack's reply comes so impossibly quickly that it feels more like his fingers pinching the back of your neck than an actual text.

Nothing is the man at the door?

You freeze. Again.

Move away from the door. Now.

...You had forgotten that he'd be able to see everything through the app on his phone, the one linked to all the cameras around the house. He can see the man.

He can see your lie.

And you practically jump when you hear his voice come through the speaker outside. It's low, rough in the gravel of his beautiful throat. Too calm.

“Step away from the door and leave.”

You can hear a scuffle outside, maybe the man shuffling back as he gives a nervous laugh.

"I'm just returning something. She dropped---"

"No."

Jack's decided not to yell or get loud, which is worse. You hate the voice he uses when he doesn't want to ask people for compliance more than once. It's usually with residents. Or drunk patients.

It's funnier with them.

You can hear scraping against the porch.

“Look, man, I was just trying to help.”

“You followed my wife to my house? How else would you have my daughter's shoe?”

“I didn’t follow her.”

The man sounds genuine, at least. Like, he actually believes that. You imagine Jack at the hospital, his shoulders high and tight, and face emptied out to let rage in. He's watching the camera feed, the man with Chubby's little shoe in his hand.

...But Jack, seeing that, calling him out on that, tells you he does have her shoe. Isn't that a perfect excuse to stalk you for miles?

“...You’re on camera, fucker. Leave."

Jack's voice puts the chill in you. Chubby starts fussing.

You back away from the door and hurry to the playpen, scooping her up. She's offended by the suddenness and tells you that with another fuss, but she just presses her warm cheek against your collarbone.

Not afraid like you, thank God.

Your phone rings. Jack's name flashes on the screen. You answer instantly.

"Jack—"

"Bedroom. Lock the door."

"Jack, I’m sorry—"

His voice is now in your ear. You can hear his clipped breath.

"Bedroom. Lock it. Take the baby."

"I have her."

You hear him swallow.

"Good. Good girl. Go."

You move down the hall with Chubby clutched to your chest. She grabs a fistful of your shirt and chews on the neckline.

You get into the bedroom and scramble to lock the door.

"I'm in the bedroom, it's locked. Is he gone?"

You can hear movement on Jack's end now, the sound of the Pitt before a demand leaves him, away from the phone and controlled.

"Robby. Take my rooms." A pause, a muffle. "No, I’m not asking. I'm supposed to be leaving here, anyway."

A muffled, distant voice sounds out. Robby, probably. The sound of footsteps, Jack's, are what become the forefront of noise.

"There’s a man at my house. I have to go."

"Jack, I’m locked in. He’s probably gone. You can't just leave. I'll call the police if you want---"

Jack's voice drops when he decides he's having none of your excuses.

"You lied to me."

You feel your spit caught in your throat. Chubby nuzzles.

"You were scared, and you lied to me."

"I didn’t want you to---"

"What?" ...He's snapping. "To know? React like anyone would? Come home? Keep you alive? Pick one."

Your throat might close up on you. It makes for the rushing silence that sits between you and him, just until you hear him inhale.

"Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not---kid, I’m not mad at you. I'm just out of my fucking mind."

His apology comes out angry, really. Ironic. Like he can still find ways to be mad at himself in this situation.

"I saw him at the store, then I thought--I thought I saw his car at the park. But I didn't know. I didn't want to be dramatic---"

"You saw him at the store. And at the park. And you came home?"

...Jack might as well be swallowing the knives in the kitchen with how he sounds. You stutter things that are barely words, bouncing Chubby.

"I didn’t know what else to do, Jack."

I did. But I didn't want to deal with this on top of everything else.

"You call me!"

"I didn’t want you to scare me more!"

That's your and Jack's talent. Escalating. You regret your words when the lines go quiet.

When Jack's voice returns, it sounds stripped. It's quiet, and you'd rather he'd yell like he just did.

"Yeah. Okay. That makes sense."

"...Did I hurt you?"

There's a breath with a hmph. That's an answer enough. You hold in your breath, only letting it go against Chubby's hair.

"You did. And that doesn’t matter right now. Stay where you are. I'm going to hang up to call the police. I'll be there soon, Sleepy."

Jack hangs up. You start crying then, and your baby lifts her head and stares at you with confusion, even more offended than before.

You don't know how long you cry, but you're finished when Jack's truck tears into the driveway. He gets home before the police do. The distance between here and the Pitt...him getting home so quickly shouldn't be possible.

But shouldn't be one to not believe in him.

The front door opens, and you think it's okay to disobey his demand and leave the bedroom.

You find him pale with a jaw locked down so hard that you want to tease him and tell him that he's going to eat his lip. He looks at you, then at Chubby, then at every window in the room.

Chubby lights up.

"Da bah bahhhhh!"

He crosses the room, and you want this to be something you can tease later so badly, even though you're sputtering and reaching for him, because he looks like he could be called Dr. Violence right about now. Violence got himself a medical degree and scrubs and beautiful, silver hair.

Dr. Violence. Papa Bear. Jackie.

"Jack."

His arms come around you and your baby. One hand cradles the back of your head as you instantly fall into his stern, stoic body. He holds you too tightly. Never too tightly. Never tight enough.

"I’m sorry I lied."

He slips his fingers to your neck, squeezing there with the rough tumble of his voice against your skin.

"Don’t apologize yet. I’m deciding how mad I’m allowed to be without becoming fucked about this.”

Call the progress, baby. He's trying.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

"You’re shaking."

"I watched a man stand on my porch with our daughter’s shoe in his hand. It's there. I can't touch it. I need to...I need to check the locks. The police should be here soon."

"Jack...let's just...let's just talk about this---"

"I need to check the locks. And the windows. And I'm getting more cameras tomorrow. And motion lights. I don't know why I didn't get motion lights before. That fucking...that fucking bastard. You don’t know what it was like seeing him there and knowing you told me nothing. Knowing there was a whole day of you being afraid that I wasn’t inside. I wasn’t there. I didn’t know. I didn’t---"

"Jack, let's get you sitting down---"

"You’re not going anywhere alone for a while."

...You should've guessed that's what would be the answer to this at some point. You swallow, voice softening carefully.

"We can talk about that."

Jack blinks. He rubs your neck. He only looks slightly helpless when he glances at Chubby.

He kisses her perfect, tubby cheek.

So, despite the red flags and klaxon alarms, you took the keys and ignored the pitying way the people across the street watched you. You’d researched the neighborhood, it didn’t have any higher crime rates than your old one. You hadn’t read any headlines in the news that would make you regret your choice. 

It wasn’t until your second night there that you realized why, exactly, everyone had treated you like a kicked stray. 

You have your pillow wrapped as tightly as possible around your head without actually suffocating yourself. The house right beside you has its music blaring on obnoxious speakers, girls screaming the lyrics, and guys cheering as they jump off the roof into your neighbor’s pool. 

Despite the fact that everyone over there looks, at the very least, thirty, they’re partying like it’s Y2K and the world’s about to end. 

So, this is why the house was so fucking cheap. Figures. 

You let out a low groan and bury your face into the mattress. You have your TV on, white noise playing, even music blaring from your phone. It doesn't even put a goddamn dent in the howling happening in the next house over. 

The universe really just did not feel like giving you a break. Dating Colin wasn’t enough punishment for the sins of your past life. Now you had to live next to the goddamn Playboy Manor. 

The number of women who had streamed in there in thongs and barely-there bikinis had been concerning, to say the least. And the fact that half of them received payment on entry was even more disturbing. 

Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have been posted at your window, glaring down at the neighbor’s house. But, really, you didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what you tell your nosy ass. 

Tomorrow, you swear to yourself. You will march over there, demand an explanation, and then politely ask them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, though, you were too damn exhausted to do anything but bask in your own misery. 

Fix the bitch face, you remind yourself, forcing a half-pleasant smile on your face as your neighbor opens her door. The smile slips into a slightly awed expression as you take in the older woman. Her hair perfectly tousled, boobs right in your face with that bikini, and a silk robe wrapped around her like a second skin. Holy shit. You’d been expecting some finance ass in his thirties, not a hot mom in her fifties. 

“Hi,” you draw out uncertainly. Her eyes narrow, flitting up and down your form as she appraises you. Your shoulders straighten, chin jutting out under her judgment. 

“Can I help you, baby?” The rasp of her voice should have been expected, but it still takes you off guard. 

You hold out your plate of (poorly-baked) cookies and adjust your smile. “Yes, hi,” you give her your name. “I just moved in next door,” you tell her, nodding toward your house. “I thought I would introduce myself to my new neighbors.”

And politely ask you all to shut. The. Fuck. Up. On weeknights. You’re a reasonable woman.

The stern look on her face makes way for something you wouldn’t describe as soft, but at least it didn’t look like she was about to pull a gun on you. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She opens the door and motions you inside. You almost protest but the sharp look on her face has you stepping forward with your tail tucked. 

“You know,” her hand hovers over your lower back as she leads you deeper inside. “Not enough girls are like you, anymore. No manners,” she scoffs, voice airy like she’s already a world away from your conversation. 

“Why don’t you change, we’re having a little party by the pool.” Of course you are, the only reason you don’t roll your eyes is because you’re 90% sure she would spank you like a child. 

“Oh,” you flounder. “I just wanted to introduce myself, that’s all. Besides, I don’t have a suit.”

She laughs, the noise unkind, and turns you toward a bedroom. “You know the great thing about string bikinis,” she rasps into your ear. “They look good on anyone. Bottom drawer,” with a slight shove, you’re stumbling into the room and the door is closing behind you. 

That woman is a witch, you’re so sure of it. Not only did you obey, picking through different sizes of bikinis until you found your own, you found yourself waiting for her next instructions. Standing outside the bedroom in your heels and half naked, you feel ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when she lets out a low whistle at the sight of you. 

“Smurf,” she offers, holding out her hand. You repeat your name again and follow her through the glass doors of her patio. 

“Let me introduce you to the boys.”

Your eyes widen as you trip slightly. “Boys?” You croak. Meeting Smurf was bad enough, especially now that she’s got you half-naked prancing around her pool. You had no interest in meeting any of the rowdy assholes screwing around in her backyard. 

She hums and sends you a smug smirk, “My boys.” Great, more of her. You’d hit your quota of mama-boys in your life after your ex. You had no interest in meeting any more, but there wasn’t much of a choice as she shouted, “Boys, get over here!”

Four messy heads of hair whip toward her and suddenly, four grown men are racing toward you. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand as you swallow down the urge to turn tail and run back home. 

“Craig,” she motions toward the tallest and the one eyeing up your body like you’re a slab of meat at the butcher’s. You’ve never wanted to crawl out of your skin more. “Baz,” he offers his hand. You take it tentatively. His gaze isn’t any better. Only Deran and J, the other two, seem to be looking at you like you’re a human being.

“She brought us some cookies,” Smurf holds out the plate and you frown at the condescending tone of her voice. 

“Who are you?” Craig mutters around a mouthful of chocolate chips.

“New neighbor,” Smurf answers for you. Baz’s gaze darts to her and you don’t like the narrow-eyed look they share. 

“Really?” Baz asks. The interest in his stare is entirely different now. So unsettling you almost wish he would go back to objectifying you. It feels like he’s trying to crawl under your skin, pick you apart until he’s got your inner workings memorized.  

Smurf hums and places the plate down on a nearby table. “I thought we should keep her around, maybe have her for dinner. Get to know her,” the men’s eyes widen slightly and you know that they’re hearing something you’re not. Your stomach rolls unpleasantly. 

“Well,” your voice cracks as you take a shaky step back. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Baz steps toward you, herding around you until you’re being pushed toward a lounge chair. “No intrusion,” he insists as you pretend not to notice the woman doing a line off her hand beside you. You sit stiff and straight, praying as desperately as you can that you’re not about to be trafficked. 

“Stick around,” he instructs. “I want to get to know our new neighbor.” You offer nothing more than a squeaky hum. He walks back toward his family and suddenly you’re a deer caught in a fox's den as they stare at you, whispering amongst themselves. 

God, you really stepped in it this time. 

You’ve had three drinks shoved in your hand in under an hour. Each of them has gone untouched, passed off to whatever partygoer walked by you. Smurf doesn’t speak to you, just sits in her chair and watches everyone. J and Deran asked you brief questions about yourself, but it’s been Baz who’s truly been hounding you. 

Every ten minutes, he’ll stop beside you, ask you some “innocent” questions about yourself. You keep your answers brief, each response feeling like a test that you have no luck in passing. Your limit for strangers and loud music is about ten minutes and by this point, you feel ready to pass out or throw up. 

Not only is Smurf’s family disturbing and intimidating. The people all around you have been snorting, sniffing, and smoking illicit substances that you want no part in. You actually don’t care how loud they are at night, now, you just want to get out of this party alive. 

So, when Baz gets held up breaking up a fight between Craig and Deran, you take your chance. Your heels click against the stone path as you make your way toward one of the doors. Smurf’s blocking the one she led you through, so you end up finding your way into someone’s bedroom. 

Just as you’re sliding the glass door shut, the one behind you clicks open. “Fuck,” you hiss. 

“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, sharp in a way that has chills breaking out along your body. With a tight smile, you whip around, back pressed to the cold glass. 

Hazel eyes are narrowed in your direction, cold and emotionless. “Hi-”

“Who’s that?” A little girl pops up behind him, head tilted curiously.

“Don’t know,” he replies. The man turns, pushing her out of the room. “Find your dad,” he tells her. He waits until she runs off to close the door and you realize how well and truly fucked you are. Because not only are you in a stranger’s house, you’re now being cornered against a bed by a man who looks like he hasn’t felt remorse in years. 

“Who are you?” He asks again. He doesn’t raise his voice, but you still feel a shock of fear regardless. 

“Neighbor,” you stutter out. His eyes dip down your body, not admiring, assessing. Still, you find your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach, wishing you were in more than, essentially, a bra and thong. 

“We don’t have neighbors,” he takes a step closer, rolling up his sleeves in a way that has your breakfast coming up your throat. 

“Now you do,” you offer weakly, hands splayed like you’re some sort of surprise. “I, um, brought cookies and Smurf told me to stay. Gave me a bathing suit and…” you trail off as he comes to a stop. His shoulders roll back and for a moment, you feel a little bit of your anxiety ease. 

“I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of here. I didn’t realize this was your room, I’m sorry.” He nods once, eyes still roaming across your body. Finally, he steps back, opening up the door and nodding you forward. 

You hesitate just a moment before he lets out a slight huff. “Get out.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just bluntly. It’s enough to get you hightailing your way through the rest of the house. You feel him following behind you, rather than hear him. His presence is looming despite his size, broad and an imitation of your own shadow. 

When you pause at the entrance of the bedroom you’d first walked into, he comes up beside you, arms crossed. “What?”

You startle at his sudden appearance and wrap your arms around yourself once more. His eyes narrow on the movement but he says nothing. “My clothes are gone.”

“Clearly,” you’re so caught off guard by what could, almost, be a joke that you forget to take offense. 

“No,” you stutter over his audacity and glare. “Smurf put me in this. I left my dress in here. It’s gone.”

The patio door opens behind you both and he shoots you a sharp look. “Go home.”

You glance down at your half-naked body and then back at him. “Like this?”

His hand, rough and calloused, is already wrapped around your arm and dragging you to the front door. “Either that or stay for dinner.” Even if you did want to stay, he gave you no choice. With a light nudge, you’re stumbling down their front steps and the door is slamming behind you. 

Before any other neighbors see you, you book it toward your home and throw yourself inside. Tomorrow, you’ll mourn the loss of that dress. Right now, you’re just thankful for the shark-eyed stranger who hustled you out of there. 

“Again, Mr. Murray, I’m not allowed to date our clients.” You offer the eighty-year-old man in front of you a forced smile. He laughs you off and leans against the counter. There’s a distinct pop that you’re sure is his hip slipping out of place. 

“Nonsense, sweetheart, it’s just a little lunch.” Normally, the older clients are sweet, a little touchy. But they just want someone to talk to, to have someone listen to them, since their kids gave up on them years ago. Mr. Murray, however, is nothing more than a pushy nuisance who thinks sexual harassment is a PC snowflake term invented by prudes. 

You glance around him and groan at the long line forming behind his hunched back. “Mr. Murray, you’re flattering me, really, but I have a lot of people waiting.”

His brows draw in and you brace yourself for a temper tantrum when a frighteningly familiar voice interrupts. “Are you done?” Mr. Murray turns and you find a man with shark-eyes and auburn curls watching you. Jerking back slightly, your hand smooths over your hair, primping, as your neighbor moves beside the old man. 

Mr. Murray draws back with a why-I-oughta look but he cowers under the younger man’s intense gaze. It’s not even a glare, just the kind of stare that makes you completely rethink who you are as a person. 

“Just a joke,” Mr. Murray grunts as he wanders off. 

It’s just you and shark-eyes now, you can’t tell if you’re excited or dreadful. “Hi, again.” He says nothing and you scratch the back of your neck. “Nice to see you while I’m fully clothed.” It takes everything in you not to drop your head to your desk, because what compelled you to say that?

A small noise leaves him, nowhere close to a laugh but you think it’s the best you’ll get. “Need to open an account,” it’s all he says before sliding a large pile of hundreds toward you. 

“Oh,” your eyes widen as you gape at the obnoxiously large amount of money. You’re used to working at credit unions. They’re homely, poorly furnished, and not used by the richest people. This new job is cushy, a bank so fancy it’s even got a chandelier dangling from the ceiling. 

You haven’t had much time to grow accustomed to people with real money working with you. Still, though, this seems like an obscene amount. “Uh,” you clear your throat and tidy the bills into two piles. “My manager opens accounts, just give me a moment.”

His hands ball into fists and he lets out another sharp huff. “I’d prefer if you did it,” he insists and your brows turn in. 

“I don’t think I’m-”

“What’s going on over here?” Your manager comes up behind you, hand trailing across your shoulders as he leans against your desk. Shark-eyes tracks the movement and how you shudder. Your manager’s attention falls to the stacks of cash and his breath stutters. 

“He wants me to open his account.”

“Why aren’t you?” He demands sharply, pulling back. 

Your eyes dart between the two men and you shrink back. Switching jobs was supposed to help you regain control over your life, not put you under the thumb of another poorly developed man-child. 

“I’m not supposed to,” you grit out. “You said that, Mike.”

He rubs his hands together and lets out a nervous laugh, “Good day to start.” He collects the other man’s cash and pulls out your chair. He says your name and places his hand on your lower back. “She’ll take you to one of our offices and help you get set up.” 

With a huff, you jerk away from Mike’s hand and motion for your neighbor to follow you. He’s eerily silent as he trails behind you. Opening up an empty office, you motion him inside, letting the door shut quietly behind him. 

Situating yourself behind the desk, you pull out the new account paperwork. “Alright,” you hum to yourself, leafing through the papers. 

“Is he always like that?” 

Your eyes widen as you glance up. “Sorry?”

He leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and body stiff with tension. “Your boss. Is he always like that?”

You scoff and log in to the bank’s system. “If you mean domineering and a pain in my ass, then yes.” Somehow, his lips fall even flatter at your blunt admission. “It’s a new job,” you find yourself explaining for some reason. “Once the ‘fresh meat’ interest wears off, I’m sure he’ll back off.”

He hums but doesn’t offer you anything else. “Okay,” you draw the word out and slide him the papers. “First things first, need your name.”

He picks up the pen and scribbles it down, you tilt your head in curiosity. “Andrew,” you muse. His shoulders stiffen but he says nothing. “I thought Smurf only had four sons.” It’s an innocent enough inquiry, but from the glare he sends you, you’d think you’d told him you ran over his dog. 

“Sorry,” you back off, sliding the papers back toward yourself. Your nails click against the keyboard, struggling to figure out the alien system as you try and finish this as quickly as possible. 

“Three,” he suddenly announces. 

You hum absentmindedly. “What was that?”

Andrew clears his throat and shifts slightly, but his stare remains strong. Practically burning into you. “She’s got three sons. Deran, Craig, and me. Baz and J aren’t hers.”

You glance over at him and your brows furrow at just how uncomfortable he looks at such a small admission. Further confirmation that you should probably stay as far away from the Codys as possible. 

He clears his throat, shifting around again. “What about you?” 

You count his money and cast your eyes briefly toward him. Each question he asks sounds like someone’s pulling teeth to force it out of him. He hasn’t looked away, not once, but you’re wondering if that’s just a different sort of stress tic. As if taking his eyes off you means leaving himself vulnerable. 

“Nope,” you click your tongue and pass him more forms to sign. “All on my own.”

He straightens and lazily scribbles out his signature. “No family? Boyfriend? You moved into that big house on your own?”

Your fingers still on the keyboard as your shoulders stiffen. From anyone else it could just be a hopeful ploy to see if you’re single. But this is the same man whose mother practically kidnapped you last night and all of a sudden, he’s popping up at your place of work. 

With a sly grin you don’t truly mean, you turn to him, arms crossed on the desk. He doesn’t falter, eyes never wavering. “Are you trying to ask me out, Andrew?”

For the first time, you get a true reaction out of him. He blinks rapidly, lips parting as he pulls back from you. “No,” he sounds incredulous and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Relax, I’m messing with you. Because, honestly, you sound like I’m going to find you waiting at my house for me tonight.”

He settles and crosses his arms. “I am your neighbor.” If you could read anything about him at all, you might have recognized it as a joke. But it feels more like a threat to you. Stiffening, you draw back and place his money in a bag. 

“I’ll just go deposit this for you.” You rush out of the room before he can say anything else. 

Andrew turns and watches as you practically run down the hall. He sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t even wanted to do this. It's not like he was exactly eager to be back in banks again. 

But Smurf and Baz got on his ass about checking out the new neighbor. Making sure she wasn’t a plant or going to cause any trouble. He’d watched you all morning up until now. From all he could tell you were on your own, working a boring nine-to-five, and there was absolutely nothing interesting about you. 

You also seemed pretty smart, already aware of just how far you should be staying away from his family. Even more reason you’re not going to be causing any trouble for them. Hopefully, this meant Smurf would get off his back and his day wouldn’t have to revolve around some harassed bank teller. 

The low murmur of conversation catches his attention and he turns back toward the glass door. Your manager has stopped you in the hall, hand cupping your elbow as he stands far too close. 

You’re actively shrinking back, face curled with displeasure as Mike only gets closer. Pope’s lips curl slightly as he watches you jerk away. You rush down the hall, bag clutched tightly to your chest. Mike glowers until he turns to find Pope watching him. 

With a lazy smile, he approaches your office and takes a seat behind the desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes eager as he watches Pope. “Is she treating you alright?” 

“She’s fine,” he grits out.

Mike shrugs and gives him a smile like they’re sharing a secret. “No need to cover. We’ve gotten quite a few complaints about her already. There’s only really one reason we hired her, you know?”

Pope doesn’t feel like entertaining the conversation anymore. He wants Mike gone, he wants you gone. He wants to leave. But Smurf always knows when he’s lying and he doesn’t have the option of bullshitting his way out of this ridiculous errand. 

“No, I don’t know,” he’s speaking through clenched teeth and, still, Mike is incapable of taking the hint. 

“Well,” Mike clears his throat, trying to find a way around a harassment suit. “It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at, you know? Decor’s just meant to be attractive, doesn’t have to be smart.”

“Neither does the manager, apparently.” It takes a moment for the insult to settle. Mike’s wide eyes only further prove Pope’s point. 

He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, “Right. Well, I’ll just let her finish up here.” Pope says nothing, just watches the old man as he walks out with his tail tucked. He can hear you bump into him in the hallway, Mike snaps at you, taking his frustration out on the first easy target. 

Pope turns again and when Mike catches his eye he shoves past you and storms his way back to the front. You watch him go with an awed expression and shake your head. Pope hears you mutter, “Jackass,” as you make your way inside the office. 

You settle into your chair with a loud huff. “Here are your checks. It’s just a few, you’ll receive the book in the mail.” He takes it wordlessly, eyes darting to your phone as it lights up on the desk. 

🚫drunk texting shows on your screen for a split second before you offer him a sheepish smile and turn it off. “Sorry about that.”

“Who is it?” He’s being invasive, that’s the whole point, but he almost hopes you don’t tell him. If you’re the type to just spill so easily, it’s going to cause trouble for you in the future. 

“A mistake,” you bite out, not meeting his eyes. Pope lets out a small sigh as you shove his papers haphazardly into a file. “There you go, Mr. Cody. Please let us know if there’s anything else you might need.” 

Your smile is tight, sharp at the edges, your tone is practiced. The same voice you’d given the old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’re dismissing him and wordlessly making it clear that should he ever need anything you want nothing to do with it. Pope’s lips curl ever so slightly but they drop when he catches the surprise on your face at his expression. 

He takes the folder from your hands and leaves the office without another word. Making his way through the lobby, he finds himself sitting in his truck, just watching. You never take a lunch break, not leaving your stall unless it’s to deposit money. Pope finds himself growing more and more irritated the longer he has to watch this. 

You’re harmless, worth nothing to Smurf. Yet, every time he tries to get her to let this go, she insists he stays. The entire day is wasted on you. Finally, at 5:30, you make your way from the bank. You don’t wave goodbye to your coworkers, effectively ignored as they brush past you. You don’t even linger in the parking lot, just get started going down the sidewalk. 

Pope’s brows furrow as he watches you go. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. You walk home. And it’s not like he can just trail beside you in his truck. Getting out, he follows after you, lingering behind just enough for you not to notice him. 

He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling more like a pervert than ever before. J or Craig should be doing this shit, not him. This is so far below him it's infuriating. After tonight, Baz better get that stick out of his ass about you. 

You pause and Pope ducks back. You dig around through your purse, letting out a soft curse as your head drops to hang between your shoulders. “Dammit.” Pope has no warning as you pivot around, eyes widening as they land on him. 

“Oh,” you let out a shrill sound that might have been a laugh and take a large step back from him. “You. Again.” Your eyes dart over his form and he can see as fear settles on you. “I really want to think this is a coincidence.”

Pope’s prolonged silence probably isn’t helping anything. But he genuinely has no excuse that could explain this away. And he knows what he looks like, unblinking, odd, something women don’t want to see following them home. 

“You shouldn’t walk home alone,” he finally settles on. The disturbed look on your face doesn’t abate, but you’re also not running. 

“Clearly,” you snap. “I knew your family was weird,” you settle on the word carefully and Pope almost laughs. Weird doesn’t even come close to explaining the Codys. He’s not sure any one word could. “But this is a lot.”

Pope shrugs and takes a step closer to you. You don’t move, eyeing him warily. “Do you want a ride back?”

“Are you going to kill me?” He gives you a flat look and you deflate. “Fine. I accidentally left my keys in the bank anyway.” This time, when you walk it’s beside him. Though you keep your purse clutched tightly to your chest, shooting him a wary look every so often. 

“Do you want to tell me why you were following me?”

Pope watches you and you don’t shrink away like he expects. You face him head-on, lips set in irritation. “Wanted to check out the new neighbor.” He knows you understand what he means. He’s not looking for a good time, he’s checking out that you’re not going to be a problem. 

Finally, you break away from his stare. “I’m boring,” you mutter and he couldn’t agree more. When you reach the parking lot, he waits in the truck while you head back into the bank. He’s shocked you don’t try to make a run for it and, instead, beeline straight toward him. 

“Thanks,” you tell him, almost sounding like you mean it. It’s concerning, how easy it was to get you in his car. 

Pope doesn’t say anything and you keep quiet all the way back to your house. When you get out, you shoot him a wary look. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?”

“No,” he responds. Baz and Smurf should feel better after all this. You give him a curt nod and he watches as you rush into your house before backing into his own driveway. In the house, everyone's waiting at the table, a family meeting that he hadn’t been warned about. 

“Hey, baby,” Smurf smiles and puts a plate of food in front of him as he sits. “You hungry?” He just nods, eyes boring across the table into Baz’s. 

“Well?” He prods. 

Pope shakes his head. “Harmless, like I said. Works a bank job and goes straight home. It’s just her.”

Baz’s brows lift as Smurf hovers behind him. “Bank job?” She asks, the question anything but innocent. Pope’s stomach turns as his grip tightens around his fork. He just fucked himself right into another week of stalking. 

“Could be useful,” Baz mutters. Smurf squeezes his shoulder and nods. Pope doesn’t need to hear the order to know what she wants from him. 

For the first time in a week, you find yourself actually taking a lunch break. You rarely have the time for it and you know it’s a bad habit. You’re trying to break it, but with Mike always breathing down your neck, it’s difficult to do so. 

Today, though, you’re settled in a sticky booth of the diner closest to the bank. Your nails drum against the table as you wait for your food. Your phone lights up once again, your ex calling you for the fifth time in an hour. The sudden influx of communication is making you wonder if his mom cut him off again. 

The door’s bell jingles and you glance up, caught off guard as Andrew walks in. Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. It’s been a week since you’ve seen him. You figured after that night he tried to follow you home, that was it. Maybe this is just a coincidence, he doesn’t seem to be looking for you. 

“Andrew!” Your mouth clamps shut as you curse yourself out. You’re not sure what possessed you to actively vie for his attention, but you’ve got it. He turns toward you, eyes narrowed as he glances at you warily. Maybe he really wasn’t looking for you. 

Slowly, he strides toward your table, hands in his pockets as he looms over you. “Want to join me?” You offer. 

He seems caught off guard by the invitation, but sits nonetheless. “Fancy seeing you here,” you joke, your laughter trailing off as he remains quiet. You clear your throat and go back to tearing up the paper from your straw. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Why?” The suspicion in his voice is jarring, but you really shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Just trying to make conversation,” you toss your hands up and lean back in the booth. Silence permeates the air between you and you shift restlessly. 

“I… don’t.” He finally answers, voice stilted. “First time.” You suck your teeth and nod, nails once again drumming against the table. Blessedly, the waitress walks over with your food. Her eyes settle on Andrew as she sets down your plate. 

“Can I get you something to eat?”

He shakes his head, “Not hungry.” Your eyes narrow on him as the waitress walks away. 

“Don't tell me that you’re still following me.”

“Smurf wants you to come over tonight.” He slips out of the booth and briefly turns to you. “I’ll drive you home.” It’s not a question, there’s no room for argument as he leaves the diner. Your head thunks against the booth’s seat, your appetite suddenly diminished. 

True to his word, Andrew had driven you home. He didn’t walk you to your door or wait to make sure you got inside, but you could appreciate that you didn’t have to walk all the way home tonight. 

Now, you stand in front of Smurf’s door with a bathing suit on and a fishnet cover-up that makes you feel slightly better about being half-naked around her sons. She opens the door, wearing a similar style bikini to the one you’d first met her in. 

“Glad you could make it, sweetheart.” As if you had any choice. You only offer her a tense smile, following as she gestures you inside. “I know Baz wanted to talk to you,” she glances over her shoulder and you force yourself not to grimace. 

“Really?” She hums and you both step out toward the pool. Sure enough, Baz is right at the door, pretending to just casually bump into you. 

“Hey there, neighbor.” It’s disconcerting how quickly his hand makes itself comfortable on the small of your back. You shoot him a sharp look but he ignores you, urging you toward the bar at the other end of the pool.

Any other setting, any other man, you would shove him off and tell him to leave you alone. But you’re not stupid, you know that there’s something off about these people. However Andrew made all the money he deposited, it wasn’t through any honest means. There’s a gut feeling screaming at you to run away and it just makes you all the more terrified of what might happen should you piss them off. 

“I’ve been meaning to check in on you,” Baz says, passing you a beer that you hold with no intention of drinking. Getting drunk around these sorts of people seems like an invitation for life long trauma. “How’re you settling in?”

“Fine,” you tell him, pretending to believe he actually gives a shit about your life and isn’t just pressing you for information. “It’s different from my last place, but it’s not bad.”

“No?” He smirks and some distant part of your brain recognizes that its meant to be charming, but it just makes your skin crawl. “We’re not keeping you up with these parties, are we?”

Yes, “No, I sleep like a rock.” His eyes widen, lips parting with interest, and you suddenly wish you hadn’t said anything at all. 

“Really?” He muses, the interest in his tone absolutely nauseating. Luckily, someone calls his name from across the pool and he lets out a sharp breath. “One second, sweetheart, don’t move.” You can hear the underlying threat in his voice but you really could not care at this point. Ditching the beer, you grab a water and take a quick look around the pool. 

Almost every lounge chair is filled with multiple people, some doing drugs, others grinding in a way that makes acid burn in your stomach. But there is one shadowed corner, a small perimeter around it like people are afraid to toe their way past. Andrew stands in that little bubble, arms crossed as he glares across the pool. 

It takes you a moment to realize that it’s you he’s focused on. It doesn’t unsettle you the way Baz’s poor attempts at charm had. Instead, you find yourself gravitating toward him, hoping for some form of peace in this god-awful party. He straightens as you approach, watching you warily. Or maybe watching you normally. You’re still struggling to figure out the nuances of his glares. 

“Mind if I join you?” He says nothing and you take it as an invitation. 

“Thought you would be stuck by Baz,” he mutters. There’s something in his tone that has your brows peaking with interest, but you can’t quite decipher his meaning. 

You shake your head, placing your glass on a nearby table as you move to stand slightly in front of him. “You know, I think I liked your approach a lot better than his.” He raises a brow and you snort. “I mean, I’d prefer you following me home than having to deal with whatever bullshit was coming out of his mouth.”

Andrew shrugs, but you swear you see his lips curl up slightly. “He comes on too strong.”

A man rams into you before you can respond. You let out a sharp gasp and trip forward. Andrew’s arms shoot up instantly, grabbing you before you can crash into him. The other man lets out a drunken apology as Andrew works to right you. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, hands lingering on his chest a moment longer than they should. He’s firm, beefier than you had expected. The slight thrill that shoots through you is cause enough for concern. You already knew your taste in men was bad, but this might be a new low if a chest is what’s getting you hot and bothered now. 

“You alright?” He asks and you nod, letting your hands slowly slip away from him. You reach over for your water, frowning at the slightly metallic taste it leaves coated on your tongue. “Hate these things,” he mutters and you’re sure he hadn’t meant for you to hear that. 

“Yeah,” you scoff. “So do I. I bet it’s worse for you, though, being at your house and all. You don’t really have any choice but to be here.”

The look he gives you now isn’t assessing or the same blank stare. He seems intrigued, if that’s the right word for it. “Used to have my own place,” he tells you. “They sold it while I was away.”

Your brows furrow and he watches as you work to connect the dots. Away? You think, but then you take in the sort of people you’re surrounded by and only one destination comes to mind. But you’re not about to outright ask the man if he’s been to prison. 

You’ll just google it later. 

“Damn, that’s brutal,” you mutter. Taking another sip of your water, you find the metallic taste has only grown worse. Sticking your tongue out slightly, you shake your head as you drop it back on the table. 

“Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, eyes darting between you and the drink. 

“Water just tastes off,” you tell him, shrugging. 

His eyes narrow and he begins to reach for it when there’s a loud screech. You jump, whipping around to find a pile-up of bodies, each of them throwing punches as the sound of flesh breaking bone echoes through the party. “Hold on,” he tells you, rushing forward. 

You’re not as compelled to leave like you were with Baz. No, you think you might even like to sit down. Your eyes droop as your head begins to grow heavy. Sinking onto a lounge chair you fight off the sudden urge for sleep, confusion fogging your brain as the world around you spins. 

“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing weakly at your brow. This doesn’t feel right. It’s like you’re floating outside of your body, just barely managing enough control to keep you upright. 

“Hey,” Andrew’s voice materializes in front of you. He’s back quicker than you thought he would be. Or maybe time’s just passing by while you’re slowing down. The thought makes an odd-sounding giggle slip past your lips. 

Andrew’s face appears before yours as he kneels down, rough hands cupping your cheeks and jerking your head up. You whine at the roughness while his eyes dart across your face. “How much have you had to drink?”

You feel like he knows, he’s been watching you this whole time, after all. Still, you manage to slur out your answer in a slightly comprehensible sentence. “Just the water,” your voice sounds like you're underwater. 

Andrew’s thumbs tug at the skin below your eyes, trying to gauge the size of your pupils, the sudden bloodshot look about them. “Fuck,” he hisses and you try to move back, worried it’s you he’s mad at. His grip is firm, though, his hands insistent as he throws your arm over his shoulder and drags you to your feet. 

“Come on,” he grits out, carrying the majority of your weight as your feet trip over each other. 

“Andrew,” his name comes out wrong, garbled and barely comprehensible. But he manages to understand you, humming in answer as he pulls you through the house. “I feel weird,” you whisper, breath becoming harder to find. 

“Yeah, I know you do.” A man whistles as Andrew carries you past, slapping him on the back like he’s just won a prize. Andrew stops and you wonder, briefly, if he’s going to drop you so he can fight the guy. But the other man just goes running off, recognizing his mistake in time. 

He keeps going, pushing through the bodies until the cold night air is biting at your cheeks and he’s walking up your driveway. He’s gentler than you expected as he props you against your front door. 

“Keys,” he demands, hands gripping your waist so you don’t topple straight into the bushes. 

You shake your head, the movement making you painfully nauseous. “Didn’t lock it,” you reach for the handle, palm slipping across it uselessly. 

His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing further as he clicks his tongue at you. “Always lock it,” he snaps, tugging you back into his side as he pushes the door open. “What if it wasn’t me walking in here?”

Your eyes narrow, vision blurring. Despite whatever you were slipped, you manage just enough cognitive functioning for an attitude. “How,” you slur, “are you any better than someone else?”

Andrew pauses at that, hesitating at the base of your stairs as you wait for an answer. He stares into your drooping eyes and only huffs before practically carrying you to your bedroom. It’s gentle, the way he sets you down, back pushed against the pillows so you don’t just flop back. But it only takes the brief second he steps away for your eyes to close completely and your body to go limp against your mattress. By the time he returns with a change of clothes, you’re already out. 

It’s the sun that wakes you up. Normally, you remember to close your curtains before you pass out. But they’re wide open this morning, blinds pulled up, sun beaming down on you like it’s shaming you. 

“Damn,” you drag yourself up, head throbbing as you try to remember what exactly happened last night. You know you went over to the pool, Baz had creeped you out. Briefly, you think you might have spoken to Andrew but that’s where it gets fuzzy. 

Glancing up, you would scream if your throat didn’t hurt so much. Andrew sits in the chair by your dresser. His eyes are boring right into you, no malice behind the look, just careful consideration. 

You clutch your chest, heart racing under your palm. “Whoo,” you breathe out, giving him an awkward smile. “Give a girl some warning next time,” you attempt to tease but your croaking voice impedes you. 

Looking down, you find yourself in one of your sleeping shirts and different underwear. Bile rises in your throat as your mind races to remember even one thing that got you in bed. 

“I didn’t look,” he tells you, finally getting to his feet. “But you kept complaining about wanting to change.” He walks toward you, brows set in concern as he takes you in. 

Any other man and you probably wouldn’t believe him. You’re not even sure how he could have gotten you out of that suit without a little flash of skin. But you don’t really mind, better him than anyone else in that family. He seems to be the only one who understands the concept of morals. 

“What happened?” You ask, grimacing as a pain akin to an ice pick digs its way through your temple. 

Hesitantly, as if you might shout at him to get away, he perches at the end of your bed. His hands rest near you, he’s probably waiting for you to keel over. 

“Think someone slipped you something,” he mutters, head tilting as his eyes trace over your pained expression. No shit. “I don’t know what it was, wanted to make sure you didn’t asphyxiate in your sleep.”

You look at him, frowning, and he nods toward something by your nightstand. You find a bucket by your feet, filled with what seems to be fresh vomit. “Oh god,” you groan, body crumpling under the weight of your mortification. 

“I’m so sorry.” The thought of him having to stay up all night taking care of you makes you feel even worse than you do now. But beneath the shame and embarrassment, there is the smallest semblance of appreciation. Most guys would dump you at home and leave, Andrew’s practically a stranger and he took better care of you than your ex ever did. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Blunt, like always, he gives you a sharp look. “It’s not your fault.”

“Feels like it,” you grumble. Hesitantly, you get to your feet, weak knees buckling slightly beneath you. Andrew stands, hand outstretched as you pick up the bucket and hobble toward your bathroom. “I should know better than to just leave my drink unattended like that.”

Andrew scoffs as you struggle to dump and clean the bucket. “Maybe people should just know better than to slip you something,” he mutters. He comes up beside you, taking the bucket from your hands and washing it out for you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning against your bathroom counter as another wave of nausea builds up in your stomach. “You know, I’ve been roofied before,” his head whips up and you offer a wry grin. “Don’t remember it feeling like this.”

You think it’s the casualness of your statement that catches him so off guard. But mickied drinks had practically been a rite of passage at your university. Doesn’t make it good, but it softens the sharp edge of disappointment in humanity when you grow so used to it. 

You let out a low groan and clamp your hand over your mouth, absolutely refusing to throw up in front of him. Again. Andrew drops the bucket in your tub and takes quick steps toward you. His hands wrap around your waist, head ducking to see the off-colored pallor of your skin. 

“I think you should lie back down.”

Shaking your head, you let out another whine of discomfort. “I can’t,” you object. “I’ll be late to work.” Glancing at your nightstand’s clock, your stomach plummets. “Dammit, later than I already am.” 

Andrew’s brows furrow and he shakes his head incredulously. “You’re not going in.”

“If only it were that simple,” you let out a low laugh. As reluctant as you are, you push his hands away, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “Mike already wants to fire me, I can’t give him any more ammo.”

His eyes narrow and he backs off. For a second, you think he’s actually going to listen. Then his hands are wrapping around your biceps and you’re letting out a surprised gasp. “Andrew!” You object, absolutely too weak to fight him as he wrestles you back toward your bed. 

“I can’t,” you snap, futilely pushing at his arms. He says nothing, just lifts you up and plants you stubbornly on the mattress. 

“Stay here,” he tells you, finger in your face like you’re a misbehaving dog. 

You slap his hand away with a glare. “I’m going to miss the bus, Andrew. I can’t just stay home.” 

He crosses his arms, completely silent as he stares down at you. For some reason, you can feel guilt bubbling in your gut and shrink back into your pillows. There’s also a shameful heat brewing between your legs at how easily he manhandled you back to bed. How firm he is in making sure you’re okay. 

After years of nothing but men who wanted to be coddled and taken care of, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone’s concern. 

You like it a little too much.

“Stay,” is all he says as he walks out of your room, door shut firmly behind him. Your eyes narrow and you debate, for a moment, simply ignoring him and going to work. 

You think being on the receiving end of his frustration might be even more interesting than this side of him. But some ridiculous part of you wants to listen, to do what he says so you might finally get something wriggled from that cold exterior of his. 

With a dramatic huff, you toss yourself on your pillows. Prepared to stew for the rest of the day, you’re completely caught off guard by the sudden wave of exhaustion coming over you. Sighing, you promise to just let your eyes rest for a few minutes. 

You’re out like a light in thirty seconds. 

When you wake up it’s already four and you know there is no hope of making it to work. It’s not like you’re eager to deal with irritated clients all day while nursing the effects of getting drugged. But you are truly worried Mike is going to hold this over your head. 

With nothing better to do, you take a shower and change your sheets to get rid of the smell of mistakes and vomit. As you’re transferring your comforter to the dryer, you hear the distinct click of your front door opening and closing. 

Your hands freeze on your wet sheets while your body goes stiff. 

Slowly, you creep out of the laundry room and tilt your head down the stairs. Plastic crinkles in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing as dishes are retrieved. Despite the fact that you should be terrified, at the very least be grabbing some sort of weapon, you find yourself walking down the stairs without a care in the world. Subconsciously, you know who it is, and you should be afraid of him but you can’t find it in you. 

“Hi,” you say dumbly, watching as Andrew dumps what looks like wonton soup into a bowl for you. 

His head lifts and he lets out a huff. “You need to start locking your door.”

You shrug, taking a seat at your island and watching him move through your kitchen like he’s been here before. “How would you have gotten in?” 

Andrew’s shoulders tense as he sets your bowl in front of you, slamming it harder than necessary. “Lock your door,” he warns. Rolling your eyes, you take the spoon he offers you and frown. He balls up the take-out bag, trashing it, and you realize he hasn’t brought anything for himself. 

With a sigh, you hop out of your seat and grab another bowl. He watches as you split the soup between the two of you with a displeased look. “I’m not hungry,” he tells you. 

“I don’t care,” you reply offhandedly, sliding him a bowl like you didn’t google him and figure out he was in jail for three years for armed robbery. Sentenced to six, apparently, but got out early on good behavior. At the very least, it wasn’t for murder. 

Andrew glares down at the bowl, arms crossed and your tentative smile falls. “Please,” you implore, “I don’t like eating alone.”

He takes it, though you know he doesn’t want to. “I got it for you.”

You shrug, taking your seat once more. “Why did you, anyway?” You don’t usually look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard to believe that a reformed felon is just going around fetching his neighbors' soup. 

Andrew wraps his hand around the spoon, but doesn’t make any move to eat. Your head tilts as you take in the scars along his knuckles, spots where the skin has split and healed over one too many times. It should just push you further from him but you find yourself more enticed. After all, why would a man like him have any interest in taking care of you?

“You don’t eat,” his voice is low, the words a shameful secret he wasn’t ready to admit. 

Your brows furrow as you process what he said. Glancing over at him, a wry smile finds its way to your lips at the little splotch of color you spot on his cheeks. “Are you still watching me?” You laugh off a sentiment that should have you calling his parole officer. 

Andrew rubs the back of his neck, gaze pointed down at the soup. “Not really,” he says awkwardly, not even believing himself. 

Giving him a break, you go back to eating. “Well, you’re right. I was probably just going to eat some saltines and call it a night.” The huff he lets out shocks a laugh out of you. Slowly, Andrew picks the spoon up and starts to eat. You’ll count it as progress to thawing him out. 

At 8:30, you’re already running late to catch the bus. Tugging on your heels, you let out an aggrieved sigh as someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you double-check the time and throw open the door. 

Andrew stands there, scowl disapproving as you give him a small smile. “Did you even check who was at the door?” 

You consider lying but the way his eyes narrow into slits swats the idea away. “No.” You grab your bag and usher him back as you close the door. “What’s up?”

“I’m giving you a ride,” it’s all he says. Blunt, concise, not even an offer. Heat flushes through you as he takes your keys from your hand and pointedly locks your door. You almost wish he would scold you again. 

His hand hovers over the small of your back as he guides you to his truck. You fight back a shudder at the warmth he emanates while he’s not even touching you. 

You’re slightly taken aback when Andrew opens up the truck door for you, even offering you a hand up when your heel slips. The brush of his calloused hand against yours is enough to send warmth flooding your body, an ache settling between your legs. 

As he rounds the front of his truck, you resist banging your head against the dashboard. You only just got out of a bad relationship a few months ago. You should not be so fucking eager to jump some man’s bones. Especially not when that man is a known felon and his family is probably full of them. 

Andrew gets in and you jolt up, forcing your back straight and a strained smile on your face. The last few times you were in his truck, you had been more worried about what he was going to do with you to pay attention to the interior. But as you look around now, you’re taken aback by how clean it is. It’s practically spotless, not a speck of dust on the dashboard or even an abandoned bag of chips on the floorboard. It could be new, but you’re certain that Andrew just knows how to take care of his things. 

Is it completely wrong that it only makes you hotter for him?

The drive is quiet, as it has been the last few times you’ve been with him. You’re surprised when you turn the radio on and he doesn’t object. You were starting to wonder if he’s quiet just because he prefers the silence or if it’s because he doesn’t know anything else anymore. 

He was in prison, you’re certain he was probably thrown in solitary a few times. You can imagine silence became a habit rather than comfort. 

When he parks and gets out of the truck, you’re just surprised enough to allow him time to make it to your side and open the door for you. The sudden surge of gentlemanly conduct is odd, to say the least, but you won’t pretend it doesn’t endear him to you further. 

You wonder if this is how men in the 1800s felt when they saw a flash of ankle as you slip your hand into Andrew’s again and practically salivate at the feeling. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly. He only nods, not stepping back, letting your hand rest in his. But you grow worried about your palm being clammy and pull back before he can feel it. 

Andrew glances at your hand and you swear you almost see disappointment on his face. “Um,” you clear your throat. “My lunch break is at one. Do you have any plans?”

You’re not the type to make the first move. You learned a while ago that if you’re the one who has to start the relationship, you’re going to be the only one participating in it. But something about Andrew gives you a boost of assurance you’ve never experienced before. 

His eyes meet yours, lips in a flat line as you struggle to read the intricacies of his expression. “Can’t. Family meeting,” he explains vaguely. Your eyes widen as mortification draws the color from your skin. 

“Right, right,” you clear your throat and back away from him, suddenly desperate to get inside the bank and have Mike yelling at you. “Well, uh, thanks for the ride.” He nods and you’re quick to rush into the bank, your lonely stall calling for you as you try and toss Andrew Cody from your mind. 

Pope watches you go, he almost laughs at how quickly you run off. He probably should have clarified that he would like to have lunch with you, he wasn’t outright rejecting you. But, he figures he can just explain that to you when he picks you up after work today. 

His phone buzzes and he rolls his eyes as Baz’s name invades his messages. 

Get some info about the security switch-off from her

We don’t want to wait much longer but you’re taking a while here Pope

Pope considers responding when another message comes through. 

Don’t forget to act like a human, don’t want you scaring her off too early

With a discontent huff, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and climbs back into his truck. He can just barely make you out through the bank's window. That old man from the other day is right back at the front of your line. You’re not great at hiding how you’re feeling and Pope almost laughs at the way your lips are curled up in disgust. He debates going in there and getting rid of him for you, but it would seem suspicious. 

You already caught him watching you once. He needs you to think this is something else. Something more intimate. It's the best way to get your guard down, to get the information that Baz and Smurf want so this job can be over and done with. 

So that you can be over and done with. 

You’re getting used to the sight of Andrew’s car and what should scare you only serves to further excite you. As you wave goodbye to the security guard, John, you see Andrew get out and wait for you on the passenger side. 

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to start getting used to this,” you warn him as you walk up. 

He only shrugs, holding open the door for you, offering you a hand. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” his tone sounds like admonishment. 

You almost ask him about his day when he gets in, but he beats you to the punch. “Did you eat today?”

You purse your lips and shake your head, receiving a barely-there scowl in return. “Mike had me work through lunch to make up for my no-show yesterday.” In response, Andrew doesn’t take the left turn back to your neighborhood, he goes right instead. 

Narrowing your eyes, you stare at him suspiciously. “Kidnapping me?”

He only shakes his head, shooting you what you desperately want to be a playful glare. “Feeding you,” he clarifies. “Would’ve gone to lunch with you if Baz hadn’t been up my ass.” He mutters it under his breath, quiet in a way you know you’re not meant to hear. 

“What did he want?” You find yourself asking, curiosity winning out over survival instincts. 

Andrew stiffens, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the wheel as he shrugs. “Nothing important,” he dismisses, tone closed off in a way you know means the conversation is over. 

Something tightens in your chest, the first real warning of threat you’ve felt around him. You dismiss it as nerves and shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Where are we heading?” You ask, attempting to gauge what his intention is here. 

It’s pretty simple, a quiet, intimate restaurant and you know he means it as a date. Somewhere loud, however, slightly crowded and better for beer with buddies than going out with a woman, you know he’s just being strangely friendly. 

“Here,” he nods and your stomach plummets as you watch him pull into Larry’s parking lot. A pub you’d grown acquainted with quite intimately when you were still with Colin. The same place he always liked to ditch you to get drunk with his buddies. The atmosphere inside dashes any hope of Andrew caring about you outside of your general welfare. 

With a disappointed sigh, you help yourself out of the truck before Andrew can. He scowls and you ignore him, trying to tamp down any sharp jabs. It’s not his fault that he got your hopes up. That he got you all hot and bothered after showing you that half-decent men still do exist. 

Andrew trails slightly behind you as you walk inside. “Oh,” the host’s eyes light up and you offer a brief smile. “I haven't seen you in forever.” Robby rounds the stand to give you a side hug that you barely return. 

In a second, Andrew’s at your side, gaze darting between the two of you suspiciously. Robby pulls back with an awkward chuckle and grabs menus for both of you. “Come on,” he nods. You shoot Andrew an odd look but he doesn’t offer any explanation as Robby seats you both. 

The second you’re seated, the atmosphere floods over your table. Loud, drunken conversations fill the air, five different sports commentary blasts on the TV. It’s so much that you nearly jump out of your seat and just book it home. Your fingers clench around the menu as you force yourself to stay seated and just remain calm. 

Andrew grimaces as he looks around, seemingly regretting his choice. “Have you not been here before?” You ask. 

He glances back at you and shakes his head. You’re honestly shocked he actually heard you. “I’m assuming you have.”

You nod and prop your head on your hand. “My ex used to drag me here all the time.” Andrew’s knuckles whiten as his grip goes deathly tight around his menu. With a low breath, he sets the menu down and his features soften into something you can’t place. 

“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” he tells you. Your eyes narrow and a little bit of hope blooms inside of you. 

“Can I be honest with you?” He nods, leaning further over the table so he can actually hear you. You don’t have to, but you find yourself inching closer until your noses are nearly touching. You can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks and it only provokes you. 

“I thought this was going to be a date.” Andrew pulls away slightly and you bite back a laugh at the first real emotion you’ve wrenched from him. He’s flustered, clearly, but he also seems incredibly caught off guard. 

“You did?” You let out a low hum and nod, slowly sinking back into your seat. “Did you want it to be a date?” He asks, hesitant and completely unsure of himself. 

There’s a slight crack to his voice, vulnerability shining through in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” you huff out a laugh. “I wanted it to be a date.” Slipping out of the booth, you hold out your hand to him. 

His eyes dart between you and your open palm before he, very slowly, places his calloused hand in yours. “What are you doing?” You roll your eyes and tug him out of the booth. You know that if he wanted to, he could have just planted his feet and stayed where he was. But he lets you drag him out of the restaurant, hand squeezing yours slightly as you head back to the truck. 

“I’ll make us dinner,” you tell him. “Then we can have a proper date.” You stop, lingering by the passenger door. His eyes are boring into yours and you swallow, some of your bravado slipping away. “That is, if that’s what you want?” 

When his lips curl up, the first real sign of any semblance to a smile you’ve gotten, you know you have your answer. 

It becomes a habit. Andrew picks you up, drops you off, sometimes he brings you lunch or you just see him at the end of the day when he drives you back home. Most of the time, he stays. Coming inside and helping you make dinner since your last attempt ended with you somehow managing to burn spaghetti. 

It’s been innocent, a kiss on the cheek, or you reaching across the console to hold his hand while he drives. The majority of the time, you initiate the touch and he just reciprocates. You worry sometimes that you’re projecting your own desires onto him, not taking into account what he might want. 

But he hasn’t objected, hasn’t ever pulled his hand away or told you to stop. You hope that means he doesn’t mind how affectionate you can be when you really care about someone. 

You’re completely unaware of just how much the small kindnesses mean to him. Unaware that when he’s around you, he’s not Pope or a Cody, he’s just Andrew. He almost feels normal around you, like he’s just some regular guy who got lucky when he asked the pretty bank teller out. 

Every time you touch him, kiss his cheek, and are just willingly in his presence without being intimidated, he thinks that he might be worth something. The feeling never lasts long, fading every time he goes back to his own house. It’s completely wrenched away by Baz or Smurf demanding updates, seeing if he’s gotten any decent information out of you. 

He has, not that he’s told them yet. You let it slip that there was a transport coming through on Thursday, lots of cash that Mike will probably want to take a dive in. And then, when he’d come in to bring you lunch, you complained that the security guard was late. Let it slip that there’s a ten-minute gap every day at one when they switch shifts. 

It’s enough for Smurf and Baz. He could tell them all of this and they’d relent, tell him to ditch you. Make sure you’re oblivious as he ghosts you and they take what they want. But he doesn’t want that. He wants to keep standing next to you and making dinner. To pick you up and drop you off like you’re actually something real that he has to look forward to. 

Andrew pulls into your driveway, the routine becoming more familiar to him than when he goes into his actual home. As always, he opens the door for you, takes your hand and leads you up the steps of your porch. He likes to linger on nights like tonight when he can’t come in. Baz and Smurf want him home tonight and he knows they’re not going to be giving him any leeway. 

But he’s almost tempted to say screw it when you turn toward him, eyes shining under your porch light, expression earnest as you smile up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”

It’s completely innocent, your question, something you’ve asked a hundred times before. That doesn’t abate the ache in his jeans and that tight feeling in his chest every time you look at him like this. Like he’s actually someone you want around and aren’t just using. 

Not like he’s using you. 

A hot flush of shame shoots through him and he shakes his head. “I can’t tonight.” Your lips turn down in disappointment and he wants to take it back immediately, but he forces his mouth shut. 

“Alright,” you take his hands in yours and lean up toward him. He expects the usual kiss on the cheek, even looks forward to it. What he doesn’t expect is your lips brushing against his, arms winding around his neck as you pull back with a smile like you didn’t just stun him into silence. 

His eyes narrow and when you let that breathy little laugh of yours slip out, he loses any semblance of self-control. Not that he had much to begin with. 

Your shocked gasp against his mouth is enough for him to trace his tongue along the seam of your lips. And when you practically moan, body sinking against his, he can’t help himself. His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you up against your front door and slotting his thigh between yours. 

Something warm stabs through him, slightly unpleasant and completely unfamiliar. It’s a feeling he only ever experiences around you and it never stops being overwhelming. Never stops drowning out any thoughts except ones that revolve around you, how you feel, how you make him feel. 

You pull back, laughing when he chases your lips. “Andrew,” there’s a low purr in your voice when you say his name, has his hands tightening around your waist. When you ask, “Would you like to come inside?” He doesn’t say no, just opens the door, lifting you into his arms and not stopping until you’re breathless and smiling up at him on your bed. 

He doesn’t make it home until after he’s dropped you off the next morning. He’d ignored all the missed calls last night, shutting off his phone so he could enjoy the feeling of your arms around him. It was surreal, waking up beside someone who his mother hadn’t paid off or he’d gotten drunk with and didn’t remember her name. 

You’d held him in a way no one ever has before and it only made that piercing pain of guilt thicken in his chest. It’s practically suffocating as he steps inside, finds Smurf waiting for him with crossed arms and an expectant look. 

“You didn’t come home last night, baby.” She says, watching as he brushes past her and grabs water from the fridge. He needs something to do with his hands, anything to not look up at her and see that she knows what he’s done. His hands flex, twisting the bottle cap around as the plastic creaks beneath his grip. 

“Have fun with the neighbor?” She asks, tone innocent as she begins plating up the breakfast he’d missed. He doesn’t tell her that you already fed him, had taken care of him without expecting anything in return. 

Again, Andrew stays silent, he’s already given too much away just by coming home late. “If I didn't know any better, baby, I’d say you actually like her.” She drops the plate in front of him, crossing her arms as she leans against the island. “But I know my baby boy, don’t I?”

It’s an effort not to jerk away as she drags her hand across his shoulders, smiling at him. “You’re taking too long, hun. I had to stop Baz from going over there last night, just getting the information he wanted and getting rid of the girl.”

Andrew’s hands tighten around the bottle, water seeping from the top. White hot rage flashes through him and he imagines the bottle is Baz’s neck for a moment. Smurf laughs, already knowing what he’s thinking. 

“I’m not going to be able to control him much longer.” She could, she just doesn’t want to. “I’d hate for anything to happen to that sweet girl.” Her tone is laced with venom and Andrew’s head drops, knuckles white as he grips the counter. “Do you have what I need, baby?”

It’s because he cares about you so much that he tells her what he’s learned. He knows her words are never empty threats. Baz will hurt you, she will hurt you, if he doesn’t give them what he wants. He knows he’s trying to protect you, but that doesn’t lessen the weight of guilt. 

It’s almost one, right around the time Andrew usually stops by if he’s decided to bring you lunch that day. You figure, after last night, he probably will visit. The thought sends a thrill up your spine that makes you giddy. 

You really hadn’t intended for last night to go in the direction it did, but you weren’t complaining. And he hadn’t been either. Still warmed by the memories of the night, you check your watch. 

The second hand ticks and it’s exactly one. John gets up, heading to the back to take his break while Nathan will take his time coming back from his lunch. The paperwork from yesterday’s delivery has finally been completed and you stand up from your stall, getting ready to pass it off to Sheila so she can look it over. 

At exactly 1:01, the doors to the bank burst open and three masked men rush in. “Everybody down!” It’s shock, you think, that’s why you’re standing frozen. Why you’re not just doing what the big men with even larger guns say. 

Then, he’s pulling the trigger, bullets embedding themself into the ceiling as the chandelier creaks dangerously above you all. Finally, your system shocks itself back to life and you’re dropping to the floor. Your fingers itch to press the emergency button beneath your stall, but one of the men has already found his way behind the divider. 

“You!” He points at you and your heart beats an erratic rhythm against your ribs. He stomps over, grabbing your arm and wrenching you to your feet. A strangled noise slips through your lips, your coworkers cower as they watch you with misty eyes. 

The tallest of all of them keeps his guns pointed at those on the ground. Then the shortest man comes running over, trailing behind you and the one holding you. He drags you to the vault and shoves you into the metal door. 

Your palms sting as you catch yourself and it takes every iota of survival instinct you have not to give him a nasty glare. “You know the drill,” and he chuckles, the noise muffled beneath his hood. As if this is all one big joke. 

Your fingers tremble over the lock pad as you shake your head. You try and step back but there’s a firm hand, almost familiar, easing you forward again. Your gaze shoots to the short one and he nods at the vault. “We’re not gonna hurt you if you just let us in. There doesn’t have to be any trouble.” 

His voice is off, as if he’s purposely speaking strangely. Maybe it’s a way for them to mask their identity further. All it does now is serve to unsettle you even worse. 

Then, there’s a cold plunge in your body, everything going still when you feel something dull and metal pressing into your side. 

“Or,” the other one drawls. “I shoot you right here and we just go get one of your friends to open this for us.” The short one’s hand tightens around your shoulder and you grimace. He releases you instantly. 

“Come on,” that sleazy voice is almost familiar to you. But maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. “I’ve seen you take the money in here, sweetheart. I know you know how to get in.”

Your breath stutters, terror wraps tight around your throat and blocks any further air. “You’ve been watching me,” you whisper, already reaching forward to punch in the code. The taller one hums with delight, gun easing as you slip your key from your blazer’s pocket. It doesn’t take long for the vault door to pop open. 

The shorter man grabs the handle before you can, letting out a low groan as he tugs the heavy door open further. “Alright, come on,” the other one’s got his hands on you again. Your skin feels like it's going to rip under his tight grip, but you don’t say a word, just follow obediently behind him. 

This all feels wrong. Like this is someone else’s life and you’ve just accidentally walked into it. You have poor luck, sure, but not this bad. This can’t be real, you swear to yourself. And it’s all you repeat as they open their bags, forcing you to stuff them full as you empty the safety deposit boxes. 

 They call the other one in the vault but there’s a dull buzzing in your ears and you barely hear what they say at all. The only thing you can truly focus on is the gun still pointed at your chest. “Alright,” he shoulders his bags and you can almost feel him grinning at you. 

“On your knees, sweetheart.” Your stomach twists, bile racing up your throat as cold panic wraps around you. 

“Hey!” The short one barks, but the other man just holds up his hand. 

“Come on,” he urges, lifting his gun and leveling it with your face. Slowly, you drop to your knees the dull thud of cement is a welcome shock to your body. He kneels in front of you but you refuse to meet his eyes through the holes of his mask. You just bite your lip, stare boring into the ground beneath you and pray you wake up from one long nightmare. 

“Let’s go, man!” Sirens begin to sound closer and you would be relieved if this man wasn’t still in front of you. 

He doesn’t listen to his partner, just tips your chin up with the end of his gun. “You say a goddamn word about any of this, I will find you and I will hurt you, sweetheart.” 

What could you possibly say?

Finally, you lift your head, meeting sharp blue eyes. Something stutters in your chest, mind racing to shove down the sudden familiarity you see in this man’s gaze. Slowly, you nod and he finally backs off, racing through the vault door. The shorter man lingers a second longer but when you don’t move he follows after his partner. 

It isn’t until you hear the police rush into the bank that you finally collapse against the ground. Pained sobs wrack your body as you struggle to breathe deeply enough to get your heart rate under control. 

Your name flashes on Andrew’s screen and Baz sends him a sharp look. “Don’t want to look suspicious now, do we?”

Andrew rips his mask off and glares at Baz. “If you’d stuck to the fucking plan, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Craig glances between them both, looking at them like he doesn’t feel like breaking up a fight today. 

Baz glares and pushes off the wall of the semi-trailer they’d hid themselves in. “Maybe if you hadn’t done that reassuring bullshit, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her.”

Rage surges through Andrew’s body, your ringtone going off over and over again as he and Baz stare at one another. “You wanted to,” Andrew grits out. “I got you the info you wanted, did what you asked, but you still wanted to hurt her.”

Baz sees the way Andrew takes a step forward and knows this is a fight he won’t win. Again, he nods to Andrew’s phone. “Answer the fucking call, Pope.”

If it weren’t you, if it were anyone else calling, Andrew would have just drilled Baz into the fucking ground. But he’s right, this will look suspicious if he just keeps ignoring your calls. Besides, after the shit Baz pulled, you’re probably terrified. 

With one last glare at Baz, he picks up the phone, turning his back to the other men. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Your voice is tight and panicked on the other end, tone clogged like you’ve been crying. It just makes that ache in his chest burn worse and he hates himself a little bit more. For letting you get wrapped up in this. For ever pretending like he wasn’t going to get selfishly attached to you. 

“Andrew! The bank was just-” you suck in a sharp breath and his anger only intensifies as your voice cracks. “Can you come get me, please? I need you.” 

This is what he’s wanted this whole time. For Smurf and Baz to be appeased. For you to need him so badly you don’t have the choice of leaving. So why does he feel so shitty? “I’m pretty far away, it’ll take me a little bit.”

You blubber, another sob drowning out your voice. “Okay,” you finally whisper and Andrew hangs up, knowing he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve those small moments of kindness you’d gifted him, where he’d felt like a person again. Not some attack dog or errand boy. You made him feel real and he’d just held you at gunpoint. 

By the time he picks up his truck and drives back to the bank, you’re gone. He wanted to ask the people still there if they’d seen you leave. But he doesn’t need the cops seeing his face right after a freshly robbed bank. 

His chest is tight with panic as he peels out of the lot. You hadn’t called him that long ago. Thirty minutes, maybe. If he’s lucky, one of your coworkers offered you a ride and you just didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He knows he’s never lucky, though. He thought he had been with you and he’s already tainted this fragile thing you had between each other. 

The dread that’s been brewing since you called is only worsened when he pulls into your driveway and sees you waiting on your front steps. He barely manages to get the truck in park before he jumps out. 

You don’t twitch, don’t move an inch as he runs toward you. And that aching, festering feeling that burns inside him, it’s telling him a truth he’s not ready to admit. This is it. You’re too smart not to know what happened. And Baz was too much of a dumbass to just keep quiet and stay distant. 

This is what he wanted, Andrew is sure, to get you away from him so Smurf has her dog back. 

“Hey,” his hands cup your cheeks and a little piece of him finds hope when you don’t push him away. “What happened? You weren’t at the bank.”

Finally, you lift your gaze to meet his. The color of your eyes is dulled, face flat in an infuriating way he can’t read. “I didn’t want to wait. Walked home.” Andrew’s eyes dip to the heels resting beside your feet, the red backs of your ankles. 

“Why?” He already knows why, but that doesn’t stop his hands from drifting down your legs, trying to soothe away the ache he knows has settled in your calves. 

You let him just kneel before you for a little while. He can’t find the courage to meet your eye, hands just moving over your soft skin because he knows that this is it. Subconsciously, he can recognize that this sudden emptiness in your eyes isn’t because of what happened today. It's because of who was there. You’re keeping yourself hidden from him and he wonders if this is how you always feel around him. 

“Andrew,” you whisper and his hands tighten around your leg. “Look at me,” your voice is so disarmingly soft and he knows it's a trap, but he obeys because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“I’m going to ask this once,” you tell him, hand lifting to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, soaking it up greedily as your thumb smooths over the planes of his face. “Were you there today?”

It’s like everything goes cold. Your hand stops moving, grip tightening around his jaw as your eyes flatten into something sharp. His heart skips a beat once before he’s sucking in a sharp breath. He can’t lie to you, he doesn’t want to, but he can’t hurt his family and outright admit his guilt. 

Silence lingers between you before you’re ripping your hand away and he’s trying to chase after your warmth. Your legs kick out, gently getting rid of his hands as you finally stand. Andrew follows, palms outstretched, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with himself when you’re right there and he isn’t allowed to hold you. 

“Oh,” you whisper and there’s a grin on your face that’s cold and slightly panicked. “I fucking knew it. I knew it and I still gave you a chance!” 

Andrew shakes his head, but you just wave him off, not interested in anything he might have to say to you. “I was nothing but a mark to you, right? An easy way to get access to the vault, to figure out the quickest way in and out. Jesus, I just handed it to you, I actually fell for your bullshit.”

“No,” Andrew objects, following you as you climb up your stairs. “It wasn’t bullshit, none of it was.”

You whip around on him, eyes glassy as you stare at him with something that looks painfully like hatred. “You got what you wanted, Pope,” you hiss the name out and it breaks something inside of him. “Tell Baz he doesn’t have to worry, I won’t be calling the cops. I don’t want anything to do with you people anymore. Got it? Stay the hell away from me.”

Andrew tries to follow you, but you slam the door in his face. He lingers there longer than he should, eyes boring into the wood like you might change your mind and open it. But he heard the lock click a while ago and he knows you meant every word. He can’t blame you, shouldn’t blame you. Honestly, not calling the cops is more than he ever could have asked of you. 

But logic doesn’t abate the anger, the sharp, barbed pain inside his chest. You hadn’t given him a chance to explain. You didn’t believe how much you meant to him and he had tried to show you constantly. You just tossed it all aside like it meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. 

Andrew knows that. 

It meant something. It meant everything to him and he can’t just let you pretend it never happened. 

The bed dips behind you and you grumble tiredly, flipping over as you try to yank the blankets up to your chin. There’s a weight on them, though, pulling them down and away from you. Ever so slowly, the fogginess of sleep begins to fade and your brain shocks itself awake. 

There is someone on the bed behind you. 

Trying not to breathe too loudly, you lift your head and peer over your shoulder. You aren’t surprised when you recognize Andrew’s hunched form, the moonlight from your open window giving a good enough view. 

With a loud huff, you flip on your lamp and leap out of bed. His shoulders jump but he doesn’t turn to face you. “What the fuck do you not get about staying away from me?” You snap. Your anger only grows when he remains silent. 

“Fucker,” you mutter under your breath, rounding your bed so you can see his face. Your feet still, anger abating for a moment as you take in the redness along his cheeks. As if he’s been crying. But you’ve never seen Andrew cry before, you weren’t even sure he was capable of it. 

At his prolonged silence, something wedges itself into your chest, apprehension and nervousness. He’s quiet but this isn’t normal. Baz’s threat from earlier rings in your head as you slowly approach him. Andrew doesn’t meet your eye until you drop to your knees in front of him. 

Bloodshot and weary, you know he really has been crying. It tugs on something in you. That soft, weak part of yourself that’s so used to caring for other people, you can hardly resist the urge now. Your hands lift and cup his cheeks, brows furrowing as you take in the devastation on his face. 

“Andrew…” You trail off, speechless as he nuzzles into your hand, eyes falling shut. “What’s wrong?”

It takes a long while for him to speak, but you just wait, dread building with every second. Passively, you smooth your hands over his cheeks, attempting to keep him calm. The last thing you need is Andrew snapping and you being the nearest target. 

“She’s doing it again,” he finally whispers, hands coming up to trap your own. 

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you ask, “Doing what, honey?”

He shudders at the pet name, melting further into you until he’s nearly on the floor with you. “Smurf, what she did with Cath…” He shakes his head and you can feel it, the slight buildup before someone begins to cry. Slowly, you creep forward, arms winding around his neck as you pull him into your embrace. 

Andrew clings to you instantly, head buried in your shoulder as you drag your fingers through his curls. You hope he can’t feel how your heart is racing against your ribs, that he can’t sense just how scared you are right now. 

You’re not scared of him, not really. But you know what Smurf is capable of. You know how deep mothers like that can embed themselves in their son’s head. It’s her that’s terrifying to you. “Who’s Cath, sweetheart?”

He shudders again, arm winding tight around your waist. “I loved her,” he whispers the admission into your skin and it feels like something no one was ever meant to hear. “Smurf, she told me Cath talked to the cops, I,” he cuts himself off and you feel your breath catch in your chest. “I hurt her,” he finally settles on. But that’s not the whole truth. You can feel it, can hear it in how his voice cracks. 

He killed her. 

You jerk back, jumping to your feet. Andrew lets out a low noise, eyes cloudy and cheeks ruddy. He stares up at you, hurt by how quickly you pulled away from him. “Andrew,” it’s a Herculean effort to keep your voice steady. “Is that why you’re here? Did Smurf send you to hurt me?”

His eyes drop to the floor, posture slipping under the weight of shame. “Yes,” he finally whispers.

This time you can’t stop the way your voice cracks. “Are you going to?” 

Andrew’s head whips up, eyes wide as he stares up at you. “No,” his voice breaks around the word. You step forward as his hands reach out, wrapping around your hips and tugging you closer to him. “No, I’m not,” he insists and you really want to believe him. 

He sees it, the fear in your eyes. In the one person he never wants to see looking at him like that. “You don’t believe me,” he mutters, head falling forward as his forehead rests against the softness of your stomach. 

Your hands go to his back, scratching through his hair and trying to use your touch to ground him. “I believe you, Andrew. I just,” you hesitate, eyes darting around the room like you might be able to find an escape. “I don’t know why you’re here if you’re not going to listen to her.” 

He sucks in a deep breath, face nuzzling into the softness you provide before he pulls back. You startle as he stands, eyes wide as he keeps his grip on your hips and tugs you even closer. His eyes lose the softness of sorrow, narrow into something harsher. 

“You can’t stay here. Smurf expects you gone and if you’re not, she’s just gonna send Baz.” You tense under his grip and his thumbs draw circles into your skin, as if that would calm you after threat of death. 

Andrew reaches into his back pocket and you watch as he pulls out a large envelope. He passes it off to you, slightly reluctant to release it as you take it from him. You move away from him, dumping the contents on the bed. An ID, a passport, and a thick stack of cash sit in front of you. 

“Got you a new license plate, too. I already put it on.” He stands beside you, eyes boring into the side of your head. You can hardly breathe, let alone try and muster up a response. Tentatively, his hand lands on your back, the touch is enough to have you jolting back. 

“Andrew, what is this?” You know. You know what it is, no part of you wants to admit, though. 

“You have to go,” he whispers your name and you shake your head, body going numb. “Yes,” he insists. “It’s that or Smurf sends someone else to deal with you.” 

“And,” you stutter slightly, scrubbing your hands down your face. Not only were you held at gunpoint today by your boyfriend, and then broke up with him. Now, he’s standing here telling you his mother wants you dead. 

Death or change your identity. 

This is why you had sworn to yourself no more mama’s boys. Now look where you are. 

“Are you coming?” You ask, noticing that the only identification there is for you. Andrew pulls back and your heart drops. “Tell me you’re joking,” you snap.

That sad look in his eyes is all the confirmation you need. Swallowing down tears, you try to turn from him. His hands snap up, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his eye. “I can’t just leave,” his tone is desperate, eyes imploring you to understand. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”

“Fine,” you whisper, reality settling like a stone in your gut. “If I’m doing this right, then I guess this is it.” His brows furrow and you let out a shaky exhale. “Goodbye, Andrew,” you tell him, pushing up to press a light kiss on his cheek. 

Despite the fact that it’s his mother getting rid of you, his fault you got wrapped up in this, he can’t let you go. You try to back away but his grip is firm as he drags you back and presses his lips to yours. 

It’s the sort of desperate, dramatic kiss you thought you would only ever experience through movies. Tears are hot as they race down your cheeks, salty as they drip between your lips and you find yourself melting into him. He’s not kissing you like he’s saying goodbye. He’s kissing you as if he holds you close enough, this might not happen. 

It’s you who pulls back, chest too tight to continue without taking a breath. Your forehead rests against his, hands sliding down to cover the ones on your cheeks. He lets out a small noise that rips through your chest as you finally pull him away from you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, incapable of looking at the passport on the bed, the new name you’ll be stuck with while you get away from the Codys.  He tries to keep his hand in yours but you force yourself to break away, to put enough space between you so you can breathe again. 

Without a word, you go into your closet to grab a suitcase. When you return, Andrew’s already gone. Another sob rips through your chest, but you force yourself through it, swallowing roughly as you start packing your life away. 

You wait. It’s stupid, you know. Just a few hours ago, you were shouting at Andrew to stay out of your life, to forget you so you could forget him. But now, you’re sitting in your car, forehead resting on your steering wheel. 

He told you he wouldn’t leave. That he couldn’t. And you know why. He feels obligated to his family, feels like their burdens are his to carry, even if they aren’t. He’d taken the fall for Baz once, and now he was doing it all over again. 

Sitting up, your head thumps against the headrest as you suck in a sharp breath. You drag your hand down your cheeks, forcing away any remaining tears. You can’t wait for him forever. Smurf probably already thinks you’re dead. You know she’s got connections, like any good leader would, it wouldn't take her long to catch up to you. You have to leave now, while you still have the advantage of night. 

“Alright,” you click your garage opener and finally force yourself to turn the ignition in your car. The car that Andrew had fixed for you, even if he still insisted on giving you rides after. The thought sends a stabbing pain in your stomach that you force yourself to ignore. 

The headlights flick on, illuminating your driveway, and you bite your tongue to tamp down a scream. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off and for you to realize that the man standing in front of you is Andrew. Brows furrowed, you watch as he walks up to your car and tugs open the passenger door. 

You’re left speechless when he just stares straight ahead, not looking at you once. “I need to make sure you get settled safely,” he tells you. You nod dumbly, trying not to let the relief on your face show so plainly. “Just for a few days,” he warns, trying to keep the hope in your eyes dimmed. 

You both end up in Nevada. First, Andrew says just a few more days while he tries to help you find a place to stay. He tells you that when Cath happened, he’d gone AWOL for a while. Smurf wouldn’t go looking for him anytime soon. You hadn’t said anything to that, just shown him another listing for an apartment you could barely afford. 

Days turn into two weeks as he gets some cash for you so he knows that you’re going to be able to settle in comfortably. You don’t ask where he gets the money from and he doesn’t offer you any sort of explanation. 

Conveniently, the very night he swears he’s going to leave, the apartment below you gets broken into. It’s not hard to call up the waterworks, to blubber and cry in his arms about how scared you are. He promises you a few more days, just until you feel better. 

By then, you’re getting better at catching his family’s calls before he does. Dismissing the notifications and deleting the messages trying to figure out where he is. With less distractions, he starts to forget just how many days he’s promised to stay. 

Then it gets easy. You distract him simply by caring for him. Holding him at night and making him feel human rather than an animal. His days blur into weeks until it’s been two months and he’s got clothes in your new closet. 

“How was your day?” You ask as he walks into the apartment. He’s got the shirt of a local HVAC company on. Just something on the side he picked up for some extra cash, he told you. But he’s been asking for more hours and suddenly it’s almost like he’s got a full-time job. 

“Hot,” he grumbles, cheeks flushed from the sun. You turn the heat down on the stove and finally turn to face him. You open your arms and he falls into them like he’s been trained to do it. Maybe he has, maybe you’ve both been conditioned to shower each other in as much affection as you can. 

“Wanna take a shower?” You ask, running your hands through his curls and smiling at how his body sinks into yours. 

He lifts his head and a smile that’s almost become frequent shows in his eyes. “Alone?”

You snort and reach over to turn the stove off completely. “Don’t blame me if your meal gets cold.”

There’s no warning as he hefts you up, you let out a short squeal, hands tightening around his shirt as he carries you up the stairs. “Got my meal right here.”

“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes, but there's a grin so big on your face that your cheeks hurt. 

You’d once sworn off man-children, mama’s boys who were too reliant on their mothers to be emotionally stable. But Andrew was never so bad, he just needed Smurf’s leash cut so he could finally breathe. He’s fully reformed, you think, as he shuts the bathroom door and helps you strip out of your clothes. 

Andrew deserves something good in his life. He deserves to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions attached to your affection. And you don’t deserve to be alone because of what his family did to you. 

So, by god, you’re keeping him. 

𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them 💿

end. — I do not own the characters or the show Animal Kingdom, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

“It’s called a caramel macchiato. Stop acting like it’s plutonium.”

“Dr. Shen,” You sigh out the other attending’s name. “Your sugar and caffeine tolerance is something else entirely.” 

No? Okay.

Jack keeps his head down as he signs another discharge. His head cocks once to the side. Stiffly. But only once. He picks up the next chart.

…But he ends up walking out a minute later, because…really. After the next chart, he’d be finished–and there’s always charts to do. It’s an endless hell of charts, always. And Jack knows he’ll find more of his at the nurses’ station. 

When he finds his way to the nurses’ station, chart in hand, he sees you holding a tall cup drizzled with…something. You’re studying it with obvious, visible skepticism. 

Jack doesn’t slow when he sees Shen leaving his crossed arms on the counter, leering down above you. 

What the fuck is going on here?

“You’re going to like it. Trust me.”

“I can smell the calories and, again, diabetes.”

Jack clears his throat, letting the chart snap shut. He doesn’t blink when Shen looks over, grin easy and bright. “Abbot. You want some?” 

“I will stick to coffee that looks like coffee.” 

He says it dryly, and when you duck your head, he can catch you trying to hide your smile.

Shen takes a sip of his own drink–something suspiciously green. Jack blinks once and quickly when your name comes out as a sigh. When it comes out of someone else's mouth. 

The two-second hatred for Shen is as ridiculous as much as it is something Jack can’t stop from reaching the coils of his stomach. 

“Back me up here. Tell him he should live a little.” 

You look up at Jack, and he studies the way your eyes still dance with the smile you’re failing to suppress. Hey. At least he knows you’re not great at everything.

Go ahead. Tell me I should live a little. Act like a giddy teenager with the next attending that can actually have fun and make me feel bad for thinking that an hour later when I realize you’re just…existing with someone who isn’t me. Go ahead.

“He does live a little,” You say it gently. “He just…doesn’t admit it.”

Jack lifts a brow. His shoulders rise with an inhale. 

Nevermind. Good girl. 

“Don’t defend me.” 

“...Sorry.”

And you do not sound sorry at all. 

Jack ignores whatever’s like a smirk on Shen’s face before he walks off. 

The next night, it’s the same. Except this time, you bring something for Shen, because you’re the most perfect co-worker woman nurse in the fucking world, apparently. Not apparently. Jack’s known since the day he met you. 

It’s a little Tupperware container with a foil wrap inside. Jack watches you hold it out, his face and focus only narrowing back to the trauma board with a headshake. 

“Here, since you keep bribing me with coffee.”

He’s not gonna ask what it is. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t care. 

You’re just the nicest girl in the world, aren’t you? 

“Oh?” 

“Just something small. I know I didn’t have to, but…yeah.”

“So this is why they call you sunshine. Got it.” 

Jack closes his eyes. When he opens them, he doesn’t look up from the trauma board as he presses his pen against the laminate with a force he doesn’t realize. But still, he doesn’t flinch.

Not until Shen peels back the foil with a stupid quiet wonder. 

“You made this?” 

“Mhm.”

“Oh. I love you.” 

His head snaps to the sight of you and Shen at the counter, and whatever’s burning at the stupid, fucking asshat decision Shen made to jokingly call out his love for you pairs too damn well with one word. It pounds in his head as Santos snorts from across the station. 

Homemade.

Jack's hands tighten around the chart. He doesn’t look up, because he’s patient for his simple reprimand…he just waits until the next break in conversation. 

He’s this close to calling you a slut and bending you over and wanting to shoot himself in the head for it. 

“So I’m gonna have to break bank to serve the nurses matcha if I want brownie bars?”

“I don’t know what makes you think we’re gonna bake for you–” 

He breaks Princess’s quip with his throat clearing. 

“Let’s cool it with the snack-and-drink exchanges for now.”

Both you and Shen turn towards him. Jack’s stare doesn’t budge. The other nurses at the counter go quiet. Even Dana raises her head two computers away. 

Sorry that I don’t want to hear my fellow attending try to get into her pants. He’s amping up the flirtations and praises because she’s wearing her fitted scrubs. 

It’s the most unnecessary, dramatic thought Jack’s had all day. It’s your fault. And there’s nothing wrong with you. 

Resentfully, perfect anomaly you. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“When did you start working for HR?” 

Jack places his chart on the counter at Shen’s quip, palms going up. “I’m not trying to be a stickler, but HR’s been cracking down on outside food handling—” He eyes your…baked brownie thing that unfortunately looks delicious. 

His mouth goes thin. 

“Especially anything homemade. If someone has an allergic reaction or there’s any contamination, it becomes a liability.” 

It’s the truth. It’s also the easiest thing he could come up with. 

He doesn’t flinch when Shen gives a massive, purposeful side-eye. But when you somehow become…smaller at his lecture, Jack turns away. 

He didn’t think he’d have to feed you liquid calories to make you want him. Regretfully, he thought everything else was enough. Whatever. It’s fine. Just a hard quip along his brain. 

“I…didn’t realize.” 

Jack scratches his ear when you mutter it. 

…You’re not supposed to feel bad, sleepy. He didn’t–

You just made something. With your hands. In your kitchen, out of your tight scrubs you decorate against healthcare management’s rules. He wonders what you were where when you were thinking of Shen while making something for him. You probably worried it’d be too sweet. 

His jaw flexes as he watches Shen takes one last bite, groaning like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever eaten. “Of course, Abbot. Our bad.” 

Cum in your seat, why the fuck not?

…It’s over when you both leave. 

Almost.

“Jack?” 

“Dana.” 

Dana taps the arms of her chair. “Considering I assisted you on the case where you threw the medical playbook out the window two hours ago…I’m surprised you’re quoting HR.” 

Jack’s jaw tightens. 

“You ain’t ever said a thing when we brought in crockpots for football Sundays–or when the pharmacy staff gave us those dry-ass muffins, but when Shen gets something that’s edible? What’s that–” 

“Dana. I was making a suggestion.” 

Jack blinks when the Pitt’s charge nurse tilts his head, eyeing him like she knows something. 

“Homemade, no less.”

Jack doesn’t respond to that word, said exactly the way he did. He just rolls his shoulders, because the past ten minutes have been absolutely fucking ridiculous. 

He doesn’t respond to Dana’s look. Or to your silence when you come to walk past him. 

Or to that nauseating, perfect smell of cinnamon and sweetness now wafting from Shen’s station. 

Instead, he turns back to his work, the scribble of his pen not aggressive enough to notice. 

You smile without filter. You give without pause. You sway your hips without any sort of care of where you’ll go next, and Jack feels like the dirtiest old man in the world.

…That doesn’t stop him from realizing that you’ve never baked him anything. 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The ER doors slam open with the thunder of wheels. The first thing Mel catches is the red that it tracks in. She swallows. 

Samira moves right behind her. She’s not on an assignment, so her and King can move easily to whatever’s about to make its way to a trauma bay. Her voice is clipped but routine to the medic as she clocks vitals. 

But the two of them–the three of them, as Dana finds her way at their side, they freeze. 

It’s a single second, a heartbeat going missing as the gurney fully comes into view, when they do a double-take at the patient, who’s supposed to be just another patient. 

But on it?

“Oh my God.” 

You. 

You’re unconscious. Full of pallor. They watch your chest jolt and flutter under the oxygen bag being squeezed in rhythm. Your arms are streaked with road rash and blood and bits of your body that should be inside of you. Any piece of gauze that’s been wrapped or stuffed too hastily is already soaked through. 

And you’ve brought a pond of blood along the tile. You. Sunshine. 

Mel puts a hand over her mouth. Samira doesn’t blink. Dana leans over the gurney. 

“...Sun…oh my God.”

The nurse who never takes a real break. The girl who brings snacks that’s not from a vending machine to the Pitt every other week. The one who knows everyone’s birthdays.

For one suspended moment, all three of them–Dana, Mel, and Samira…

They forget how to breathe. 

“Clear trauma two. Now.”

Dana’s voice snaps, and their world jolts back into motion, because this is what they do. This–gloves snapping as they order monitors to be wheeled in, but still…still–they can’t stop exchanging looks over you. 

But before they can start lines, before Dana can even check the monitor, another shadow barrels through, but they hear it before they see it. 

His boots. 

Angry. Heavy. Stomping.

Jack. 

He storms in, and they’re not sure if he’s wet from rain or sweat, because the forecast didn’t call for drowsy weather, but he’s dripping. 

His jaw is locked so tight that Dana swears she can hear his molars grind.

“Move.” 

He’s at your side in seconds. His gloved hands hover over your ribs. Dana, in all her fucking shock, takes a moment to catch the face of Mohan and King, and as good as the doctors they are, she knows they can’t be the ones to handle this. 

“Jack–”

“I said move.” He nearly barks it out under the dry of his throat, eyes only focused on your battered, torn skin. “Get your hands off her if you don’t know what you’re doing.” 

Dana’s hands drop. That’s not something Jack Abbot–the one she knows would ever say. 

But she realizes, there, that Jack doesn’t even know who’s beside him. 

He’s already tearing open another thoracostomy kit, elbowing Mel back like she’s some well-meaning amateur. As if he wouldn’t be the first attending to throw her or any other resident at a case to let them thrive and swim and learn. 

But this case is you, and Dana understands everything that he must be feeling when she realizes that.

“...Dr. Abbot,” Samira is trying in her careful voice, “we need to get access—”

“You can do it over me.”

He says it with a dead, flat tone. It’s terrifying. Dana manages to step forward, making her voice firmer. 

Absolutely not.

“Jack. I’m telling you right now, you are not cleared. With the way you’re acting, you cannot be the one to work on this case–”

“I don’t care.” 

When Jack looks up finally, as if it’s a betrayal to you for looking away from the table, Dana sees how wild his eyes are. 

It’s so much worse than she thought. 

His lip twitches. His eye twitches. His brow twitches. 

“Case? She’s a case to you, Evans?”

His hands work on your chest as he talks, checking the site where he placed the decompression needle, and Dana’s assuming he did that in the field. 

“Yeah. She needs to be a case, Jack. That’s how we’re gonna get her through this, and you’re not in a state to work at all. Not at all. Look at you–” 

“I am looking very clearly,” Jack’s words are dragged in what’s almost a growl, something low in the back of his throat, and when he turns his eyes back up on Dana, the unblinking…the focus– 

Yeah. That’s terrifying as shit too. 

“None of you know how to do this the way I do.” 

Her breath catches in her throat. 

What the fuck are they gonna do?

She turns to Samira, a whisper is the best she can do.

“Robby’s on shift tonight?” 

Samira nods something unsure. “He’s supposed to be, why?” 

“If it’s gonna be someone to bring him down, it’s–” 

Jack’s head whips towards them.

His eyes snap up, feral. 

“Who do you think put her here?”

…The silence that follows is fucking holy. Worthy of Mass on Sunday. 

Samira steps back. Mel goes still, her hands hovering over your wrists, as if trying to save you is the worst thing she could possibly do in this moment. And as if on cue, the doors open again. 

Another gurney. Not as rushed. Somewhat as bloodied. 

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“Jesus–”

Robby’s being barreled through with a neck brace and a gash at his temple, and some of his skin missing. Arm bandaged and slung. Alive–but barely able to keep his head up straight. 

Out of the two of you, the two residents and charge nurse can deduce he’s the lucky one. 

And the moment his stretcher crosses into view of the trauma bay, the entire room stops.

Not just the trauma team. Not just the nurses. The entire Pitt.

And Jack hasn’t moved since Robby came through those doors. Not a twitch. Not a word.

Jesus. If looks could fucking kill.

Dana notices his jaw managing to lock more somehow, teeth grinding behind his lips pressed so tight that they looked bloodless. His shoulders might as well be concrete under his scrubs, and his fists…

They tremble. 

When Dana’s eyes shift away from Robby’s stretcher, slowing to a crawl, she finds Jack’s eyes back on you. 

He swipes your blood-strung hair out of your face. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. 

“Jack. You can’t do this.” 

Jack doesn’t move away. He doesn’t look towards Dana. He simply works his hands over the first place where gauze has been stuffed, because there’s the first and fifth and tenth. 

“You’re going to compromise her care if you stay in this state—”

Still nothing. But behind them is a groan, then a shuffle. The scrape of knee and shoulder dragging off the gurney. 

“Robby–” 

It’s one of the medics snapping, trying to stop him. 

Too late. 

Robby swings himself down, hand pressed to his bandaged arm as his skinned cheek twitches. He sways, but god, does he manage to stay upright. 

His mouth moves urgently. 

“Sh-she gonna crash if you don’t start another line–get fluids wide open. One of you needs to suction around the intubation tube, she’s got blood in the back of her throat–”

Jack says something Dana can’t make out, but it’s deep. 

“I know she does…I heard it. And get-get the dopamine, Jack…Jack you have to–”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Jack’s voice rips through the trauma bay. 

Everyone jolts. 

Even you, somehow, flinch in spirit. Mel shushes a bare whimper that comes out of you. 

Robby’s eyes, Dana knows the pain in them isn’t just made up of every wound he’s given himself. 

She watches them get wet as Jack stalks forward. Behind him, Samira and Mel take the moment to work on you instantly.

“We are going to end up with two people dead if you keep playing doctor right now. You need to get back on your fucking gurney, and you are going to let them help you while I make sure she doesn’t die because of this. Do you understand?”

Robby, hair matted with blood and eyes unfocused, decorated with the pallor of a man on the brink of shock, shifts his sight from Jack to you. You to Jack. 

“She needs–” 

“She needed someone who would keep her safe!” Jack points with one impossibly shaking hand. “You swore–you swore you’d keep her safe. And now look at her. Look at what you did.”

Jack to you. You to Jack. Jack to Dana. Dana to you. 

Your name is cried out, Robby’s voice hoarse and cracking. 

He staggers forward, hand outstretched, only to collapse when his knee buckles.

“Dr. Robby–” 

It’s Mel who gasps. Dana rushes forward. 

“No, I–I know. I know.”

Robby’s trying to crawl towards your side, lips sharing a slurry of explanations and pleas.

“I was…she was behind me, I tried to–”

The next thing Jack does almost puts a shock as intense as Robby’s in Dana–and Samira. And Mel. And every other person who’s able to look through the glass.

He merely moves past a crawling Robby as if he’s nothing more than a roach he can’t be bothered to deal with. His best friend. His boots squeak with your blood.

“Someone get him up, please.” 

He doesn’t look up from where he spikes an IV line for you. 

“Robby. Get up. Get away from her. Please.”

Robby shakes his head weakly, tears streaking down the grime on his face as Dana tries like hell to hold his body weight.

“I can help–”

“You’ve done enough.”

Jack’s voice, as hoarse and low as it is, could freeze hell over. Dana hopes what she’s hearing is right–that there’s guilt and pity for Robby in there somewhere. Cause, if not? Jack’s not the person she thought he was. 

And shit, she’s not gonna blame you for changing him. Not you, Sunshine. 

From behind, a new voice cuts in.

“He can’t even stand, Jack.”

Heather Collins’s already gloved and stepping forward, trying her best to stay clinical, but her jaw’s clenched. 

“You can get him out of this room and triage him.”

Heather ignores Jack’s dry, harsh tone as she catches Robby’s good arm. Perlah, in a rush, takes the other arm from Dana. Together, they maneuver their way back to the gurney. 

Jack reaches for your wrist…he searches for a pulse he obviously already knows is there. 

Dana watches him squeeze your wrist.

“Wait.”

It’s Robby’s voice again. Broken. Small.

Jack doesn’t turn.

“Wait, I–”

Jack exhales. Dana closes her eyes. “What now, Robby?”

When they both glance back, Dana catches his breath halting. 

Robby reaches for something the medic holds out like a crying baby grasping for its favorite toy.

A helmet. 

Yours. 

It’s half-crushed and bloodied. Dana has to turn away when she catches your hair caught on the cracked visor. 

Robby’s reaching out for it as if he just needs to hold it.

“...You. Gave him that?” 

“He wouldn’t go in the ambulance without it, Dr. Abbot–”

“Tell me, how does that better his chances of not dying–”

“Jack.”

Jack stares at the helmet, and no one can know how something twists in him. 

Possessiveness. Guilt. Horror.

He hasn’t thought about it since he saw that thing thirty feet away from the hell he found you in. Jack hadn’t thought about what you had done to protect yourself. 

It wasn’t Robby’s body shielding you. Couldn’t possibly be with the way he found you…there. Out in the street.

Why were you with Robby, kid? Why weren’t you with him?

Didn’t he promise he’d take care of you? Why didn’t that mean anything to you?

…No. It wasn’t Robby who was shielding you. It was that. A fragile shell of black plastic. 

And Robby’s clutching it like it's a fucking talisman. 

Jack’s finger twitches around your wrist. 

“Jack. Don’t.”

Don’t what? He can’t do anything when Robby’s wheeled away. 

Well. No. He can save you. Feel you. Make sure you’re alive and you have no chance of getting away from him–and he can think how absolutely stupid it is that it took you being cracked against asphalt to forget how much he doesn’t deserve you…

To just take you. 

He doesn’t realize he was still gripping the side rail of your gurney until his knees begin to burn. Your wrist lies limp beneath his fingertips–like you’re dead. But you’re not dead. You’re his, you’re fucking perfect. You can’t be.

Jack lets out a breath at the feel of your pulse. It’s thready, but there. A beat he can anchor to.

He’s going to stay. He has to. 

This is you. 

His girl. 

He decided that a long time ago. He’ll be sorry about that later, but right now, he’ll stabilize you, monitor your post-op, handle your chart, and–

“Jack.”

No. Absolutely fucking not. 

Dana’s voice is controlled. Calm. Almost gentle. 

He doesn’t like it. Not that tone.

Jack doesn’t look up. “Get the dopamine running. Mohan, what’s her BP?”

“...D–dropping. Eight-two systolic and falling.”

“Then we push the epi. Now.”

“Abbot.” Jack blinks slow at Dana’s voice again. “Step back.”

…He looks up there. 

And. Fuck. Dana’s not behind him to unwillingly assist like he thought she eventually would. She’s standing at his side, face leaning in front of his vision. 

He can’t see you.

“Move! Dana, I–”

She’s blocking him from you, like you aren’t his–like he can’t save you. Like you’re another coder he’ll fail, and you’re not. You can’t be. 

Are they trying to kill you? Why the fuck are they hurting you? Just to punish him? For what?

“Every second counts. What the hell are we doing?” Jack straightens. His voice drops. “Evans, do not play with me right now.” 

“I’m not.”

Jack's head lowers at the way Dana says her words so fucking evenly. His thumb runs over your knuckles. 

His eyes travel to the mess of you. He thinks of you down the hall. Hair in a braid. Pink sneakers. 

…Where are your sneakers?

“...She needs me.”

He tries saying it in a way that King or Mohan won’t hear, but at this point, he can only care later. Dana’s eyes flash something full of the pity he’ll spit back up. Something sad. Something knowing. 

But if she knew, she’d let him work on you.

“She needs me.”

“You’re not what she needs right now.”

Jack stills.

No.

All he can hear is Mohan and Mel knowing what to do without him. Your monitors. The life he has to keep steady so he can have you for the rest of his. Sure. It’s the most aggressive thought he’s ever had, but it’s drowned out by the blood in his ears. 

His voice edges out quieter. 

He doesn’t know how dangerous it sounds. Not even when Dana’s mouth parts or the other two look up. 

“Get out of my way.” 

“You’re in no state to treat her.” 

“You think I’m not–”

“I know you’re not.”

Dana’s words land like a fucking punch, but that doesn’t stop Jack from staring into her. 

Nobody has to interrupt. To break up whatever the hell this is. Even Jack knows she’s already gone further than anyone else would dare. 

“We’ve all seen it, Jack. What this…is. What it’s been becoming.” 

Jack’s eyes narrow. 

Not fucking now. 

His head tilts up, shaking slightly – because this is ridiculous. They have him to save you, and this is what he gets? 

The truth? No. 

“You think I don’t see the way you look at her? The way you act ‘round her? The way you can’t seem to breathe when she’s…Jack, this stopped bein’ professional a long time ago.”

Jack blinks. 

He says nothing. 

…Why can’t she just give you to him? Why?

“You’ve trained every single one of them to handle this kind of trauma. You know that. You know Samira and Mel and anyone on this team are more than capable.”

Jack’s mouth opens. Closes. Dana’s voice drops, soft and shaking slightly. 

“Don’t be selfish. If you…if you care for her the way I know you do, you let us help her. Let us take care of her.”

Silence presses into Jack’s body. 

Yeah? What happened the last time he let someone else take care of you? 

Mohan adjusts a line near your arm. King preps for another aspirate and release. Dana doesn’t move. And Jack feels like the room has no edges. No air. 

He looks down at you. 

The streaky pulse of your bruised neck. Your blood seeping beneath his gloves. He thinks of where you should be–

At your station. In his arms. Under him. 

God, he didn’t know he could miss when he felt like the dirtiest old man in the world–when the girl who put unspeakable things in him wasn’t bloodied with the street she fell into. 

All the things he kept buried with dry professionalism, with late nights and self-denial and a touch of self-hatred, with standing at the edge of your apartment after tucking you in and pretending it meant nothing. 

He thinks about that split-second in the ambulance, when the sirens wailed overhead, high and keening–a sound he’s heard a thousand times but never like that. When he held your hand and had to remind himself to be gentle, not selfish, and he couldn’t take the time to realize that he’s done that for you over and over and over again. 

When he cupped your cheek and ordered you. 

“Stay with me, kid.”

And your breath caught on a wet gurgle. 

“You don’t get to leave us, sleepy. You understand?”

He felt the tremor in your chest under his palm. That shallow, failing effort to pull air–but, God…you were trying. But Jack thinks about how he reminded himself that your left lung was–is partially collapsed, with the tension pneumo relieved but not resolved. 

And if it had gone again, you would’ve suffocated before they made six blocks. 

“It’s me. Jack. Your doctor. You don’t get to leave me.”

…Yeah. That split second. 

All the promises to let you go, to be better, to stop smothering the girl he hadn’t even taken out on a real date cause he’s fucked enough to think you’re too good for him while still needing you anyway–

They died in his throat.

But Dana? She’s not gonna let up, is she?

“Jack–”

Jack storms out of the room, snapping his gloves off and throwing them to tile. 

He’s stepped back to give just enough room for the three of them to take his place, to act as if he’s let go. 

But sure as hell not far enough that he isn’t right outside, ready to push them aside at a single mistake. 

At the simplest whimper or moan or plea for him, he begs whatever God isn’t up there for. 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Robby knew he’d hit the asphalt when the lights exploded behind his eyes. The metal of his bike screamed against the street before everything was…really, really fucking quiet. 

Then came the taste of copper and smoke, his own breath catching nothing as the world flipped and tilted and slammed against him. He didn’t black out when he skidded away from his pile of parts. No. Not really. It was more like a seizure of time or…something, where the seconds jammed and snagged at his throat and bones, and the bits of his skin peeled off. The world felt it had stopped, and every minute without knowing where you were or what happened felt too fucking long–but there were lights and soft voices over him before he knew it. 

He was pinned between the curb he slammed into and the wheel that skidded with him. His knees were screaming. His helmet cracked. His hands were scraped raw and red from instinctively trying to shield the one who was behind him.

You. 

You. 

You had called him for a ride to work, and he was surprised you even wanted to after the parking lot ordeal. Crazy. But he was happy, maybe happier than he should’ve been. And hey, it seemed like Jack made peace with it, and even if he didn’t, his lack of it didn’t mean shit, because he knows his friend well enough that he can figure his own shit out, even if it has to do with you. 

Sunshine of the Pitt. Harbinger of a silliness that would be resentful if you didn’t know how to do your job so well. You. You. 

God, Robby. What the fuck did you do?

He turned his head too fast. Pain bloomed bright behind his eyes. His vision doubled, then cleared.

And then it stopped. Everything.

You were in the middle of the road like you had been thrown there, limbs folded wrong, blood running from your forehead, your shoulder crunched, your leg bent in a way that made him, with all the shit he’s seen…

He wanted to vomit. 

Your name came out of his mouth in a rasp. No answer. 

He threw up. He cried out your name again when he was finished. He watched your chest rise too shallowly and unevenly, and your face was pale in a way that reminded him of every dying patient he had ever failed. 

“Hey! Wake…hey!” It was your name. Over and over and over again. 

Robby crawled. He dragged himself across the street, glass and gravel piercing his knees, but he only went faster, focusing on how your lips were parted, as if you had just been about to scream. 

He choked on his groan when he made it to your side, just as the first poor-sorry bystander ran up with a phone shaking in their fist, and something deep in his shoulder and cheek shrieked, but Robby really didn’t give a shit.

“She’s breathing,” He gasped to no one. “She’s…she’s br–”

But it was wrong. The breathing wasn’t right, and you do everything right. That’s who you are. 

What the fuck did he ruin? What the fuck did he do to you?

Why aren’t you crying and screaming to make him feel worse?

The sirens came–too fast, too close. Too fucking loud. Robby winced as he dragged his body over you, trying to keep your head still when the medics surrounded both of you. Their hands moved too hastily, like they didn’t know what they were doing, and he swears, sunshine–that wasn’t the brain bleed talking. 

They weren’t doing right by you. They didn’t know what the fuck they were doing. And he…

He didn’t know what else to do but hang his body over you and be a fucking doctor. 

“No–” Robby tried to wave them off. “No, her breathing’s shallow, I think she has internal…just–you have to be careful!”

A firm arm pulled him back.

“Sir, you need to step away and let us help you–”

“I’m a fucking ER doctor!” He shouted it, dizzy, and he didn’t realize blood was dripping into his eyes until his vision was painted red, and he wondered if this was what all his vehicular trauma patients see. “She needs a collar, I think there’s head trauma...DON’T tip her. Her arm and leg are dislocated or fractured–”

Robby tried grabbing one of the field med kits, reaching over your body–your heartbeat that he swore he could hear, which was good, but another medic restrained him. “Sir, you’re bleeding. You’re in shock. We’ve got her.” 

…No. No. Please. 

He had her. 

He couldn’t fight them when he had wounds that bled into lakes, and they were medics who could carry three hundred pounds on a good day. So, he just let his voice crack into something really fucking pathetic, but something he needed–because they needed to hear him. 

“Please be careful. Please…she’s–she’s not built for this. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Robby?” 

Robby’s head snaps up, eyes beady and wet. He catches Perlah holding steady pressure to the side of his ribs while Heather works a pair of tweezers against the raw scrape across his jawline. He knows the gravel stuck there isn’t bottomless, just bloody and ugly–and that Heather’s covered the missing part of his cheek to deal with later. 

He spits out a piece of pavement, eyes closing. He needs to fix what he ruined, and they’re wasting their time and resources trying to fix him. Why are they doing this to him? Why are they being good?

“Robby.” Heather says it softly. “How about you tell us what happened?”

He would roll his eyes. Robby knows what she’s doing, just making conversation to make sure he doesn’t crash before they send him off for a CT, but he won’t be difficult. Difficult didn’t get him anywhere in your trauma room. 

With Jack. 

“...I was driving.” He can’t even try to bring his voice above the sound of his heart monitor. “We were on the bike.”

Jack. He’s so fucking sorry. 

“...Wasn’t going fast. Wasn’t–we weren’t speeding. We weren’t speeding–”

“Okay. Okay, Robby. That’s good.” 

He doesn’t know how Heather’s focus on him can be a comfort and a death sentence at the same time. He rubs his eyes. Harshly. Maybe. But it can hurt more than anything else on his body. He keeps rubbing. 

“Robby, don’t do that–”

“I didn’t speed. I didn’t, you know? I would never do that with her. She called me to pick her up for work. I didn’t…I didn’t even think she’d want to ride again. But I let her. She needed a ride. I gave her a ride, I don’t know why–” 

Heather glances towards Perlah. 

“How about you tell me how exactly did the accident happened, Robby…if you can–”

“She asked for it.”

Robby’s voice cracks. 

God. He’s a fucking bastard. He’s the worst person in the world. Do No Harm means fuck all to him. He’s killed you, the most sorta-perfect thing to walk into his hospital, and he manages to blame you cause he’ll vomit again if he has to swallow any more guilt. 

Did he kill the sweetest girl in the world?

Robby closes his eyes shut. He doesn’t even hear Heather or Perlah breathing. They’re holding in their judgement, right?

“That sounds wrong. But she did. She did this time. She–God…I kept it slow, Heather. And the light was green. It was fucking green. I checked. I always check!” 

Something clatters. 

“Robby!” 

He opens his eyes to see his fist where the supply tray was. He shakes his head. Over and over, because he’s not capable of anything else. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry–” 

He feels a hand, Heather’s, on his wrist. The one place he is broken or bleeding or bruised. 

“Just keep telling me and Perlah what happened. About the other driver, okay?”

Robby feels the whole of his face twitch and jolt. He nods. 

“There was a car. He ran the light. I wasn’t going fast. I said that, right? I–he just came out of nowhere. Why the fuck would he…why would he…”

Why would he make me hurt you?

“He crashed, sorta. He had a purple tree…the scented hanger thing. His wheels skidded before he drove off. He–we treat those stories every day, but if he walked into this hospital right now, I don’t think…” Robby shakes his head violently. 

“Robby, keep still. I’m almost done with your jaw–” 

“He’s gonna be the one to make me break my oath if he walks in here, Heather.” 

And he can’t look at her or Perlah when he spits that out. 

He can feel Perlah dress the wound over his rib a bit more firmly than she needs to, mouth slight in what could be a smile. 

“Well, the bastard’s lucky you’ll be a patient for the next few days, Robby.” 

He shakes his head again, only regretting it when he can finally look Heather in the eye and realize she really is on the last piece of gravel. 

“No. I told you, I’m clean breaks and surface wounds, I’m not gonna waste a bed upstairs when she’s…” 

…He doesn’t know why your smile and breakage come to him in flashes. He sees it, right there, every other moment out in the street. But it doesn’t matter, he can’t focus on any one image for more than a half-second before he starts grasping at his stomach. 

“Her helmet fit. I made the helmet fit.” It’s the first time he’s as quiet as he was when he started talking. Robby’s just…relaying facts. He doesn’t catch the way Perlah and Heather exchange glances again. “I check the straps. I checked them when I picked her up.” 

“Robby.” 

“I don’t know why…why it would come off like that. Why–” Robby straightens up instantly, panic rumbling at his chest. Did they make him a victim of out of sight, out of mind? “Where’s it? Do you still have it? Perlah, where’d you put it–” 

“We didn’t throw the helmet away. You’re getting it back after we treat those surface wounds and breaks.” 

Robby slumps. He nods. His eyes narrow. 

“I know what you’re thinking.” It comes out inside of a choke. He didn’t realize he’s been crying all this time until his new tears smear the stains of the old ones. “I know. Everyone’s thinking it. I saw Jack’s face. I know.”

Heather watches the way his hand curls against nothing, like he’s holding on to the edge of something that’s already dropped out from under him. 

“You weren’t reckless.” 

Robby laughs. Snorts. It’s something bitter and wet. 

No?

“No? Then why the hell is she–” He can’t stop his voice from cracking so hard he can’t finish. He breathes something shaky for a moment. 

“I went slow. I swear I went slow.”

He couldn’t know how something fold painfully in her chest as Perlah’s eyes shift to the ground. She simply nods. “I know, Robby.” 

“She smiled when I picked her up, you know?” It’s softer than the first word he spoke, because he really can’t speak anything more. “She smiles a lot, right?” 

“Robby,” Heather says it firmly, and with all the blood swimming in his ears, Robby can only guess it’s heartbreak starting to show in her voice. “You can stop now, alright?”

Heather felt something fold painfully in her chest.

“I would’ve never let her on if I thought–if I knew–”

“Robby.”

“I would’ve never–”

Heather touches his finger. She squeezes. 

“I know.” 

She says it softly.

“We know.”

And still, he keeps mumbling it under his breath in all his pitiful as shit tears. It’s his prayer. 

Prayer. Curse. Same fucking thing. 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

He didn’t plan it. He told himself he was just being practical.

The night after Shen had brought you that caramel monstrosity, Jack stops at the twenty-four-hour grocery store on his way into the Pitt. He’s tired, but aware of how ridiculous he looks in front of the pastry case at 8:52 pm. He’s trying to remember what you said you liked.

Jack would think about how more ridiculous it is that he’s doing this for a woman he hasn’t even felt the lips of yet, only to then feel gross in guilt while thinking of the way you bend over when you drop your glitter pen–which he swears is on purpose. He hopes it is, because he doesn’t think he could possibly feel more dirty than he does when he thinks of every crevice of you–body and brain, but if you’re really unknowingly beautiful in body and brain, then fuck him. But then he’d have to admit he’s in a twenty-four-hour grocery store for you. So. 

He ends up buying a box of plain glazed donuts, cause Shen always brings the fancy ones, and he doesn’t want this to look like he’s competing.

He’s not. There’s no competition. 

He tells himself that all the way to the Pitt. When he walks in, you’re already there, reviewing the incoming admits. Your hair’s braided over your shoulder. You look up at him when you hear his footsteps. 

He really could roll his eyes at the way his heartbeat grows faster. What in the absolute hell?

“Well…hello, my doctor. You were pushing your clock-in time.” 

“...Hi.” 

“...Hi.” 

Jack clears his throat and sets the box down on the counter, like it’s no big deal. It’s donuts. People bring food in all the time. 

You especially. 

“Thought we might want something for later.”

He mutters it. 

He’s already regretting it when you blink–bat your eyes at the box. 

“You…brought donuts?”

He shrugs, and he’s not feigning indifference because he is the epitome of indifference right now. Really.

“They were on sale.” 

“On sale.” Why are you repeating? He’s told you he doesn’t like mocking, or the immediate thought of what he could do to you if he had you and you continued to mock him after he established he doesn’t like you mocking him. “What happened to cooling it on snack exchanges?”

…Jack hopes his ears don’t look as red as they feel. 

“Look at you.” 

Of course, Shen chooses this exact moment to walk in. Of course. 

Jack doesn’t blink at his grin. “Trying to corrupt her with carbs, Dr. Abbot?”

“It’s not a bribe.” 

…He doesn’t know what that snaps out of him with all the speed in the world. His hand flexes. 

Shen holds up his hands in surrender, eyes dancing. 

“Wasn’t even thinking that…of course not.” 

You open the box carefully. “You didn’t have to do this.” 

You say it softly, eyes meeting his. They’re smaller when looking down at you.

No. He had to. Because Jack hates the way Shen had smiled when he’d unwrapped the brownie gift. The way you had glowed. But he hates how badly he wants the version of you that laughed and cooked and gave thoughtful things to belong to him. 

And still, he can’t help himself to make sure you belong to him. You don’t deserve that, but he can’t help making sure that guys who have an easier time picking having you over their self-assured hatred of themselves stay away from the girl who bends over in tight fitted scrubs and giggles too hard and knows just how to make every patient relax under her touch and word. 

He can’t help himself, kid. He’s almost sorry about that. 

“I know.”

He nearly mutters his words again. Shen leans over her shoulder, inspecting the selection.

“Wow. No sprinkles? No fancy glaze? You really went all out.”

Jack’s head snaps towards the other attending. 

Your gaze bounced between them, cheeks flushed.

“It’s perfect, Jack. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

Jack grumbles it, already regretting every second of this interaction. 

He thought that would be the end of it. But later that night, he comes around the corner and finds you sitting at the nurses’ station, one of the donuts in your hand.

You look up, eyes as bright as you. Fitting. 

“Best donut I’ve had all month! Can I kiss you?” 

Yes. Please. Kiss me on the mouth. Be the one to do it first, so I’m not a disgusting old man. I promise I think of all the good parts of you. Not just the way your body sits perched at your desk. I think of the pink bits of your brain when I’m in bed, and I’m slowly feeling less guilty about how it’s the only thing to get me to sleep. 

Or how it’s the only thing to keep me away for a couple of more minutes before my man hands that are so much older than yours fumble their way into my pants. 

Jack opens his mouth. Nothing comes out…but he smiles, head lowering.

You bite into the donut again, face purely happy, and something in his chest unclenches. 

For a second, it’s almost worth it–just to see you look at him that way.

“Don’t.”

It’s a thought that dies quickly when he catches Shen smirking at him over the top of his chart, and whatever warmth Jack had at his stomach turns into mortification. 

Yeah, he really finds solace in the night shift, doesn’t he?

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Samira always wonders how they get blood out of the linens. This is what she thinks now as she stands at the helm, because you can’t stop bleeding. She can’t stop you from bleeding. And she knows she can keep herself composed with a quiet steel, but she’s figuring out that with you under her hands, she really can’t do that. 

So, she thinks about getting all this blood out of the linens. She ignores the beeping, frantic rhythms and hopes Mel is, too. 

“We need two more units of O neg–Dana, let’s…refocus on airway protocol–and then we can get…Dr. Mckay. Dr. Mckay and Santos. We don’t know what’s going on internally yet, we won’t until we get her up to testing but…it’s–” 

“It’s a lot of blood.” 

Mel’s right on the nose with that. She doesn’t look away from you as they move around you. The strapping, the IVs and saline flushes. 

Your body looks too small, too still on the table. Your normally warm skin, one she remembers you faux sobbing over when you got a large pimple on your cheek, is waxen. Your lashes are sticky with blood. Every other part of you is either broken or shredded or matted–and it’s only every other part of you because your blood’s done all too well in painting you red to the point that there could be wounds they can’t make out. 

Samira swallows hard. Mel’s nose twitches. 

They’ve seen hundreds of traumas. Enough to know they need to be thinking of the mechanics of it, but they can’t. They’re thinking…

That’s you on the table. The one who calls everyone babe and customizes her badge clip with glitter and tapes stars to the back of scrubs when someone passes a certification exam. 

Sunshine. 

Their friend. 

“Pressure’s low. Skin’s cold. We need the ultrasound, Dr. Mohan.”

Samira nods once, lips pressed flat. “Dana went to go get Dr. McKay and Dr. Santos. And more…units of O neg. We’re gonna need–”

Her words break at a sound. 

Something wet and strangled. 

A gasp. 

They watch your eyelids flutter, then lift. Glazed. Wild. 

“...Is–is…Robby okay?”

Everything stops. 

Mel’s hand is already on the pulse oximeter. She startles. Your name slips out, it’s something of comfort but mostly a shock she can’t hide. Samira stiffens by the IV with one–two questions pounding at the back of her head. 

How the hell are you awake? 

And how the hell are you not screaming in pain?

But both residents instantly rush towards you when you try to sit up, breath hitching in broken gasps. 

“Is Robby okay?!” 

Samira finds your name falling out of her mouth firmly. “You need to lie back down–” 

“Mel, is he–is h-h-he okay? He was…he was right there and…I-I–I. God, I think I–

Both of their hearts sputter against their chest when you cough hard, a splatter of blood catching your lips before it spurts all over the gurney. 

The monitors go wild. 

Mel already knows to snap her focus up at the door. 

She’s not going to know what the hell to do if Jack’s right outside. She hopes security took him. Not anywhere bad. Just…somewhere else. 

Samira’s doctor masks drops. Completely. There’s no way it can’t when your chest convulses with IVs tugging. She moves fast–leaning over you, brushing hair from your damp forehead.

“Listen to me. Robby’s alive. You’re both here. We’re taking care of it. But you have to let us help you.”

“Don’t lie! You can’t...can't lie! Is he okay?”

Samira takes a glance at Mel as your voice breaks, caught in sobs too sharp to form fully. Your hands twitch–searching. 

But when you sputter up more blood in your pleas, she can only realize there’s no hope that those footsteps behind her are Dana with backup. 

“Move.”

The single word of their attending is so deep, buried in his throat, that it pierces both residents. 

“Dr. Abbot! We’re fine! Dr. McKay and Santos are on their way with Dana…don’t–we don’t want you to get in trouble, she’s–

“Move.” 

It’s an order Mel doesn’t have to follow when she’s practically pushed out of the way, and Samira only lowers her head. 

They watch Dr. Abbot touch your swollen cheek, and they don’t know why you’re watching his chest. 

“Sleepy, hey, lie back down, baby–”

“I need to know where Robby is! I–I–I…” 

The only thing Samira and Mel can be grateful for is the way your adrenaline is making sure you don’t feel the way you look. But you shake, keening, flinching. Heaving. 

“...Jack?” 

Dr. Abbot nods with something so genuine on his face. 

Like this is the moment he needs, you needing him to take care of you. They couldn’t know how it hits like morphine.

It’s okay, kid. He’s got you. 

“It’s me. It’s me. You’re gonna lie back down, and I’m…we’re gonna help you. Just lie back down–” 

“No! No! No–no no no no!”

What must’ve been almost a smile on Jack’s face drops. 

Mel, her hand awkward but urgent, finds yours. She squeezes it hard. 

“Calm down. We’re going to take care of you, Dr. Mohan–Samira told you, Robby’s okay. He’s going to be okay–

And no, none of them know the way something in him dies when he sees blood pushing through your chest tube. His mouth parts. 

No. No. No. 

“We need to sedate her.” 

“No! No–” 

“Sleepy, listen to me–

“You’re going to crash if you keep panicking. Stop talking. Okay? For you?” 

Jack takes hold of your shoulders when blood spits from your lips when you gasp, shredded voice against his. 

He wants to hold you till you fall asleep. He wants to kill Robby. His brother. He wants it to be yesterday. 

He wants you so much better, and he can’t do shit. What kind of doctor is he?

Jack stills at your sputtered, panicked words.

“You–you’re–you’re mad!”

He blinks, eyes staring into yours. He doesn’t know if you see anything. 

He shakes his head violently. 

“No. No. I’m not mad, baby–” 

“I’m sorry!” 

“Dr. Abbot, we need her blood pressure to stabilize–” 

He doesn’t even know who’s talking every pointless point. 

He’s not mad. He’s not mad. He’ll never be mad at you again, even when your cries break his stomach and heart apart. He’s not mad, sweetheart. 

“I’m not mad. You’re okay. You’re okay, alright? That’s all I care about. I just need you to breathe. That’s all.” 

“I didn’t think this wo…would happen, don…don’t hate me–”

“No.” Jack’s mouth shuts thin, eyes staring through his brows, focusing on you, you, you– “Never. You will never have to apologize. I want you safe, and I’m…” 

“Dr. Abbot, please, please move out of the way–” 

“I’m sorry.”

When you choke, Samira takes the initiative to brush past Dr. Abbot and push you back down on the gurney. An alarm from the monitors wail. Your chest leads have slipped. 

“Don’ hate me…”

His hand burns when it slips away from you. 

What did he do to his girl?

Jack pushes himself back against the wall as he realizes the pain you’ve ignored finally bleeds into your voice as you cry hard. The blood at your mouth bubbles. 

His head hits the wall. 

“Both of you need to–” 

“Dr. Abbot, please–” 

He’ll give it to King, her pleas sound genuine. 

“No, both of you need to answer me. Is her decompensation systolic or diastolic? Do you know–” 

“Dr. Abbot, we’re losing her and you’re compromising us–” 

No. Never that word. No. Fuck that.

“If you don’t, I’m putting on another pair of gloves, and you’re going to let me lead on her–

“Get your hands off the patient.” 

Jack head snaps. 

Dana stands with reinforcements. Dr. McKay. Santos. Both very capable. He knows that. He knows them. 

And he’ll never be able to help himself with you. 

His eyes lock with her. 

“I’m going to stabilize her–” 

“You’re gonna let the ones assigned to do the job to finish it. Jack.” She steps closer. Jack doesn’t move.

“Don’t make me call security and have them drag you out of your own fuckin’ ER. Please.”

Silence collapses on the room. Jack doesn’t even flinch. 

But your pulse does. It jolts and flutters. He finds a promise hiding in your veins, like you caught it when he was promising to let all his promises about letting you go die. 

“...We’ve got her, Jack. I promise.”

Don’t be selfish. Think of her. Always.

Jack storms out of the room again.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The first time Dana noticed something was up between you and Jack, the night was chaos.

When something was really up, she should say. All she needed was five seconds working with the two of you on the night shift for the first time to pick up how badly you and he wanted to jump in bed with each other. All she needed was five seconds after that to realize how you’ve got Jack wrapped around your finger, but the week after Fourth of July is where she couldn’t deny Jack’s…situation with you any longer. 

Fourth of July had nothing on the mess that came the week after. The Pitt had been bottlenecked by a multi-car pile-up, an allergic reaction gone critical way too quickly, a psych hold swinging fists when he escaped to the waiting room, and then, a goddamn kitchen fire that landed two kids in trauma bays with second-degree burns and a sobbing mother who vomited on Dana’s shoes. 

But still…she noticed it in a moment of stillness. 

That flicker. That look. That flicker of a look. Whatever.

She had just come around the corner of Bay 2, flipping through labs of the allergic reaction case, when she paused. Quiet, somehow. Unseen. Because there they were. 

Jack and Sunshine. 

You were standing beside him, so close. Really, really close. Which, sure, was nothing new for you two. Your hand rested on the small of Jack’s back. Not exactly touching, but more like a risky hover. And you weren’t saying anything. Not out loud. But shit, if Dana takes the chance to write a poem, she could say that the silence between you and Jack spoke well enough. 

Jack’s shoulders, always stiff with the weight of everything he never said, had lowered. It was willing, it had become willing when you did end up sprawling your fingers on his back. And you. And you…you were looking at him with something more than teases and trust. Maybe you were reminding him of something, as you always do, like that Jack hadn’t eaten. 

And god, sunshine, he was looking at you like you were the one thing that made everything else bearable. 

Yeah. It wasn’t just desire or lust. It was something…consuming. That kind of closeness, that type of care for somebody didn’t come from some shifts worked together for the past couple of months. 

That shit came from belonging. From need. 

And suddenly, little things clicked into place. The way Jack always knew where you were in the ED. The way he’d flinch when a resident or nurse would make you laugh. The way he didn’t like it when anyone else called you kid. And shit, she hasn’t forgotten the stare he gave Santos when she tried to call you sleepy. 

Dana blinked.

She didn’t even know what she was feeling. Unease? Concern?

No. She was thinking how disgustingly cute it was. That was easy. Because who would it have hurt? Who or what had it been hurting except Jack Abbot’s stoicism? Dana smiled, because you two were ridiculous. 

But then Jack stepped away too quickly, as if he’d suddenly remembered himself, and Dana slipped away before either noticed her. She was standing just outside of Bay 2, her eyes drifting from the labs she pretended to read. She watched you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Someone approached. 

Donnie. Dana thought he was an alright enough paramedic. Newer and slim-shouldered, smile bright, but definitely more eager as he came up to you fast. 

“You were a machine in there. That kid would’ve been a code if you hadn’t gotten that line in.” 

You looked up, caught off guard by the praise, but you managed a smile. “Well, Dr. Abbot’s a master of his craft, and Danny was already more stable by the time you rolled in with him.”

“Nah, just got him here. You’re the nurse with all the magic.” 

Donnie lingered, not too close, Dana would say. Just…present, and you ducked your head with a soft laugh, embarrassed and flattered. 

Dana didn’t even see where Jack had come from to reappear. One moment he’s gone, the next he’s standing around the corner–silent and still. Watching. Donnie was too busy joking about buying you a coffee as a “compliment” for either of you to notice cowboy attending before your gentle smile and shift of your body told the medic that the conversation was over. Donnie gave a mock salute and jogged off, unaware of the stare being bored into him. 

Jack had crossed his arms, head lowered, and he didn’t even have the class Dana wore to make sure it wasn’t so damn obvious she was stalking the conversation. He probably didn’t care to hide the way his jaw flexed, or the way his fingers twitched on top of his biceps like he had to stop himself from doing something. 

And the idea that this all was disgustingly cute died when he didn’t say a word to you as he walked past you. Like you’ve made some mistake. 

Dana scoffed.

She watched you blink and glance after Jack, confused by the sudden coldness when you couldn’t even finish whatever quip you were making. He didn’t even look at you. She saw it in real time.

Your soft guilt. You wondering if you’d done something wrong as you looked to the tile, your smile dropping with your brow going down.

Dana sighed, because she realized that Jack’s jealousy wasn’t just uncharacteristically childish or romantic. It was protective, yeah, but not like a partner. Shit, you two weren’t even there yet.

It was protective like Jack was watching a stranger trespass on his property. 

“Her oxygen’s creeping back up.” 

Dana’s eyes snap from you on the table to Mel. She puts on fresh gloves, because it didn’t take her more than twenty seconds trying to save you to make her first pair useless with blood. 

“She’s stable–for now. We reassess imaging, Samira?” 

“...Yeah. She’s going to need another CT cycle before we get her up to surgery. ”

This fucking mess–where she sees sunshine, you, broken on the table with the road rash that tears across your jagged ribs, flesh hanging in ribbons and skin marbled and slick with sweat and blood and grime…she feels it all take root at the pit of her stomach. Her eyes are dry in focusing on the purple blooming over your thigh, right where the medics scissored open the fabric of your scrubs. Your clavicle is probably shattered. 

But when she turns to the glass of the door, she sees Jack waiting, staring…

You’re not on the table. You’re asking him what’s wrong when he grabs a chart from the counter and flips through it with white knuckles. You’re swallowing with quick-blinking eyes when he barely gives you some noncommittal shrug. 

“...Did I do something wrong–”

“It’s been a long shift. That’s it. That’s usual, right?”

You’re flinching like his words are louder than they were. But you step closer, and Dana sees him take in a deep breath he doesn’t let go of, just as you go ahead with fixin’ something that’s not your fault. 

“I brought something for you.”

You’re trying to hand Jack a protein bar and a plastic cup of coffee. Jack looks at it. 

But he doesn’t take it. He just sighs, turning back to his chart. 

Dana’s brows furrow when you set the coffee and snack down on the counter, pinching your wrist as you slip away. 

There, with the first moment Dana realized something was really up with you and Jack and Jack, is where you, sunshine, were somehow smaller than you are now. 

He’s crossing his arms over his scrub top that’s soaked in your blood, standing rigid with unblinking eyes fixed on the trauma room, as if he’ll be let back inside if he just stares hard enough. 

Like if he waits long enough, the rules and his residents and Dana will bend for him. 

God, it’s the way he’s not even pacing. Not pacing, not complaining…just waiting. Like deep down, Jack’s really, really thinking that she’s just delaying his right to be with you.

Dana turns away, because if she looks too long at him like that, she’s gonna forget the thousand little good things that makes Jack a pillar of the Pitt, that makes him good and too fucking perfect. She’s gonna forget the time he guided you to your car after your blood sugar tanked after you didn’t eat before coming in to work a double. She’s gonna forget his shaking hands after a patient pushed you into a wall when you were trying to dose him. 

She can’t forget the good things, cause they’re still there, right? 

“She’s gonna be okay, you guys. I don’t count on making those promises outside of here, but…” 

Dana glances back at Jack, still and quiet and calculating. A storm behind glass, waiting for any one of them to make a mistake, as if he doesn’t know how capable they are.

He may have forgotten the good things about himself, but she won’t. 

Her hand brushes yours. 

“She’s gonna be okay.” 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

When you find Jack in the supply closet during the slow stretch of the shift, he wants to push you up against the shelves and discover that the body he’s been fantasizing about looks nothing like what he imagined, and how that makes it–you all the more fucking perfect. Well. Not push. There’s nothing soft for you to land on in here. 

Dirty old fuck. 

“Dr. Abbot?”

Instead, he just barely looks up. 

“...Jackie?”

Jack stills. 

He’s a dirty old fuck, and you’re too cheeky for your own good.

He smiles. “Busy, kid.”

You step inside and shut the door behind you. Jack let’s out a breath, your name following it. 

Keep it up, sleepy. See where pretending you don’t know you’re tempting him gets you. 

“I just…” You trail off, your fingers curling in the hem of your scrub top. “I wanted to say thank you again.”

“For what?” 

Do not bring up the donuts.

“For the donuts. You didn’t have to do that.”

His hand flexes. “They were on sale.” 

Yeah. He said it too quickly. But he doesn’t stop eyeing your smile.

Even when you pull on his scrub sleeve and he has to remember to breathe evenly. 

Keep it up. 

“You don’t have to thank me.” 

Jack looks you over when your finger trails his bicep. You have to know. It’ll make it so much easier if you know.

“But I want to, Jack. Courtesy is my specialty.”

You tap his elbow. He almost laughs when you try to step back, even as he clenches his jaw.

Unfortunately, for his ethics, pleasure settles in his chest when your mouth parts with a squeaky inhale when he grabs your wrist. 

“Oh. I know it is. But it’s not a big deal. Stop making it into one.” Jack steps closer, patting your palm. “Or you’re not getting donuts again.” 

He watches you watch where he’s touching you, and sorry, sleepy–he’s selfishly hoping you’re feeling whatever you’re making him feel. He doesn’t mean to blame you.

He smiles wide and closed-lipped when your shoulders roll.

“It’s okay. I’ll take a coffee next time.” 

“Oh, Shen’s got you in that department.”

Sorry. He couldn’t help himself. And it’s where he doesn’t even realize he can’t look at you. 

“...Jack?” 

“Yeah?” 

You better not have felt his breath on your hair. Or, if you did, he’d rather have your face flush with those batted lashes. 

“Whatever it is you’re worrying about…” 

Oh, kid.

Poke the place above the navel one more time.

“Don’t.” 

It takes everything in Jack not to squeeze his hands to your waist and hips. Seriously. It takes everything. How fucking ridiculous. 

Pretty, ridiculous girl. What the fuck are you doing that you don’t know you’re doing it? Probably. If he finds out you do, it’ll be worse for you the day he doesn’t let you walk away from him. 

Hearing you squeak when he pokes your spine on your way out isn’t the fantasy at the coil of his stomach, but it does just fine. 

Two nights later, Jack finds himself in a place no man should find himself at 8:32 pm at night. 

“Can I get the…caramel swirl with the…the frothed milk on top?” 

The teenager at the counter stares. Blink. 

“The cold foam?” 

“...Yeah. That. Thanks.” 

It’s not him, it’s you–because there’s no one else he’d stand in line at an unholy Dunkin’ Donuts for. 

“...You sure you don’t want like a black coffee–” 

“I’m fine.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

He can’t keep himself still watching them work on you. 

Jack’s a restless guy. It’s not something unknowable. He’s put his heart in a place that might as well have the word restlessness on the sign outside. When he’s not in the Pitt, he tosses in bed. He taps his fingers along his police scanner when he gets lunch by himself. He can barely keep himself from going back and forth to different work-out equipment in his makeshift gym in the garage. His body requires movement. Always. 

But he’s never known restlessness like this. The kind that buries itself in worry and the white of his bones, like standing still doing fuck all is going to be the thing to kill you. But…you’d be proud of him, sleepy. 

He doesn’t get himself kicked out of his ER. He doesn’t burst through the doors of your trauma room. He doesn’t pace from wall to wall or up and down the hall to then dead-eye every person who walks by. He doesn’t beg…order Dana to let him back in. 

No. He does the right thing, which is fuck all, right? 

Jack is more than aware of the logistics of keeping him out here, but his body doesn’t know that. His heart and muscles aren’t as smart as him, so it’s asking him:

Why are you out here doing nothing when she’s in there? You know what to do. You know how to do it. And it’s her. Do you not care about her? 

Of course he fucking does. He wouldn’t feel like his muscles are about to fall out of his skin as every second of him not being in there with you passes if he didn’t. 

But.

“Heart rate’s picking up. That’s not–” 

“Sedation’s wearing off already.” 

It isn’t just logistics and the threat of being thrown out of the ER where he’ll be even farther from you that keeps him out there. That’s not something unknowable too. 

You woke up guilty, crying apologies and pleas because you thought he was going to be mad at you about the bike. He did that. Jack’s the one to make you wake up and find yourself bloodied and battered and have your first thought be about how mad he’s going to be at you. 

Jack glances at the stairwell. He wipes dried grime of sweat off his neck. 

You’ve fractured him, kid. You’ve put him in a place where he wants to keep you in the inside of his body–where he can pretend you’re not capable or strong so the need is justified. The bat of your lashes and the corners of your smile and the bareness of your stomach that he can see when your scrub top lifts at your arms going over your head is what makes him know it’s right to feel mad and bulging every time you giggle with someone else, when you put yourself in situations where you end up like this. 

And then you cry. Or you look at him with confusion like you didn’t know indulging with a paramedic’s flirtations or shrugging off a fixated patient is what makes him go cold on you. Or you beg him not to hate you because, in deliruim, his coldness is what you’re afraid of. 

And then he feels like the worst man in the world. Hence the fracture. 

Jack locks his eyes shut. 

He smothered the promise to stop smothering you. But for your sake, maybe he has fish it out of his throat, because he’s not going to be able to handle you crying like that ever again.

He won’t make it to the point where he can finally have you if you hurt like that in from of him again. Do you hear him? Does he hear himself?

He won’t make it. So. Maybe it’s best to stay out here, even if it feels like death. It’s okay. He’s felt worse. 

 “…Ja…?”

Jack’s sights snap back from the stairwell to the trauma room. He steps forward, fist clenching. 

No fucking way. Absolutely not.

You’re awake. Again. 

People are calling out your name. There’s pain burned and bruised in every crevice of your body. You don’t really even know where you are. 

But where’s Jack? 

He was taking you home, right? He was taking you home is his truck, and you heard a car scream before you…and you went flying. But Jack was taking you home. 

Where is he? Where did he go? Did you hurt him again? You don’t even know how. You never know how. 

Jack?

Samira freezes mid-suture. Dana and Mckay’s eyes dart up. Mel, hunched by the monitor, rises and leans closer, swallowing everything she pretends isn’t fear and heartbreak. 

“Where…where is he?” 

“...Who?” 

“Jack? Is he… okay?” 

The question snaps all heads into the room. Not Robby this time. Jack?

Santos’s first thought isn’t uncouth. It’s fact. 

This might be fucking brain damage. She’s hoping it’s just delirium projecting your undying love for her attending. 

Mel says your name. Gentle enough, as always–but firm enough to ground you, hopefully. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re in the Pitt. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. We’ve got you. Dr. Abbot–Jack. Jack…is fine.”

When your brows knit as you begin to claw at the sheets and IVs, your crew is more than aware the hard part isn’t over. 

 “Is he–” You cough hard, and Mckay’s mumbling soft, sweet okays as you hard-spit a speck of blood onto the gauze taped beneath your chin. “He was driving! He was driving–I shouldn’t’ve let him–I’d walk. I told him I’d walk. He was just trying to…trying to–”

Santos leans forward, feeling your stomach for any distension that’s definitely gonna show with this oncoming panic attack. 

“You need to calm down. Dr. Abbot is fine, sunshine. He’s right outside–”

“No! It was his pickup. It was his truck. I looked up and the whole street shook…Jack’s hurt, I know! He’s–he’s–” 

Your breathing stutters, and in the blur of your eyes, you can make out shouts, and a blonde woman rushing towards the door, and another figure coming in. Or trying to. 

“Look at me. We’re in the hospital. Dr. Abbot is not hurt. Jack is not hurt. You were. We sedated you. We’re going to sedate you again and give you another transfusion because you…you really need. And you’re going up to the OR after we do. But Jack is okay. 

Mel interjects Samira’s words gently. “The accident–you had an accident. The accident was on a bike. Not in a truck. Okay?” 

The truth, apparently, isn’t enough for you. You choke on a sob, and it splinters into whimpers that twist around in your lungs.

“I…I made him come get me…if he hadn’t–he wouldn’t have been there…he wouldn’t have–”

Mckay sweeps your hair away from the dried crusts of blood on your forehead. 

“You didn’t do anything, sweetie. It was you and Robby who crashed. You remember? I heard you made quite a stir for him. Which is good. You up and talking like this is a silver lining. But Jack wasn’t anywhere near any accident. Jack…” 

“Dana, she is literally asking for me. Let me in. Now.” 

“Jack, no–”

“Well. You can hear him, can’t you?”

Santos blinks. She guesses she could say something too. Make this easier on her heart, because she needs to forget that she’s seen you like this at the end of the day. She will, because you’re going to be back in the Pitt annoying the crap out of here before she knows it. 

You better be. 

“You’re not to blame. You’re both safe. He’s fine.” 

But nothings enough for you. 

Except him. What a curse that’s gonna be for the both of you. 

You shake your head, breath ragged. Tears cut through the dried blood on your cheeks. You’re looking past them all now. Looking for him, but that woman–Dana. Dana’s here. 

She’s blocking your view. 

“I’m gonna call security–”

“Dana! Dana, Please–please, I just need to see him. I need–I n–need to know–”

Really. It’s on Dana for leaving the space of the door. She knows that.

It SLAMS open. You jump. 

“I’m right here. I’m right here, kid.”

It’s this man storming in–shoulders squared like a blunt weapon, eyes glassy with fury and fear, but you couldn’t name it in the state you’re in. Neither could he. 

His face is drained, scrub collar crumpled, dread stitched in the lined features of his face. You see him. 

Jack. 

You couldn’t know how he sees you, crumpled and desperate, and feels the wounds of everything he doesn’t want to name burning and knifed into his skin. 

That old, familiar stab of fear. But God, that relief. 

You need me. Always. 

Jack brushes past the team, anxious and fractured, which is what he can realize at the very least. He doesn’t blink as he makes way to your side. 

But he stills when you gasp. 

His mouth parts when your face crumples in horror. 

No. No. No. He had you. He has you. You wanted him. You let him in. Why are you scared? What could he have possibly done again?

“Oh my god. You’re bleeding–Jack, you’re bleeding! I knew it, I knew it–”

Jack edges closer. He swallows the crack of his voice down his throat. He doesn’t need his asks to dare anyone to stop him from grabbing your palm. 

His fingers tremble at your wrist as he says your name. 

“Look at me.” You can look at him now. “Hey–hey. It’s not my blood.”

Jack slows in his breathing as you pause in your panic, eyes wild.

Look at him and realize everything’s going to be okay. That’s what he’s doing right now.

“…What?”

He lifts your hand, pressing a cool kiss to your knuckles. His voice catches.

“It’s yours, kid. It’s all yours.”

Everything stills. The monitor’s beep. 

They watch your heart rate go down.

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my truck. You’re mixing it up. He was driving. Robby.” Jack’s head jolts in a slight twitch at your whimper. “It was you and Robby, baby. Not me. I wasn’t there. But Robby…Robby’s going to be fine. He’s gonna come out of this stronger than ever.” 

No thanks to me. 

“Because that’s what he does. And so are you, because you–you, sleepy are…” 

Jack looks to where another whimper, small and wounded, slips through your slips. Jack looks to the wet pleas of your eyes. He looks to every part of you that still bleeds. 

His stomach drops. 

“You are the most capable and strongest nurse, woman, person we…I have ever seen.” 

Jack leans forward, pressing his forehead to the side of your damp hair.

“Even if you’re making me look like a fool and act like an asshole in front of everyone I respect.” He exhales against you. “So, after you get better, I deserve to make sure that you use those charms of yours to make them forget this ever happen, yeah?” 

When you nod frantically, the crew around him decide to not notice how it’s everything to Jack. 

“You’re going to go to sleep, and they’re going to take you up to surgery. But when you wake up…” 

The truth sits like fire upon wood in his throat. 

“I will be there. With you. For you. I’m not going anywhere. I know it’s a little much, but we can call it a professional favor. Okay?”

Your eyes lock onto his. Your desperation is raw. 

Jack never thought he’d be in a place to try and not enjoy it, but he rather not be the worst man in the world. 

“You’re okay. You’re still here. And I…I’m okay.”

The last line is shaky, but true–because it’s your eyes he’s looking into, even as your tears spill down. Even when the sight against him is familiar, when he realizes your body’s a battlefield. IVs in both arms, tubes secured at your nose, bruising spread like ink across your ribs and collarbone and thighs and shins and stomach and arms. 

Because your lashes flutter, and your lips part in a rasp under his whispers of comfort against your knuckles, steadying your panic with every soft, graveled-throat vow. You’re safe, I’m okay, I’m here.

I’m never letting you go ever again.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

…Dana waits another minute before she tugs Jack away. Again. She just watches his hands intertwine with yours. 

…This is a good part, right?

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Jack shakes his head stiffly; it’s more like one slight jolt to snap him out of it because thinking of you while he’s on his way to work with you is as ridiculous as you are. It’s uncharacteristically pathetic of him, maybe. There. Maybe that’s something he can blame you for. 

“Nice use of your blinker, bmw-bastard-bitch.” 

Jack nearly whispers it, but that asshole of a driver is what gets his mind to slip away from you, so…thank them for that. Traffic’s slow, and he begins flipping through mental protocol for the night. Staffing numbers, open beds, that critical case that might get transferred down from Fox Chapel–

“Dr. Abbot, there is no need to dryly sass me when all I’ve been doing is assisting you like a champ.” 

“...You are. You are assisting me very well, which is why I need to sass you. With all the praise Dr. Robby’s been giving you, I can’t have your ego building on me. 

Jack’s mouth twitches widely before he jolts his head once again to slap whatever was gonna decorate his face. 

Just leave him alone, kid. 

…He hopes you’re still wearing your pink shoes after he teased you about them for the fortieth time. Jack likes them. They’re…visual stimulation for the slow shifts. 

Okay. Traffic? Traffic’s slow. Staffing’s short on him. Of course, but there seemed to be an endless number of open beds last night. That critical case is definitely getting transferred down from Fox Chapel, poor, bare-budget fucks–

“What the fuck?” 

And there. He sees her. 

You. 

Across the street. Walking alone. Head down, coat zipped tight, tote bag slung over one shoulder and a thermos at your hip. But then…Jack’s focus locks in. 

You’re wearing your pink sneakers and a wool beanie with little specks of glitter. Your badge is clipped to your coat, which bounces with every hurried step. You’re tugging your scarf higher, cheeks are flushed from the cold…because, of course, they are. It’s 30 fucking degrees. Your fingers–they’re bare. What the hell? Do you not own gloves?

Jack’s jaw locks. His foot eases off the gas before his eyes narrow like he’s tracking a threat. Because this, sleepy? 

This isn’t cute. It isn’t quaint. It isn’t you not knowing what’s good for you because you believe the world is perfect and kind, and everything Jack could roll his eyes at you for thinking in the first place, only to let up and realize that, eventually, that’s what makes you you. That’s what been prodding at his fucking heart like a badly held needle to skin in all the months he’s known you. 

This? This is dangerous.

Jack slows the truck. Stops. His fingers flex around the steering wheel, because seriously. What the hell are you doing walking alone?

He watches, heartbeat climbing—not from the initial surprise, but from…a casual, dry rage. Hey, if he weren’t in therapy, he probably wouldn’t know how to name that feeling. But you–you’re so damn feminine in the way you move, the bounce in your step, the shiny pastel accessories clipped to your grey scrubs. Even the ridiculous pink thermos swinging at your hip looks out of place in the darkening, frozen street.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

He mutters his question before making the next turn hard and quick, looping the block with what’s probably muscle memory before pulling up to the curb just ahead of your path. He flashes his lights once. 

If you keep walking cause you think he’s some creep, he’s going to drag you into this truck. 

You’re blinking in surprise, and Jack knows you’re hesitating when you don’t recognize the truck just yet. But when you do, you smile as you pick up your pace, jogging the last few steps to him. 

Jack rolls the passenger window down. 

“Hey, Dr. Abbot! What are you doing out here so early? Trying to beat me agai–”

“Get in.” 

Jack says it flatly. Eyes unblinking. He doesn’t care for or about your face wearing confused, slight hurt when he does. 

You flutter those eyelashes quickly, and this time…isn’t gonna work on him, sleepy. Again. Not this time. 

“Wait–what? Jack, I’m only five minutes from the hospital. Ain’t a big deal.”

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off you, because what is wrong with you? Why are you…out here alone, putting yourself in danger? Whether that be the cold or something–someone else. And you don’t accept his first offer? 

His first order. 

His voice goes sharper. 

“It’s below freezing. It’s already dark. You’re walking alone. I said get in. 

Jack doesn’t know there’s something in his voice that silences any further teasing from you, but his eyes flicker to the way there’s hesitation in your hands, and then he uses his to grip the wheel of his truck. 

“Jack, I’m not a baby bird. It’s Pittsburgh. People walk.” 

“Not women alone. Not at night. Not in that. 

Jack gestures to your coat, which is too thin. Your shoes, too pink. 

You frown. “What’s wrong with my coat? And…how are you still finding a moment to get on me for my shoes?” 

“What’s wrong with it? Jesus,–” Your name comes out of his mouth in a near groan, and he doesn’t understand why your mouth parts slightly at that. “You dress like a candy striper in an alleyway. You ever heard of blending in? That maybe, if you’re gonna walk alone in the fucking dark, then try not wear something that screams “I’m the bubbliest woman on earth?" Seriously, sleepy.” 

Your frown deepens, and maybe Jack will feel guilt over that later. But not now. He needs you to understand. 

“Wow. Rude.” 

You’ve never seen him like this before. Sure, he forced you to report that flirtatious old man, whom you swore was just a victim of dementia, who thought you were his wife, to HR. Sure, sometimes you catch the dry snark in his quips whenever you get “too” smiley with your Mel or Dr. Langdon. But this…this confuses you as much as it hurts you. 

“You don’t get to be oblivious. Not out here. You walk like nothing can touch you, like no one’s watching. You’re you. You? You're all…pink shoes and wide eyes, and you talk to strangers like they’re already friends.” 

He breathes in sharply through his nose before he’s not breathing at all.

“And that’s exactly the kind of person who doesn’t come home one night.”

The wind picks up. You stare at him. He doesn’t look away. Not now, but it’s the way there’s difficulty in that, difficulty where there never was with anyone else.

What are you doing to him?

“Jack...you think I’m that careless? I'd never...”

Jack blinks. No. Because you’re fucking perfect. 

It’s nearly gritted. 

“No. I think." Jack's head shifts stiffly. He swallows. "I just...think the world doesn’t deserve someone like you walking through it alone believing in it.”

You’re quiet, and Jack ignores that feeling that he purposefully doesn’t name…because it’s almost something like fear. That he went too far, which he couldn’t possibly have because you need to understand what you’re doing to him–

To yourself.

You’re quiet. Then, almost shyly–something so unlike you unless he’s confident enough to want to make your cheeks flush. “You always this dramatic?”

Jack reaches the other seat to open the passenger door. 

“Get in. You need a ride, you call me.” 

His eyes flicker to the hesitation in your hands, but he can tell you see there’s no point in arguing, which is good. 

Because something in his voice says this isn’t up for debate. 

“Thank you.” 

“Do not worry about that, kid.” 

Jack waits until you're buckled before he pulls back into the lane. His jaw’s still set. His shoulders are still stiff. But when he glances at you, really looks at you, there’s something in his eyes that’s closer to fear than frustration. But you don’t know that. He hopes you...or he never will. 

He rolls up the passenger and driver windows. He turns on the heat with a tense grip on the wheel. His prosthetic aches—not that he feels it under the rush of adrenaline simmering through him just because he found you taking a solo stroll.

“I’ve walked that street a hundred times, Jack. I’m fine.” 

“You ever hear a woman say that when we wheel her into the Pitt with a stab wound? With—”

Jack stops himself. No breath. No sigh. Just a slight head shake.

With severe injuries from sexual assault?

The rest of his question is said dryly. You falter, looking down at your hands. And quietly, almost to himself—

“You don’t get to be 'fine' when it’s dark and cold and you look like you’ve got a target on your back.”

Silence settles between them.

You don’t argue this time. You just sit beside him, small in the passenger seat, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Jack stares straight ahead...cause he’s realizing something.

This isn’t just about attraction getting the best of his character, or admiration that’s shot in the head when he realizes the perfect, smartest nurse has the bright idea to walk in the cold streets of Pittsburgh after dark. It’s not even that reckless flutter he feels every time you brush past him in the trauma bay.

This is deeper. Sharper. Something dangerous in its own right.

Because you don’t even realize how vulnerable you are. How trusting. How bright in a world that eats people like you alive.

And Jack…he shouldn’t be at the point where he’d burn down the city if it meant keeping you safe, because that’s fucking weird. At most, he should feel…entitlement in his romantics. But this is not romantic. This is protective.

Too protective.

And that realization fucking punches him almost more than seeing you walking alone ever could.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The hallway’s warmth fogs Mel’s glasses as you see her on her way out. She nods before she greets you and Jack brightly.  The way of her adorable nature is almost enough to forget where you just came from.

But when her smile drops at Jack's inability to really greet her back, it all comes seeping through.

"Don't tell me you forgot how to smile--"

"I'm betting my other leg that that case from Fox Chapel is being transferred down. I heard it's psych-central, and that's your house. You'll be the front nurse on that, I'm sure."

You unwrap your scarf, cheeks still flushed from the cold, while Jack shrugs off his jacket without saying much. You keep glancing sideways at him. 

You still carry the weight of his earlier tone, how surprised you are by how…rattled he got. 

It’s usually not hard for you to make your voice sit light, but here, you push it through your smile. 

“Sooo…you yell at all our nurses for walking to work?”

“No. I would if I caught them.”

You raise your brows, but he doesn’t elaborate when you do. He just fishes through his coat pocket, pulling out gloves. His. 

Worn black leather, and his hands…they’re big. The gloves are too big for you by a mile. He holds them out. 

You smile. 

What is your doctor doing?

“Is this an apology? Or some sort of peace offering?”

You watch his eyes focus on the gloves before they flicker up into yours. And the intensity of his brown eyes is telling you he’s still serious, and you can’t have that. Not after the way he thought you were deserving of…whatever the moment on the street was. 

Maybe he’s just having a bad start to his shift, and you’re receiving the brunt of it, because he cannot be this worried over you, because you’re worth Jack Abbot’s worry. 

You don't deserve his worry, or his casual, dry genius. You don't, and you can't have him pretending that you do.

So, you laugh softly, but Jack doesn’t crack. He just pushes the gloves into your hands more firmly. 

“Keep them.” 

He says it quietly. You blink. Your voice goes startled. 

“Jack, you don’t have to–” 

“I said keep them.”

Your eyes lock for a heartbeat too long. You can feel it in the way yours speeds up. 

You hold the gloves now, your smile gentling. Now? You’re less amused, you guess. More touched and blushed, but Jack’s already looking away, pulling open his locker and putting away his backpack like it’s just another shift, like he didn’t just nearly yell at you on the sidewalk for doing something you’ve done a thousand times before, only to then gift you with something you don’t think he’s ever lent out to anyone. 

“You know, for someone who’s probably the fortieth most dramatic person in the E.R, this is kinda…reactive. Possessive, doc. Where's H.R. when I need them?” 

Truly. You mean it as a tease. Just a soft joke. Not even as something to test the waters, but Jack only crosses his arms against his chest. 

“Just wear them, sleepy. If you paid attention, maybe you'd see that you don't live in the Bahamas."

There. You think he's over it with his dry joke along the slight smirk on his lips.

You slip the gloves on.

"Not now, we are literally about to start our shift-"

"I know, I'm just trying them on."

They hang a little over your fingers. Loose around your palms. You flex both hands. You study the way his warmth feels on your hands.

God. You try not to blush.

What is wrong with this man? What is wrong with you?

...Nothing, really, because who wouldn't feel their heart leap out of their chest when Jack Abbot is like this in his concern? In the slight lines and strong jaw of his face.

You try not to shudder when his hands take yours, casually slipping the gloves to fold them. He shoves them in your tote bag, nothing but the word nothing on his face.

"Does it bother you?"

"What bothers me?"

Jack doesn't blink at your question.

"The reaction." His eyes take a half-second glance at someone passing by, only to face back to you, his head shifted, and his voice is slightly quieter. "Would you rather me not care about you?"

The word not is nearly dragged out in the back of Jack's throat. The entire question is joking. Not teasing. Just asked like it’s nothing.

His mouth twitches when you do end up shuddering, because how can you actually not?

"...I could take it or leave it."

Jack nods with sarcasm in his thinning lips and narrowing eyes. He crosses his arms.

"Yeah. Okay, sleepy."

And Jack doesn’t say another word—he just heads for the trauma bay with that stiff walk, the one that comes when he’s thinking too much, when the limp you wouldn't know was there if you weren't paying attention disappears because he's focused.

You watch him go before you tug out his gloves from your bag. You don't laugh. You don't roll your eyes or come up with an internal quip to lessen whatever's at the pit of your stomach now.

You just put on his gloves to feel the warmth of them.

Of him.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Two days later. Sun is setting, but there is a resentful solace that doesn’t exist in the dark. Jack doesn’t think there’s anything about you he could call dark. He’d kill himself before betting on it. 

Robby’s half-dressed in street clothes, which is pretty unusual for Jack to see. The sweat’s still clinging to the back of his neck from the shift that just ended for him. Jack leans against the lockers, arms crossed, watching his friend shove his scrub bottoms into his bag with a little too much force.

Jack’s not feeling all too swell at a quip from his friend, the friend who’s obviously in a rush to go somewhere, still had time to make. 

“Didn’t know you were on hall patrol now, Abbot.” 

“I’m not?” 

Robby grins stupidly for a second or so. “You sure, brother? Cause I heard…what? A day? Two days ago, Dana saw you with sunshine. Thought you were gonna drag her in by the scarf.” 

Jack doesn’t take to the bait, even though and because it’s fucking stupid. He just picks something off his scrub top and mutters–

“She was walking alone.” 

“I know, that’s what Dana said she told her. And the scarf thing? Her words. Not mine. But uh–” Robby’s head shifts, tilting slightly with his eyes looking to the tile. He zips up his bag. “Walking alone as an adult. I know we don’t usually talk about things like this–I’m in no place to say anything–” 

“And here we are.” 

Jack finally takes himself away from the lockers to put his backpack in his. The pause sits for a minute, and there he thinks about it. 

Justification and defensiveness comes way too easy to him.

“If it was just you peeved enough to make her roll her eyes, that would’ve been that. But with what Dana was saying, just about the way you were acting when you came in…people walk in cities. Like, millions of people do. Every day, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t turn to Robby. He stares at the bottom of his locker. 

Jesus Christ, he wishes he could make this about his disbelief. He wishes how his inability to find this conversation funny and not targeted would be the result of the frustration over why everyone is questioning his frustration–his frustration over an E.R nurse who would know the dangers of walking alone at night as a woman found walking alone at night as a woman.

And sure. Yeah. It’s still there in his usual, casual confidence, but–

He knows what this is. He’s known it from the day he found you out in the street. He knows that you could’ve been walking in the middle of the day, sun down upon you and…whatever. You could’ve been with someone. 

And he’d still feel this heaviness in his chest telling him to go after you. 

He’d question if it’s smart for you to walk to work in the heat with scrubs and a sleeved shirt underneath. He’d question who it was you were walking with. He’d lecture you for riding with a stranger if you took an uber. 

It would be easier to not feel so damn guilty about it if he knew you weren’t so damn capable and compentent. That would make his possession over you valid. But…here they are. 

“You wouldn’t stop if you saw one of our nurses or residents taking a thirty minute stroll in the dark while they’re trudging through the snow? That you wouldn’t question their judgement, Robby?”

“...No. No. I would. I’d stop, I’d offer a ride. And walking by yourself when it’s dark out in the cold isn’t the best or most logical situation. Maybe I’d tell her that…I don’t know.”

Jack finally turns around, looking Robby in the eyes when he lets him. They stand under that familiar mechanical humming. The walls of the Pitt at work.

“For her sake, I’d bring up that I’d rather see her come into work in a cab and not an ambulance that had to have been called because she was robbed and hurt.” 

“There. That is what I am saying. That is–” Jack crosses his arms before sitting down on the bench. “It’s freezing. And dark. And she’s...look, she’s not street-sharp. You know her. Not cautious. Not really. She probably talks to every cab driver like they’re her therapist.” 

“Wouldn’t this not be a situation if she took a cab instead?” 

Jack stops his breath. Smartass. 

“And what about us or the place she’s dedicated her life to scream caution, brother?” 

Jack shakes his head before focusing in on Robby’s face, because as much as this isn’t the most valid anger, it’s also the most valid anger and why can’t Robby see this? 

“...She had no gloves.” 

Jack says it curtly, only going lower and louder on the word had. 

The closest he gets to turning away first is when Robby’s brows raise. 

“...No gloves? That’s your breaking point?” 

No. It’s the point where he realizes you matter more to him than you should, cause you have to matter to him a whole fucking lot–cause he shouldn’t feel like this and the only possible explanation as to why his heart is gonna jump out of his fucking chest at the sight of you is because you made it so he finds himself too worried at every step and too proud at every accomplishment you make with a needle or IV.

Because you’re too pretty and competent and bright and everything he can’t handle. So…the most you can do is allow him is worry. 

Even when that worry scares the shit out of him. 

“I am saying, statistically, women alone at night are more likely to–” 

“I know, Abbot. We know. But–” Robby looks up to the ceiling before crossing his arms. Jack laxes his cross to rest his palms on his knees. 

“You were worked up.” 

“How could you know? I didn’t monologue in front of Dana or anyone–” Jack blinks in his breaking. His head tilts before he glances a glare at the door. “...It wasn’t just Evans who mentioned it, was it?” 

Robby doesn’t nod, but his narrowing eyes give way. 

And Jesus Christ, it has to be a good thing. The usual thing of his character–the guilt in the first question Jack asks in his head. The question that’s aided by his hands turning into fists for a second or so. 

It’s not ‘Why would you tell Robby?’. Not ‘Did what he did bother you that much that you brought it up a day or two later?’ 

It’s ‘Why the fuck were you talking to Robby in the first place?’. 

…The guilt makes him aware, right?

“Concern, that’s warranted, Jack. More than. Also, don’t think I’m in a place to care but…I think it’s safe with the way you two act around each other to say that you wouldn’t have reacted like that if it were anyone else. And the way you reacted was a bit…for you, for you–it was just a little over the top. I mean...with the way you've been reacting to her more aggressive patients have been...a lot."

Jack's words come out defensive, fast. And there goes the fucking guilt. 

The patients? Why is he bringing up your slew of sleezy overdoses and drunks?

“You’re right, we’re good with each other, but we don’t usually talk about things like this. But if you’d like to know, I wasn’t that worked up, and even if I was, you are also right on how we don’t need our nurses hitching rides by gurnies.” 

“...You’re worked up right now.” 

…Is he?

Jack gives Robby a look, dry as desert from forever ago. 

“She had no gloves, Robby.” 

He couldn’t know that his fellow attending makes the decision to smile smally, it’s not natural, it’s a choice he makes in chance to have Jack get more worked up. 

What are you exactly doing to this guy?

Maybe the smile becomes more genuine with the question popping into Robby’s head. 

“This interrogation is stopping you from wherever you need to go. Go.” 

It’s definitely more genuine when Jack decides he wants the previous conversation to end. Robby nods his head. 

“...Date?” 

Robby scoffs. “No.” 

“Something with Jake?”

“...Nah–just taking the new bike out. Just got her from a guy upstate. Jack, you gotta see this thing. I’m trying to be casual about it, but I guess, uh, sly biker isn’t my style.” 

…Oh God, Robby.

Jack knows this isn’t a mid-life crisis. Not really, probably. What he knows is that E.R doctors tend to be adrenaline junkies, and sometimes they tend to be adrenaline junkies with the habit of suicidal ideation. Sometimes you get MDs turning into gamblers, sex addicts, drug addicts. Sometimes they put themselves somewhere dangerous. 

Sometimes they buy a motorcycle. 

He watches Robby scratch the back of his neck. His own expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a delay—just enough time for a beat of concern to flicker behind his eyes because…yeah. A motorcycle.

“You get a helmet too, or just the death wish?”

He tries to say it casually. Robby laughs with a slow blink. “You used to jump out of helicopters. Don’t come for me.”

“Yeah, with a parachute. And orders. And a med evac team on standby. And I’m not exactly bragging about my military resume–” 

Not now. Jack swallows. He pretends Robby doesn’t for the sake of keeping the conversation light. 

“You jealous, man?” 

Jack snorts, lips twitching in something that might be a smile.

“Jealous of bugs in my teeth? No thanks.”

“You’re not invited anyway…” Robby swings his bag over his shoulder. “Grandpa.”

Jack’s head jolts back before he turns his palms up to the ceiling. 

“One, you on every technicality is closer to being a papa more than me. Two, you told me I have to see it. That’s an invitation. I am welcome. Three, I’m saying–you know better. You’ve been in the trauma bay long enough to know that.” 

He knows this conversation won’t exactly go anywhere, because Robby’s stubborn as shit. And that’s okay. He’s an adult. Jack’s sure he won’t be doing any BMX tricks around the block. But still, the reasoning for a sudden motorbike is obvious, and he can’t help but question. But the questions turn into quips, and he’ll…his friend will be okay. 

Robby simply shrugs before grabbing his keys from the locker.

“I need something, Jack. Maybe it’s good to find an outlet that isn’t running laps around the hospital. Like you. And me. And everyone else in here. Just, gotta get the edge of somehow.”

That’s the first time Jack’s posture falters. 

“The edge off what, exactly?”

He sees it quietly and again, Robby gives him a vague, dismissive shrug as he makes his way out. Doesn’t answer. Jack doesn’t push. But he watches.

We don’t need to find each other on the rooftop again. 

“Just–don’t go looking for chaos. You know how it wins. Often. And usually.”

Robby pauses at the door.

“Yeah.” His voice is softer. “I know.”

Then he’s gone. Jack keeps himself there for a bit, standing up to stare at Robby’s empty locker that he never actually locks, his reflection faint in the metal, its decorations of scratches. 

He’s not judging. Seriously. He just knows the feeling too well, and sometimes the feeling takes you over, promises you you deserve to feel it while telling you all the shitty ways you can get rid of it. Some of them get addicted to adrenaline. Some to noise. Some to numbness. Jack isn’t perfect in that department, he can’t be when he finds being co-dependent with his work and the Pitt ideal. That’s not healthy, right? No. It’s not. And he doesn’t care. Still, the guy’s trying to keep his addictions to minimum. 

His head snaps at the sound of a familiar voice trailing past the locker room. Jack makes his way out quickly, ignoring the ache of prosthetic when his does. 

He calls you out by your last name before he turns into the hall.

“When did you start gossiping with Robby–”

He stops when all he finds is Santos. A very confused looking Santos. 

His mouth parts. He grips the door frame before pulling on both ends of his stethoscope.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. You can…continue to go wherever you were going.” 

“...You thought I was sunshine?”

“Santos, I am apologizing. Do not push it.” 

“You heard me and you thought I was her? I sound nothing like her...I mean, I feel complimented–” 

“Go. Now. Thank you.” 

Santos leaves with what Jack thinks is a smile. He blinks once. 

He is trying. 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The trauma bay smells a little more like antiseptic than usual. An overhead light flickers. The night, as much as it started with Robby’s confrontation, is good. It’s been a long night, but the kind that Jack thrives in. Thrives in exhaustedly, but thrives none-the-hell-less. 

And sure, even with you as his little snitch, it’s easy to stay sharp when you’re across the room. 

“I think I’m having heart palpitations, Dr. Abbot. The means it’s been a good shift, right?” 

You pull off a pair of blood-streaked gloves. You’re breathing a little harder than usual, but of course, you’re smiling that smile of yours that’s somehow more energizing than cocaine. He’s guessing. Whatever the comparison, it’s resentfully more energizing. 

He watches you. As always nowadays. Screw you.

“I’m not saying our nurses fumble their way through central lines. But you? You, sleepy, are like a damn sniper. Solid work tonight.” 

He says it dryly. You raise a brow. 

“A sniper?”

“One shot. Clean. No mess. I blinked and you already had it taped.”

You snort as you toss your gloves and it’s streaky red into a bin. “I know what a sniper is. Just...that is probably the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.” 

Jack shrugs, eyes still on you. 

It’s a compliment. His compliment. Just take it. 

“I meant it as high praise. Snipers are efficient. Focused. Lethal.” He cocks his head to the side. “But unlike you, they’re usually the silent type.” 

You obviously don’t get his little jab is specific to you talking about him with Robby, but he lets that go when you let out a half laugh. 

In the end, he’s sure it’s good that he’d rather have you laughing that tucked away in the corner of his truck. 

“Okay. Doc, you are either flirting with me or insulting me and I genuinely can’t tell which one it is.” 

Jack’s mouth twitches. “That is the beauty of it. I keep you guessing.” 

He doesn’t answer your quip along your grin after. There’s only something quieter in his smirk–something he’s probably not gonna name because tonight was mostly good despite everything and he doesn’t want to ruin them. 

“You are definitely flirting. So, no–I’m not finishing off your charts for you.” 

…Whatever’s the quiet thing in the lines of his face must against his better judgement. It’s what got him flirting with you in the first place, what makes him softly slip up and find confident justification for said slip up later. 

He pretends to focus on a chart that, no, you will not finish. You are bullshitting him. He’s always finishing your ends of a chart. 

“You belong on the night shift.”

It’s an efficient thing inside of him, Jack guesses. It’s really quick to make him confident in his dry, low blurtings. 

You blink. He looks into your eyes. 

“What?” 

“You’re good. Too fast. Again, you’re from a more than capable bunch, but even the best nurses trip over themselves when they get assigned to night. You…adjusted like you didn’t have to.” 

Jack won’t notice the way your smile falters just a little. If he did, there goes his chance of staying confident. But he watches you shrug with folding arms, your soft voice slipping away from him. 

“I learned how to survive in chaos a long time ago.” 

…Yeah. He can tell. It’s why it’s unfortunate that it takes one moment of you out in the dark to know that doesn’t make a difference. 

Beautiful, capable girl. 

His eyes hold yours. He’d thank you for letting him if he didn’t realize the both of you are already post-shift. The morning sky is that bruised purple…like. Lavender. Lavender-grey. There’s headlights blinking down wet, frosted streets. 

“Walking again, sleepy?” 

“Just to the bus station. It’s not far.”

“Still dark out.”

“Thanks for the update, Weatherman. Jack, I promise–I’ll be fine. I’m not walking home, just making my way for the bus.”

He doesn’t smile as the both of you make your way down the hall to find the nurses’s station where you tucked your bag underneath a desk. You always leave him– 

The Pitt so quickly. He watches you tie your scarf with practiced hands. 

He feels himself press something more firm to the bottom of his throat. “I can pick you up. Drop you off. We work the same shifts most nights anyway. It’s just convenient.”

You look at him, and he’s beginning to accept the way your gentle expressions make him…falter’s a weak word. Ew. But also, it would be you, wouldn’t it? 

“Jack–” 

Get in his car. Let him take you home. 

“It’s not a big deal. I’m offering. That’s all.”

It’s obvious you’re hesitating on a reply, but Jack isn’t exactly sure it’s because you don’t believe the concern or…that you can see it all too well. 

“I’m suggesting, really. But–so you know. You don’t need to be out like that again. Not when I’m...when you have people willing to help you out.”

The latter is a bit more heavy on his chest, because that’s more likely to scare you away from him, right? 

“...Okay, Jack. If I need it. I promise.”

Jack nods once, briskly. Like it’s settled. But there’s something tight in his jaw, something he doesn’t say. Another unnameable thing.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Another evening stroll home.

You should’ve called a car.

You’re bundled up, yes–but your pace is one of a slowpoke. You’re tired. You’ve just finished a double, and it’s cold enough to bite at the tip of your nose. That damp Pittsburgh chill that’s seeping through your coat no matter how tightly you wrap it is almost as lovable as Whitaker, or the way Jack smells. 

Golly, you’re smart, aren’t you? 

But you needed the walk, the quiet. The feeling, however temporary, that you can move through the world on your terms. Even if it’s just ten blocks. Even if the reason why you first walked to the Pitt and then home isn’t as poetic. You just missed the bus twice that day. 

You pull your scarf higher over your mouth, hugging yourself as you pass the bar on the corner, one Heather and Co. promised they would take you out to when you first started working in the E.R. You watch a man stumble out, so you’re obviously missing all the fun.

You try not to flinch when he shouts something you can’t catch. You don’t really look up, even. It’s just a man being loud, as drunk men are. 

But what’s louder is that rumble of an engine slowing behind you. You can’t help the way your heart skips with a cold spike of adrenaline. That sound–there’s no way you don’t flinch at its rumble. 

…Of course. 

You sigh shakily, watching your breath managing to go cool against your scarf. It’s only a strange mix of relief and frustration tightening at your chest. 

You doesn’t even have to look to know who it is.

“Jeez.”

You steel yourself when Jack’s truck crawls up beside you, the window sliding down with that creaky, mechanical whine. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle your doctor? 

“Hey…” You look down to your bundled hands. “At least I’m wearing your gloves this time.”

Jack’s pale face wears nothing. Not even a blink. 

“I–” 

“I thought you said if you needed a ride, you’d tell me.” 

You close your eyes for a beat at how sharp Jack’s voice is. You count to three before you look at him. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle yourself? 

You watch your breath fog the air, scoffing light. “Are you, like, following me now?” 

Inside of you is a wanting you want to berate. That thing–that stupid, anxious flutter it always does around Jack, the thing that almost kills your quips and banter and births blushing and a shyness you can barely handle. It’s still here now. When he’s berating you. For being a grown adult, making the decision to walk home. 

“I just finished a double, you’re on your way to the Pitt…wh-why would I call you? That would make me some…l-leechy asshole. And you're gonna be late for work.” 

Jack nods sharply. Blinks once. Your heart speed up. 

“Leechy asshole. You made a good choice becoming an E.R nurse and not a poet, sleepy. Good choice.” You watch him press a button and faintly hear something like air start to blow. Heat. “Get in.” 

That thing. The flutter. As much as it infuriates you, it’s a small, pathetic part of you that makes you feel safer seeing him here. And if this was any other situation–flirtations in a trauma bay, watching him go stern when a patient hits on you and such, you wouldn’t hate that part of yourself. You usually don’t. 

But that part of you is what makes you almost immediately listen to him. It’s what makes you want to please him, satisfy whatever this is. And that? As much as you like him, you can’t let that happen when it’s not right, right? The way he worries isn’t…normal, right? 

And you’re almost to the point of not caring, of getting in the car, and that can’t happen. 

“You walked past a drunkard stumbling around with a bottle like it’s a damn .47.” 

His voice goes low, irritated. Your jaw tightens. 

You’re already at the point of feeling more embarrassed he caught you walking alone than angry at how he thinks he can act this way with you. And that’s…you’re 90 percent sure that’s not right either. So. 

“That guy from the bar? You noticed tha…” You shake your head. “He didn’t even look at me, Jack.” 

It’s obvious Jack isn’t satisfied with your defensiveness, because his voice lifts just enough that you know this is as close as he gets to raising it. 

“That is not the point. He could’ve. Or–not him, but the next night you decide to play with hypothermia, you find someone who takes advantage of the situation you put yourself in.” 

And there, with Jack’s lowering eyes and stern jaw, you feel your frustration curl into something meaner. Something tired. And you think he can see that, and that he can see why. 

You feel satisfaction swell against the fatigue of having to justify every step you take, of denying any justification of why Jack can act like this. 

“I’m not saying it would be your fault–I will…I am going to backtrack on that.” 

“Yeah, Jack. You better if you want me to get in your truck.” 

You couldn’t know how he takes that as an immediate challenge, even when he cocks his head lower and stiffly. 

“You’re don’t have to assume that every single being on the sidewalk is a threat. I’m just saying I’d rather…I’d rather have someone be there for you if there is.” 

You watch his jaw clench, and for second, you think you see something you’ll ignore. 

An actual raw, ugly fear in his eyes. That, if it’s there, it doesn’t matter how unjustified it is, you think you might have to let Jack have it. 

“I’ve told you this already. You know doctors don’t like to repeat lectures.” The wind gusts between you and the truck. “Get in.”

You look down at your shoes, fighting the way your throat aches, but when you begin to speak, you already know that your voice is gonna be smaller than it wants to be. 

“I said I’d ask when I needed you.”

…You know this can’t just be about tonight, or about the last time he found you one the street. It’s never just one moment about tonight. 

It’s every moment and shift and look you decided to find endearing–the times where Jack is waiting for something to go wrong so he can be the one to fix it. 

And with his soft curls and demanding eyes, you can’t ignore how you feel more grateful than furious. 

“And I said I didn’t want you waiting to you do.”

..It’s why you get in the truck with spite and cause all at once, why you buckle your seatbelt with stiff, careful hands before Jack pulls away from the curb without a word. 

“You’re freezing.”

“...You’re dramatic.” 

Jack pushes the passenger vent towards you, and the other passing car’s headlights catch the faint lines around his mouth, the one’s that appear when he’s close to a smile.

“You wanna talk about dramatic? You catch Robby's ride before he left?”

Both of you. Settled.

You stifle a giggle. "Yep. It’s…nice."

You have to stifle another when Jack’s head snaps at you. 

“Do not tell me you’re a biker girl. Absolutely not–” 

“No. Absolutely not. They are death traps…not that I’m judging your friend!”

The headlights pass, it’s nothing but the dark. You don’t see how Jack’s mouth falters, the way the lines disappear. 

“Well. He’s your friend, too.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

He is definitely late for his shift, like you said. But hey…it’s not exactly your fault. The heater hums low, pushing warm air towards you, and with that, the exhaustion you garnered from your double, and your strolling through snow, Jack assumes it’s why you ended up curled into the passenger seat, head tilted against the window, lips parted in a dream or whatever. He doesn’t say a word, he drives.

One hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh near where his prosthetic makes him whole. The radio is off, the scanner is off, and both his phone and pager’s been buzzing on the dashboard. Both are ignored. The hospital is long behind both of you. 

And he passed your street ten minutes ago. Hence, his being late isn’t your fault. 

He’ll claim that it isn’t your fault, cause that means the reason as to why he’s not at the job he needs to feel like breathing matters isn’t you. It can’t be. There can’t be any more chances to let you be the one to ruin him. That’s not really fair to you. 

“Sleepy?” 

You’re only stirring. Jack doesn’t sigh, and he doesn’t remember when he decided to keep going…but he did. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re asleep. And Jack…Jack can’t remember when the hell was the last time someone trusted him like this. Outside of the Pitt and off of a gurney, away from charts and recommendation letters. 

He watches your chest rise and fall with every breath, watches as your hair shifts as the truck bumps along a quiet neighborhood road. And really, he’ll tell himself it’s just about the peace in the way he tells him it’s not your fault. It’s cause of the stillness, the calm before a shift full of bleeders and chaos. But shit, when the hell has he ever been one to enjoy that calm?

No. Jack deserves the truth…most of the time. So. He knows it’s not the bullshit stillness or the calm. 

It’s the way you look right now. 

The prettiest, most unguarded thing curled up in his truck. You’re beautiful when you’re too competent for everyone’s good and when you’re the most vulnerable thing on earth. How dare you, kid? 

The realization finds that it isn’t just admiration. It’s not just protectiveness. It’s…oh. God. Fuck him. It’s in the way that says…that says–

You’re mine. And if the world’s too loud, I’ll drive us through the quiet until morning just to prove it, as if the light is where I’ve found solace all along. Crazy. 

He exhales slowly. Looks at the clock. 9:38 P.M.

Yeah, he’s miles past your apartment, nearly at that overlook where he sometimes parks when the weight of the world and past won’t lift. He’ll listen to his police scanner. Eat a ham sandwich.

He lets the truck roll to a gentle stop and puts it in park. He just…sits. He watches you. 

…He lets himself need you, as if it’ll only be this one, unspoken moment he’s indulging in. He lets his chest feel warm and his shoulders roll with what might be a shudder without guilt. Without denial. 

How can someone so beautiful make him feel ugly things?

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You stir faintly, nose scrunching. You don’t wake. He doesn’t really move. 

He promises he’ll drive you home soon, but not yet. Not while the world still lets you sleep beside him, and not while he’ll let himself feel good about it.

"...You know nothing. How impossible is that?"

His hand flexes. His head cocks as he closes his eyes at a little noise you make. Something like a rumble.

...Not while he feels this good.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You blink awake on your couch. Not in Jack’s truck or in your bed as if you made it there by yourself. Your couch. A blanket is tucked over yours, and it’s not the one you usually fold on your chair. It’s heavy. Wool and worn. 

Like it’s from Military surplus. 

You realize it has to be Jack. It smells like him–sanitizer and cedar and whatever soap you keep trying to figure out the brand of. The thing that gets Jack to call you a freak. You shift. 

Your shoes at next to the door, and your scarf is folder on the coffee table with your bag and thermos. It’s the pisces your brain has to pull together through the soft haze of the morning sun.

Jack didn’t drop you off at the curb. He didn’t nudge you awake with that gruff, but not unkind efficiency you and others know. You may not remember the ride, and you certainly don’t remember being carried inside, but clearly…you were. 

He took off your shoes. Placed the blanket over you. Tucked you in. 

Jeez, Jack. Why, why, why?

You can’t deny him when he does shit like this, and how can you think it when you end sniffing his blanket as end up wrapping it tighter around yourself, heart pounding quietly in the hush of your apartment. 

“Jack…”

If you end up wrapping yourself in his warmth again, not because he orders you to, but because you want to, then how can you deny both of you?

"Jack."

You breathe in cedar.

"Sleepy, what in the hell is this?"

The next shift is a good shift. The kind that runs smooth and quiet, and Jack feels need in his throat. What, you may ask? Good question. He doesn’t know. But he won’t go looking for an answer. It’s been a good shift. 

Jack, as usual, is dry-witted, and you’ve been laughing in a way that makes Dana more than once, smiling faintly at the inside jokes and medically-based flirtations between the two of you. You bump your shoulder into his when he grumbles at your handwriting on a chart. He tries not to smile and pretends not to watch you when you turn. 

The ease of it all sits under the night he dropped you off and carried you inside, where he had to press his hand against your scrub top to find your keys.

Neither of you dares to lift said ease. You both assume it’s because the other doesn’t care to. Both of you are right. So, there’s that usual, perfect rhythm of nurse and doctor, that trust, and now that quiet, dangerous acceptance of whatever the hell you two are seeping through. 

“Your notes are in all caps. Again.”

“That’s just passion. You should try it sometime.”

“If I have passion, it comes in black ink. Not red or pink.” 

“Pity.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You swear you’re not breaking bad. 

You were really planning to get to work with anything that wasn’t your two feet, this time. But for the first time ever, your luck would have you, the bus ends up being twenty minutes early, before you can catch it after you were called in.

You had to make a choice. Jack…you guess he’d be satisfied with the way you thought of his offers (demands) first, but you knew today was his one day off. You would think he appreciates the way you thought about him with consideration. 

An uber would’ve taken twenty minutes to get to you when it would take you twenty or so minutes to find yourself just in time for work. You made a choice, and really, it’s not the worst when you’re walking with the sun coming up instead of going down. It’s beautiful, honestly. You nearly forget what Jack would say, and you definitely can’t focus on the ache in your feet with how the glow of golden rises over Pittsburgh’s steel and brick bones. 

You almost collapse from pure frustration when you hear the rumble pull up to the curb just behind you. 

How? Possibly how? 

You turn, ready to find another excuse for Jack, but you don’t find him, and the slighter engine purr makes sense–because it’s Robby with his motorcycle. He kills the engine. 

…His choice in transport is really something. 

“Hey.” Finding him at your side is less with anxiousness and more with a pleasant, friendly curiosity. More with something casual and less with the need to grasp for what makes you feel…safe. 

“Hey, Robby.”

You smile when Robby does, even though his is slight. 

“Listen, I know Abbot probably sounds like a broken record by now, but I’ll have to agree with him. I don’t know how you find this sort of stroll…suitable. You good?”

“Yep, just got roped into picking up an morning half-shift. I was gonna grab a bus ride and missed it, because I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”

Robby nods, then his noses scrunches under a blink or two. 

“Well, didn’t know I was gonna pick up trouble today. Come on. If you want, but I’ve already found you.” 

You laugh. “You’re a menace.” 

Robby’s smile grows thinner. You watch his hands on his handlebars tighten. 

“You’re flattering.” He says it with a quiet, casual sarcasm before pulling out–oh. Oh no. “We’re both heading to work, and you were lucky enough to not let Pittsburgh Transit devour you up. C’mon, I’ll take you…if you’d like.” 

He holds out his spare helmet. Your hand tightens over the strap of your tote. 

“It hasn’t been used by anyone…so. If you’re, you know, worried about headlice. I’d, uh, hope any future person I’d potentially ride with wouldn’t be likely to have them.” 

Your smile falters. 

“I’ve actually never been on one of those.” 

“Damn, you are a good girl.”

You roll your eyes to the point you can’t see Robby already regretting his own quip, eyes closing shut for a half-second. 

“No, I get it. I’m kinda surprised by how many people at work haven’t ridden one at least once before.” 

“I mean, it is a motorcycle, Robby. And they just always seemed... dangerous.” 

You think Robby’s listening to you in the way he keeps a slight nod before tilting his head from side to side, but if he’s anything like Jack, which God, you know the both of them are like each other more than they want to admit, you know he won’t let it go. He probably won’t end up berating you onto his motorcycle or end up carrying into the Pitt, but you just know he’s gonna push, and it might work, because you’re you and Robby’s Robby. 

Your friend whom you trust.

“I will go slow. Take no unnecessary journeys. And I…drive like I suture.” 

“Jagged?” 

You let yourself laugh when Robby scoffs. “Hey.”

When he hands you the helmet, you study it in your hold before looking at the sidewalk ahead. 

You hear his voice in the back of your head–gruff, dry, concerned and knowing, but you push it down. 

You’ve accepted whatever Jack is to you, and you’ve done more than accept whatever he makes you feel, but the fact his voice is the first to pop in your head at the fear of riding a motorcycle instead swallows you with something overwhelming. 

And also, Robby’s your friend. And to deny him is to deny exceptional E.R skills, or his occasional kindness and constant sharp sarcasm, or the fact you want to get closer to him. Something like that. 

“Okay. Just this once. I better not owe you anymore lemon bars."

Robby’s brows raise when you take the helmet and try to buckle it, and despite everything you just thought to justify this, you nearly regret taking up his offer at the way you’re definitely buckling this thing up wrong. 

“Oh. She trusts me. Let’s not tell Abbot.” 

“I won’t if you won’t.” 

You can tell he’s close to sighing and you know why when his hand is hesitant to reach out. 

“Help me out here, attending.” 

You watch Robby smile the way one does at a stranger they accidentally make eye contact with before dropping it when he gently fixes the buckle. You climb carefully on the back–arms hesitating, then wrapping around his waist, and it’s not so awkward when you can feel his body through the layers of jackets and scrubs and long sleeves over. 

You don’t feel the weight of him, really, and your mind automatically drifts to a question: How did the weight of you feel in Jack’s arms? 

That swallows you too.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

There’s nothing else like spending your night off at work. Jack will feel less about it later, knowing that…what? Therapy sessions and lying at home reading or sleeping isn’t this.

Still, he’s thankful for the shift to end, at least lying at home means he can take off his prosthetic for more than ten minutes. He took a guilty twenty in pedes when it was empty. 

He walks out of the entrance with Dana, who’s mid-sentence concerning something ridiculous Whitaker did with charting, because Whitaker on nightshift rotation is hilarious. Whatever the mistake, it was slight enough to go without attending reprimand and humorous enough to make Jack smirk. 

That’s when his eyes flicker toward the far end of the lot. 

Robby’s parking with someone pressed up against his back. 

You.

You pull off a black helmet, your hair tumbling out as you laugh with cheeks flushed from the wind. Robby follows you just after. Also helmeted as he grins slight. He kicks the stand. 

What in the actual fuck?

Jack takes in a breath he doesn’t let go. He slows mid-step. 

“You good, Abbot?” 

When his jaw locks, it almost aches as much as his leg, but he doesn’t even blink as Dana follows his gaze. Jack thinks she’s wincing dramatically in his peripheral. 

“Oh. Oh…no.” Dana puts her hands on her hips. “Calling Nurse and Doctor Sunshine to trauma one, leave the ride behind. Jesus Christ, how’d he get sunbeam on that thing? 

What the fuck are you doing? Why would you do this?

“He wants to die? Okay. That’s unfortunate. He does that?”

His near-casual, throaty spat comes out easier that it would’ve been keeping it in, and maybe there’s something opposite to the external telling Jack what he said was too much, because his shoulders roll, and deep down he knows he’s just being mean as hell to be mean as hell. 

 “Jesus, Jack.”

Evans is the external something. Jack lifts his head back. “It’s the truth. That is…absolute insanity. Dana?”

“...I think I left something inside.” 

Dana disappears back into the E.R and it’s nothing but Jack’s chance to start walking towards the both of you.

For the sake of keeping his anger high, he pretends that this is solely about you getting on a fucking motorcycle. Because it is. Why are you getting on a motorcycle? You. Fucking you. 

Why are you doing this to him. 

“What is this, a midlife crisis field trip?” 

Again. Being mean for the sake of being mean, cause Jack knows it isn’t that, but it’s what gets you to look up at him surprised with Robby sighing something low. 

“Robby, what the hell, man?” His voice goes nearly high. 

“Oh, c’mon, Abbot. She needed a ride–” 

“No. Yeah. As she usually does. But a motorcycle? You–” His head snaps towards you. “Robby, you want to risk your own neck for a Harley, fine–but bringing someone else on that suicide ride? Why the hell would you agree to that?

The words thrown towards both you cut harder than he means it to, but it’s what he feels in his gut, because why?

He keeps himself sturdy when Robby scoffs. 

“Sunshine, help me out here. She is…we’re adults.” Robby crosses his arms. “She needed a ride, Jack. It was either that or be late waiting for a cab or walking again. Which is what you were worked up about. Sooo…don’t really understand the fucking issue. This? This right here is what we talked about–” 

“You talked about this?”

Robby’s reply is what Jack would expect, maybe what he deserves, that voice that’s tingy and knowing, not loud–but definite in a bite. Still. Fuck him. 

His head tilts towards you, voice towards you–

“Why didn’t you call me? Seriously?”

You shift. He watches your arms cross over your chest. “I didn’t know you were working tonight, and again, wouldn’t make sense to make you pick me up to drive to the place you came from. Seriously, you’re not supposed to be working–and we were…safe, Jack. Helmets. He went slow, I held on, I–” 

Just took the first chance to wrap yourself around Robby?

That thought scares Jack as much as it makes his fist clench. 

“You think that matters when a car cuts you off and you skid thirty feet into a curb?” He doesn’t stop eyeing your focus when he hears Robby scoff again. “And hey, okay. You hitched a ride on the back on what you called a deathtrap because you thought you wouldn’t be caught by me?” 

Robby nods shakily. It’s not from nerves, it’s from that growing, steady impatience that’ll probably make his voice go sharp. 

“...Being caught? Jack, what is this? You sound like an aggressive PSA and a dad and it’s as offensive as it is confusing. Definitely wouldn’t have guessed this reaction from the first time I talked to you about my bike. Which. I do prefer honesty. But…you wanted her off the street. We were safe. You shouldn’t even be entitled to my justifications right now. I’m surprised that I even care enough to feel offended, because this conversation should be treated as bullshit…but because I wanted you settled, man–I…she did exactly what you wanted—she took help–”

His eyes don’t leave you, even when bits of Robby’s rant shakes him, triggers him. 

He couldn’t know that you see something feral flickering behind them—something you can’t shake or he can’t help. 

Something he wouldn’t want to help if he could. 

“You think this is help?” He jabs a finger at the motorcycle like it’s something obscene. “You think putting her on the back of that thing is better than a cab? Or the bus?” 

“It was explained. There was no chance for a bus or cab or uber or fucking…you, man.” Robby lifts his hands in what’s probably exasperation. 

Not him. No chance for him, huh? 

“I figured—”

“You figured what?” Jack cuts in, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “That it’d be fun? That she’d enjoy it? That–” 

“That she’d get to fucking work!” 

Robby’s arms go up as his yell booms across the lot. Jack’s not scared by it. 

…But yeah, even in his stone rage that he’s sure he’s right to have, Jack knows that was warranted. 

What’s warranted to is the feeling of hot coals in his stomach when you grab Robby’s arm, comforting him–like he’s not the one that convinced you to go on a death trap. 

Like Jack’s not the one who’s vision when black when the motorcycle came speeding in. Like it’s not his heart that’s slamming against his fucking ribs for you right now. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? What are you doing to him?

“Robby–” 

Your mutter is barely heard when Robby shifts the weight of his legs, looking up at the sky. “Nothing happened.” 

Robby knows there’s more to say, that really, this shouldn’t matter in the first place, that he should not be on trial and it’s already ridiculous he’s letting himself sit in the face of Jack’s fucking jury, but that’s not gonna do any good, is it? 

“Nothing. Happened.” 

“...That’s not the point, Robby.” 

“The point doesn’t matter, but…I’m gonna ask you what it is anyway. Just so we can get it out of the way.”

Jack opens his mouth. Closes it. 

He sees the real point in the way you keep your hand, which manages to stay soft somehow even though you scrub your palms to shit with antiseptic and sanitizer like everyone else, on Robby’s bicep. 

It’s not that fact something could’ve happened. 

It’s the fact he can’t see you with someone else like this. Even if it’s just a ride. Even if it’s just a ride he’d rather you have than needing to walk alone in the fucking dark. 

Even if it’s Robby. Especially because it’s Robby. And the guy gave you a ride. A thrill–even if he’s just taking you to work as he so humbly did today. 

Something primal and ugly claws up his throat, looking at where you touch him.

“I don’t give a damn what you ride, Robby. But if you convince others to get thrown in what is a statistically dangerous hobby, try remembering they might be worth more intact.”

Robby goes still before he runs a hand down his face. 

And for the first time, Jack doesn’t want to look at you. 

“...Jack–” 

So. He turns away, stalking back to his truck before he can say something worse and learn how to find it the right thing to say later. He climbs in, slams the door.

And when he looks in the mirror, he sees you two standing together—your hand on Robby’s arm? He finds a realization sliding sharp under his ribs. 

He’s not gonna stop wanting you, even if it turns him into a fucking asshole.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

It's the next day. Or the next. Apologies are in order. Are they given? No. Jack will claim this is how men are. But shit, for men? He and Robby do a pretty good job of communicating.

The night shift has finally slowed to a manageable hum, which is not that surprising, even when Robby ended up having to share it with Abbot. They’re mature enough, yeah? Still, he’d be impressed if he found it important. 

God. He’s never seen Jack like that before. Ever. There have been points of time of snappy, semi-quiet bouts of professional frustration, towards him and others, but what happened the other day was…something else. And it’s taking a hold on him. 

Because Robby catches Jack in a supply closet. He’s organizing, settling a neatness between surgical gloves and IV kits–and it’s the 12th weirdest thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“We good, Abbot? You good?” 

Obviously not, because one of the busiest men on earth, a man who craves chaos as much as it eats at him on occasion, is alphabetizing medical supplies. But Robby has to ask anyway.

He could pretend he’s better than the ache in his chest rising at the sight–the one that creeped in when you climbed off the back of his bike, hair tangled from the ride, cheeks flushed and alive in a way that could’ve been funny to look at.

That ache that he felt ridiculous for having in the first place when that moment was ruined with the look on Jack’s face. 

Like someone had pulled a pin from a grenade he’d been holding inside. That someone being Robby when he just offered you a fucking ride. 

Robby steps into the supply room, letting the door swing shut behind him before crossing his arms. He can tell Jack’s already tense in the shoulders, his back set like concrete as he rummages in the cabinet. 

“I’m fine, Robby. We’re fine.” 

…Robby’s gonna try for humor first. Try to pretend the knot in his own chest isn’t there and that he’s not expecting an apology. 

“If organizing the supply closets was added onto attending responsibilities, I missed the memo. And I’m also fucked.” 

…No answer. Jack doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Robby leans one shoulder against the doorframe. 

He should just walk away, because this will die. And it’s not important. 

But he can still see your face when you thanked him for the ride. That sorta…soft and tired and relieved look. And then you looked up at Jack when he came striding across the street. 

Like you knew exactly how bad you were gonna get it for accepting a ride from a person you trusted. 

That can’t happen again. Not just because it’s uncharacteristically unprofessional as shit concerning Jack Abbot, but you don’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that. 

“You came at me like I put her on a live grenade, man. And I know we’ll get over this without dragging it back up, but if she’s gonna get lectured like she’s 12 years old every time she comes into the parking on a ride that isn’t yours–” 

Jack closes the cabinet shut. Not hard enough to be a slam, but loud enough to make a point. He turns to do what he does so well, focus his eyes on anothers. Robby sighs.