maddy

You walked into the ER waiting room with irritation already stirring in your stomach. You were supposed to be at home, taking a scented bath, drinking wine and reading your new book an hour ago. But one of the night nurses called out and his replacement wouldn’t be there for another two and a half hours. You drew the short straw, having to stay behind. Mainly because the rest of the nursing staff had lives, kids, responsibilities. And you didn’t. You had moved away from your hometown of Oceanside back when you went to nursing school, and all the responsibilities that remained there. You got tired of seeing the same people, hearing about the same couples break up and get back together again. So when you got a scholarship to go to a different nursing school out of state, you took it readily. Too bad when you graduated the only clinic to offer you a job was an ER in Wildomar. Only an hour away from the life you tried to leave behind. You didn’t hate it. It was close enough that you could go home and see your parents’ dog, far enough that you could have your own life. But if it were up to you, you’d be long gone by now. At least you never saw any of the unsavory characters from high school. 

That’s what you thought, anyway, until you looked at the next name on the call list. Your steps faltered. ‘Liam Broker.’ You knew that name. A shiver crawled up the bottom of your spine. Liam didn’t exist. He wasn’t a real person. It was their alias. The Codys. Whenever they needed to fly under the radar, especially when they needed medical care after some dubious activities, they used that name. Sure, it could be a real guy, you really hoped it was, but when you turned around to call the name, all hope was lost. There they were, Deran and Craig, sitting in your ER. Your mouth went dry and you pressed your eyes shut. You took a deep breath before making yourself known to them. Deran was slumped in the shitty ER chair, bouncing his knee and nibbling on the skin of his thumb. Craig’s head was tossed back, counting ceiling tiles and trying not to move his arm. 

“Mr. Broker,” you made a point to emphasize the name. “You can come back now.” Both of their heads snapped to look at you. You stood in front of them, death grip on the clipboard Craig had filled out. 

“No shit.” Deran huffed, raking his gaze across you. Craig furrowed his brow. Like he kinda remembered you, but not from where. You and Deran were friends in high school. You ran in the same circles, smoked on the beach with the same people, and even rode along in the car he stole for his 16th birthday. You weren’t best friends, but you were close enough. He was a formative part of your teen years. You had an argument three days before you left for school. You couldn’t remember exactly what was said, but you remembered feeling so distraught that you never wanted to see him again. You walked them back to a room. 

“Alright, dislocated shoulder?” You murmured, eyes scanning the chart. Craig was perched on the table, swinging his feet absentmindedly. He nodded.

“Yea,” He scratched behind his ear. “I’ve had it dislocated before, but it’s not going back in.”

“That happens,” You acknowledged, washing your hands in the sink before putting on a pair of gloves. “After so many home alignments, you’ve gotta have a professional do it.” Your eyes flicked to Deran. “Do I want to know how this happened?” They both hesitated for a moment and then shook their heads. You sighed. “Alright, take off your shirt, Craig.” The man startled slightly, looking at Deran. Surely confused about how you knew his real name. Deran just gave him a look and a small nod. Maybe easing his nerves, telling him they weren’t about to be arrested. Craig did as he was told. You gently examined the shoulder. “No wonder it didn’t work,” you muttered “It’s a posterior dislocation. You gotta get a different angle.” You readjusted your position and grabbed onto Craig’s bicep. With a quick push, you heard the joint slot back into place. He sucked in a breath, but exhaled in relief after a moment. You peeled off your gloves and tossed them in the bin. “I’ll tell the doctor we were able to get it back in. She’ll prescribe you some pain meds. For your use only.” You quirked an eyebrow and Craig nodded. “She should be in shortly.” You pulled back the door and left. Your heart was hammering against your sternum. The first time you had seen any of the Codys in years. You had survived. But you weren’t done yet. You made it a whole five steps down the hall before you felt a gentle hand pull you back by the wrist. You whirled around, ready to throw a punch, but you were met with Deran’s face. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was parted slightly, like he hadn’t quite decided what he was going to say yet. 

“Hey,” was what he settled on. You shook your head in amusement. 

“Really?” You scoffed, but you felt a smile dawning “That’s what you’re going with? Hey, Deran.” 

“I, uh, didn’t know you worked here.”

“Clearly.”

“How was school?” Deran’s arm fell from yours and he shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders rising slightly. 

“It was good,” you answered honestly. Your voice didn’t hold any anger or resentment. “I’m a nurse now, so…y’know, I’d consider that a success.”

“That’s awesome.” Deran grinned.

“What about you?” You asked “How’s surfing? I know you wanted to go pro. You were really good.” Deran’s face fell slightly. A momentary lapse in his facade before the mask was up again.

“Yea, I, uh. I just do it for fun now. It got too stressful.” His words didn’t convince you. You sensed there was a lot more to that story, but you didn’t ask. Didn’t really want to. It wasn’t your business. “I’m working in, um…I work for…” He gestured to the air around him. You understood.

“Family business?” 

“Yea.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You knew that Deran and his brothers were doing some shady shit in high school. Sometimes their mother would pull them from school for a few days. The next time you would see Deran, he would have bruises on his arm. He always said he was surfing and a rogue wave caught him. But after the third time, you had a hard time believing him. After you saw Smurf tucking a gun into Deran’s waistband in the school parking lot, it made you question if they were involved in gang activities. You brought up your concerns to your father, who had some connections to a few of the neighborhoods, but the moment the Cody name was said, he clammed up, made you promise you wouldn’t get yourself too involved with them. The night of prom, when you and Deran had snuck away from the main afterparty to smoke a joint, he had confided in you that he was scared he’d be stuck in Oceanside forever, working for his mom (he never elaborated what that meant, but you guessed). You assured him that he was talented, and he was. He was by far the best surfer you’d ever seen. But it seemed that his fears had come true and you truly felt sympathy for him. You had been lucky, getting out when you did. Of course, you had ended up back where you started, but you technically could leave whenever you wanted. You sensed that Deran didn’t have that luxury. 

Deran nibbled on the inside of his cheek. “Listen,” He inhaled, setting his gaze anywhere but your face “I’ve…I’ve missed having you around. You’re, like, one of the only normal people in this place. I’m sorry for, uh, our fight before you left. I really am. I actually own a bar down in Oceanside. If you’re ever in the area, I still owe you that drink from when you stole that handle of Tito’s for me.” A smile twitched onto your lips.

“Yea,” you said softly, “Yea, I’ll stop by when I’m in town next.” Deran let out a laugh of relief. 

“Yea?” He seemed genuinely happy “Okay, cool. Yea, sick I’ll, um, I’ll see you around then. I should probably make sure Craig doesn’t raid the cabinets.” He gave you a nod and slipped back into the room. You stayed put until the latch of the door clicked. You took a few deep breaths. Your mind swirled with thoughts. Did you really want to get yourself re-involved with them? You shook away the existential crisis that crept into the edges of your mind. You still had three hours left of your shift, and you heard elevated voices from the waiting room. You had other things to think about.

Sure enough, as the weeks went by, the encounter with the Codys drifted to the back of your brain. You hadn’t been back to Oceanside since their visit. You weren’t exactly avoiding Deran, you just really didn’t have the time between shifts to make the drive only to sit at a bar. So the sun rose and fell and you didn’t pay any attention to the tug in your heart that you couldn’t put a name to. It was an emotion you were familiar with, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was. It felt like a pulling sensation, like there was a string connected to your soul urging you down a path. You’d felt it frequently when you were in school. You had once considered it homesickness, a feeling that you didn’t belong in your current position in life. But a trip back home never quelled it for long. The feeling had been tamed for months, but Deran’s visit stirred it up again. You needed something different. You were pretending to be normal, with a normal job, a normal apartment, a normal life. But it just wasn’t cutting it anymore. 

Some nights it was all you could think about. You were cuddled up on your couch with a beer sweating untouched on your side table. You stared out your window at the streetlamps flickering. You remembered that night, a few days before you left for school, when you had called Deran to hang out one last time. He pulled up to your house with a car you knew didn’t belong to him. You had rode down the highway for hours, picking up some shitty burger and talking about anything you could think of. When he dropped you back at your house, you had said what was lingering between you. You vaguely remembered how the fight started. You had told him you found an apartment just off campus and that he had a spot on your couch whenever he needed it. He was confused and you said you knew his family was…different. If he ever decided it wasn’t for him, he could call whenever and you’d pick him up. Deran had gotten defensive. He took your words as saying he didn’t belong in his family. You tried to soothe the flames but it was too late. He exploded. You couldn’t remember what exactly he said, what you had said in retaliation, but you did remember slamming the door of the car and running to your room, crying until your throat and eyes were raw. You hadn’t seen him since. The truth was you always missed Deran. He was kind. He was real, unafraid to talk about the realities of growing up in a town like Oceanside- whereas everyone else you knew tried to wave off any criticisms saying it was a ‘unique’ place to live. You needed his friendship in nursing school. During the long nights and even longer mornings. You missed the way he could make you laugh in any situation. He was the one who got you through your first breakup by baking you (burnt) brownies and only half-joking to beat the kid up. When your ex walked into school the next day with a black eye, you gave Deran a hug, even though he denied knowing anything about it.

The internal battle of whether or not to let him back into your life was raging in your mind. You wanted your friend back, but you had decidedly left Oceanside for a reason. Your skin crawled when you were there for too long. Like you were trying too hard to fit into a sweater two sizes too small. Reaching out to Deran felt like a betrayal to yourself. You had worked so hard to get out, just to go back. But then again, you weren’t the same person you were as a teenager. You had grown in inexplicable ways and just because you wanted to reconnect with a friend did not mean you were throwing everything away. You tossed your head back onto your couch and took a swig of the room-temperature beer. You watched as a cat trotted down the sidewalk, dipping into the bushes. If only the universe would give you a sign or some-

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

Your brow furrowed. Was your…phone…ringing? When was the last time that happened? You scrambled to find it, flipping your blanket onto the floor and searching the couch. You heard your phone clatter out of the blanket and you tentatively grabbed it. An unknown number. Maybe it was one of the new night shift nurses needing something again. You pressed the accept button and raised it to your ear.

“Hello?” You heard your name gasped out on the other side. Your body stiffened. “Deran? How..How did you get this number?” He ignored your question. He just said your name again.

“I really need your help,” his voice was shaky “I…fuck, something happened, something went wrong. Craig he’s, he was shot, I don’t know if… I can’t help him. He needs help.” “Okay, take a deep breath,” You tell him, already scrambling to get your shoes on. “Send me your address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Deran sent you an address and you plugged it into your GPS. “I’ll be there in forty minutes, okay? Keep pressure on the wound and do not let him fall asleep. Can you do that?” 

“Y-Yea I can do that. Please hurry.” 

“I’m leaving now. I’ll see you there, it’s okay, I’m on my way.” You hung up and rushed to your bathroom, throwing open one of the cabinets and grabbing the make-shift triage kit your mom made you buy when she learned you’d be living by yourself. You had thought it was stupid at the time, but it seemed that mothers really did know best. You were in your car in less than a minute, tearing down the streets as fast as you could.

You pulled into the Codys’ driveway thirty-two minutes later. You were thankful no cops were out because you were going at least twenty over the speed limit the entire time. You had never actually been to the Cody house. You had heard about the intense parties they threw, but you were never invited (as if your parents would even let you go if you were). It was a gorgeous house, but you decided you would admire the architecture after Craig was stable. You turned off your car and grabbed your kit. A young man you didn’t recognize was waiting for you. Nervous energy rolled off him in waves. 

“He’s in the kitchen,” The kid said, bringing you through the front door and into the house. You took a sharp inhale when you walked into the kitchen. There were bloodied rags scattered around the floor. Craig was sprawled across the island, his jeans in a pile on the ground. Deran was pressing a fast-saturating kitchen towel against the side of Craig’s thigh. Deran’s eyes were panicked. Craig was taking short breaths. Deran seemed to relax slightly when he caught sight of you. You blinked at the scene. You didn’t know if your skills were that good.

“Well, baby, aren’t you going to do something?” Your eyes shot up from Craig to the woman who was leaning against the stove. You recognized her. Smurf, dressed in a floral silk robe, hair perfectly pressed, leaning with her hands crossed over her chest. The woman’s voice was smooth and unhurried, like her dying son was more of an inconvenience than a tragedy. You snapped yourself out of your daze and gave a curt nod. You placed your kit on the kitchen island, next to where Craig was laid out. 

“Hey, Craig,” You said, voice a touch louder than it needed to be, but Craig’s eyes were glassed over. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, man.” A small smile cracked his ashy lips. Okay, that was good, he could hear you. “I’m going to look at the wound, alright? Might be a bit uncomfortable.” He gave a weak nod. You shifted down to where Deran was pressing against his brother’s leg with all his might. “Good job,” You told him, quiet enough just for him to hear “I’m going to lift the towel, okay?” Deran nodded, but didn’t move his hands. You gently loosened his fingers and lifted the towel in a way that would shield Craig’s view. You saw one entry wound on the outside of Craig’s thigh, about six inches above the knee. You rolled his leg slightly and let out a breath when you saw an exit wound. “Okay,” you sighed, giving a nervous smile “Good news is that it’s through and through. And it missed the bone. So no surgery for you tonight. You’re still bleeding, but it doesn’t look like the femoral was nicked, so we’re going to do a tourniquet before I start doing anything, okay? S’not going to feel nice.” You felt Smurf’s burning gaze on you. You ignored it. You asked Deran to get Craig’s belt from his jeans on the floor. You wrapped the leather around Craig’s upper thigh, tightening it until the bleeding slowed. Craig spat out in pain and Deran rushed to his side, grabbing his hand and mumbling something into his ear. Thankfully, the tourniquet worked. The blood slowed to a trickle. You wiped the sweat off your brow with the sleeve of your shirt. You muttered to yourself, forming a treatment plan. You wiped your hands free from blood on the kitchen towel. You opened the triage kit and got the saline solution. You worked quickly, flushing the wound before dressing it. You noticed that Craig’s face was starting to regain some color. When the wound was properly wrapped, you loosened the tourniquet. When blood didn’t soak through the bandages, you let out a sigh of relief. You turned to the sink, washing your hands and watching the red water swirl down the drain.

“Okay,” you said, hands only shaking a little bit. “That dressing should be good for the next few days. Lots of rest, obviously, and keep your leg elevated when you’re sitting. Don’t get it wet until it’s scabbed on both sides. Showers only when it does.” You turned to Deran. “Come by the hospital tomorrow, I’ll get you some antibiotics. If he gets a fever or you notice a lot of swelling or he bleeds through the bandage, hospital. Immediately. Got it?” Deran mumbled his agreement. You stood there for a moment. You noticed a man standing on the other side of the kitchen. His jaw was set, eyes locked on you. Assessing you. Sizing you up. You suddenly felt very self-conscious. Your gaze met his and a spark tingled your lower spine. Had he been standing there the entire time, just staring at you? You felt your chest tighten, but you forced yourself to remember your patient. You placed a calming touch on Craig’s non-injured knee. “I don’t want to be your nurse again, okay? Stay safe. And drink some water.” Craig laughed and relaxed his head against the island.

“No promises.” He croaked out. Deran laughed airily, like it was more of a stress reliever than actual amusement. The kid who had let you in clapped Craig on the shoulder and Smurf hummed before leaving the kitchen, the kid following her. The man at the other end of the kitchen tilted his head. 

“Drive safe,” he said. His voice was gruff but pleasant, like gravel crushing under tires. He blinked at you once more before pushing himself off the wall and walking away. You looked at Deran but he shook his head. Don’t ask. You collected your things into the triage kit and clipped it back closed. Deran walked you back to your car. You shivered in the night air, but you couldn’t tell if it was because it was chilly or because of the high-adrenaline situation you had just handled.

“I really appreciate you coming tonight.” Deran said, opening the door to your car. 

“Does this happen often?” You asked. There wasn’t any judgement in your voice, just strict curiosity. Deran lifted his gaze behind you, bouncing slightly on his feet. 

“Sometimes,” he allowed, “Usually if it’s bad we go down to Mexico.” You nodded, chewing the inside of your lip.

“Next time, call me,” You told him. “I’ll be here.” Deran looked as surprised as you felt. Did you really say that? 

“You sure?”

“I don’t want you to die. Not after I just got you back.” Your eyes found your sneakers. You noticed then that you had mismatching shoes. You put them on too quickly to care. Deran put a hand on your shoulder.

“Okay,” he smiled. “I will.” 

“Goodnight, Deran. Keep an eye on him.” You climbed into your car and closed the door. You pulled out of the driveway and began the drive home, riding in silence with nothing but your thoughts. A very dangerous feeling was swirling in your body. You loved that he called you of all people. It was something dangerous, almost (definitely) illegal, but you were the correct choice for the job. You noticed that the tugging feeling in your chest had vanished. You had never felt so alive. You wanted to do it again. That also happened to be the night you first met Pope Cody.

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═ 

A year passed. True to his word, Deran called you about a month later. The kid, who you learned was his nephew J, got into a fight with some gangbangers and needed stitches. So you were on their step an hour later, suture kit in hand. That was the dance. They called, you showed up. You treated all of the boys, except one. You heard Pope was, well, an ‘interesting’ guy. More animalistic. He preferred to slink off by himself when he was hurt than have someone help him. Which was odd considering he was the one who got hurt the most. At first, it hurt your feelings. You had felt like they didn’t trust you. You noticed a truck following you a few weeks after the night Craig got shot. It lingered outside your apartment building a few intersections down. You saw it in the parking lot of the ER when you worked late. A grey Ram with the same license plate. You had seen it in the driveway that night. You knew they were doing recon on you, but you didn’t mind. You knew you were clean. The tail lasted a few weeks and then you didn’t see the truck again.

Most of your calls weren’t necessary, checkups after alley fights or disinfecting small cuts. You could tell the guys enjoyed having you around. The more you were there, the more you let your personality show and over the course of a year, you considered yourself friends with the Cody boys. One night at Deran’s bar, he slipped you a wad of cash. He told you to find a new apartment. One closer to them. They didn’t always have an hour to wait for your services. You scoffed, rejecting the money. But you moved into a new apartment anyway, halfway between the Cody house and the hospital. You had been adamant that you would not be accepting monetary exchange for your triage skills. That was too illegal for you. You preferred to say it was like doing a friend a favor. Craig always insisted on finding a way to pay you back for your work on his leg, so you had settled on an agreement. Weed. High quality, too. And when you smoked the premium bud on your porch overlooking the ocean, the thought of patching up criminals under the table felt a lot less stressful. Your social life improved, too. You finally received your first invitation to a Cody party in the form of a text from Craig, followed by a cat picture with its thumbs up. You laughed and immediately accepted.

You sat on one of the loungers by the pool. The music echoed through the yard, bass vibrating your bones in an enjoyable way. Deran flopped onto the wicker couch beside you. The arm candy on Craig’s left scoffed slightly and nestled closer to him. You took the last sip from your beer and relaxed against the chair. The party had a good turnout, people splashing around in the pool and dancing by the speakers. But you weren’t looking at them. Your eyes only had one target: Pope. He fascinated you. The way he would linger at the edge of gatherings, much like he was at that moment, eyes scanning the crowd. He was always alert, twitchy in the most adorable way. You had gained a fondness for Pope. The way he held his arms tight against him. The way his mouth twitched when one of his brothers said something stupid. And especially the way he would clench his fists when he caught Craig running his eyes over your body. 

You knew Craig found you attractive, but you had made it clear that it would never result in anything. Craig respected it, but you still caught him looking at your ass when you walked past from time to time. You didn’t mind it. You considered it a confidence booster. But Pope, for some reason, wasn’t exactly thrilled with his brother ogling you. And you thought it was endearing. You figured it was probably just some code of honor. Pope seemed like a man who stuck to his own moral code, and maybe the objectification of women was something he strongly opposed. Deep down, though, you hoped it was something more. At first, you cared for him the way you might care for an abandoned dog. You wanted to clean him up and give him a warm meal. And you still did, but your increasingly frequent encounters with him turned your pitiful admiration into something more akin to a crush. Pope was a handsome man. You had caught him in the bathroom trying to stick a bandaid on the back of his shoulder a few months ago. It wasn’t going well. His beautifully plump biceps got in the way. You clicked your tongue at him and applied the bandage. He just blinked at you before giving a gruff ‘thank you’ and pushing past you into the hall. The sight of him with his shirt off was enough for the physical attraction to settle in your abdomen, but you really wanted to get to know him more. You could sense there was a lot more to him than met the eye. He was the muscle of the family operation, you knew that. Of all his brothers, he was always the one with the most bruises, the bloody knuckles. It should have scared you, but it didn’t- it only made you more curious because you saw the gentleness in him. You had gone surfing with the brothers one morning (technically they were surfing and you were watching them on the beach) when Pope saw a kitten stuck in a tidepool. He ran from his brothers and scooped up the tiny scrap of fur, only putting it down when the people he called from the ASPCA showed up to collect it. That showed you he wasn’t an evil man, just misunderstood. You were determined to understand him. 

Pope was no different at the party, gaze flicking from the people in the pool to the people by the gate. He gripped the throat of his beer bottle tightly enough that you could see his knuckles begin to whiten. He sat on a low line of stones belonging to a fountain. A small stream of water trickled behind him. You tilted your head in curiosity. Pope hadn’t blinked in over a minute.

“Does he always do that?” You asked to no one in particular, but Craig followed your gaze. “The staring, I mean.” Craig just chuckled and took another drag of his joint. 

“Yea,” He confirmed “Pope’s got a bit of a staring problem. I can tell him to knock it off if you want.” You shook your head. Part of you wanted to laugh. Craig tell Pope to do something? Unlikely.

“No, it doesn’t bother me, I was just curious.” Your eyes flicked to the beer bottle in his hand. It was empty, and had been for a while. You rose to your feet and went to the cooler on the other side of the couch. You dropped into a squat as you dug around and pulled out 2 beers. Deran watched you closely. He leaned over the arm of the furniture to talk to you under the noise of the party. 

“Careful,” he warned. You looked up, brows furrowed in confusion. Deran bounced his leg. He had a serious look on his face. “He can be…unpredictable.” You didn’t need to ask who he was talking about.

“I thought he liked me.” 

Deran chuckled and looked out to the party. “Especially if he likes you.” You let out a noise of amusement.

“I’ll be safe. Promise.” You held out your pinky to him. You made several pinky promises in high school. Only some of which you broke. The man smirked and reached out his hand, linking his finger to yours. You stood up and grabbed the two beers, giving Deran a nod and weaving your way through the party. It was packed, bodies swayed and fused together, neon necklaces blinking in the night. You genuinely didn't know how Smurf had so many connections with the younger people of Oceanside. She had a lot of issues, but damn did she know how to throw a good party. 

You emerged on the other side of the mass of people. Pope was still sitting on the rocks, eyes glazed over. “Mind if I sit?” Pope’s eyes snapped up to you. He looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected the question to come from your mouth. He blinked at you and shook his head. You plopped yourself beside him. You handed him one of the beers. “That thing’s been empty for, like, an hour. Figured I’d get you another one.” Pope looked at the bottle. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. His eyes went back to the party. With a purse of your lips, you set the fresh beer on the stones between the two of you. You took a sip of your drink. “Who are these people?” You asked him.

“Fuck if I know.” He scoffed. “They always just…show up whenever Smurf has a party. Word moves fast in a town like this.” You hummed in agreement and looked over your shoulder to take in a better view of the fountain you were sitting on. A little stream of bubbles caught your eye. You gasped and whirled around fully to face the water. The movement made Pope jump slightly. He clutched his beer closer to his chest and looked at you with wide, startled eyes.

“There’s a turtle!” You cooed, smiling widely at him. “Look!” Without thinking, you grabbed his bicep to get his attention. You pointed at the corner of the fountain, where a little pointed nose poked from the water. You watched as it ducked back under the surface. You turned to see if Pope had seen it, but his eyes were locked on you. Or rather, your hand, where it was still gripping the meat of his arm. It was hard to tell in the dark lighting, but you could’ve sworn you saw a twinge of red blush creeping up his neck. You realized your mistake at once. Pope had a thing about personal space. You removed your touch quickly. “I’m sorry,” You tucked your hands into your lap. “I got excited. There was this pond in my backyard growing up. I loved seeing what kinds of critters would show up.”

“S’alright.” He murmured, voice annoyingly monotone, blinking away whatever he had been thinking. A beat passed. “Do you like it? The fountain?”

“Oh, yea!” You grinned “I like the whole ‘overgrown’ vibe it gives.” The fountain was made of mossy stone bricks, with algae and a few water flowers skimming the surface. You knew it had to be a curated look. The Codys were never sloppy. 

“I made it.” Pope said. “When I got out of prison. I took a sledgehammer to the old one and built this one from scratch.” You sensed pride in his words. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought he was trying to impress you. He set his empty bottle down in the grass and picked up the one that had been waiting for him. 

“It’s nice to have a project,” You agreed. “Sometimes you just need to forget the real world and dedicate yourself to a task.”

“Is that why you patch up felons for fun?” Pope took a sip of his beer.

“Yea, sure.” You giggled “Something like that.” But it was exactly like that. Your work with the Codys gave you a purpose outside of work. You had something to do now besides just trudging through work and collapsing face first on your bed, just to repeat it all again the next day. A weird hobby, but a hobby nonetheless. “I just like having patients who don’t complain about every little thing I do. It’s not like you have much of a choice. ” You had meant it as a lighthearted comment, but Pope’s brow furrowed. 

“People complain?” His face was a picture of confusion. “About you?” You shrugged.

“Sometimes.” “Why?” He huffed “You’re a great nurse. You’re smart and capable and…nice.” His voice got quieter at the end and his fingernails scraped at the label on the sweaty bottle. 

“Well,” You sighed, “when people are in pain, they don’t always think before they speak. It’s not personal.” You bumped your knee lightly against his. “It’s nice to know I’m appreciated here, though.” 

“We’d be dead without you,” Pope continued. “And that’s not even flattery, that's just fact.” You held out your beer.

“Cheers to that.” You clinked your bottle against his and the two of you drank. You could feel him relaxing a bit next to you. Still looking out into the crowd, but not as jumpy. “Deran says you’re usually in your room during these things.”

“I don’t like parties.” Pope confirmed. 

“Why are you out here then? What’s so special about tonight?” His eyes briefly moved from the party to your face. His lips moved a bit, like he was thinking of an answer.

Pope couldn’t tell you it was because of you. He knew you’d be here and he had hoped to talk to you. He wanted to make sure you were doing okay, that none of his brother’s asshole friends bothered you. Because he liked you. More than liked you. You were all he thought about while he stayed up at night, sometimes looking at the ceiling, sometimes with his hand down his pants. Pope wanted to get to know you, learn if he consumed your thoughts the way you consumed his. But he couldn’t tell you that. So, instead, he said, “The weather’s nice.”

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═ 

You had been dead asleep when your phone’s ringtone tore through the haze of your dreams. You scrambled to groggily accept the call and when you heard Deran’s voice, you were instantly awake. The job had gone bad. Well, technically, the job itself was fine. The boys had cosplayed EMTs in order to rob soundboards from a music festival. One their drive home, the ambulance was hit. And they were hurt. Bad.

You got to the Cody house the same time as they pulled into the driveway. Deran opened the driver’s side door and practically fell out of the truck.

“What the fuck happened?” You hissed, wrapping Deran’s arm around your shoulder to help him up. 

“Semi truck ran a stop sign,” His voice was wet and bloody. His lip was split down the middle and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Must’ve bit his tongue. 

“A semi truck hit you?” Your eyes were wild. You deposited Deran on one of the pool chairs. You helped him sit back and looked up to see Pope and Craig helping each other follow behind you. You shook your head in disbelief and took a deep breath. Your eyes immediately went to Pope. He had deep gashes on his arm and neck. Blood darkened the hair at his temple and you could tell it hurt to walk. He looked so disheveled, so raw. So hot. The uniform clung to his body and you felt desire curl in your belly. You shook it off immediately, shame burning in your veins. You were objectifying a man who needed medical attention. Your medical attention. Pope and Craig sat together on another lounger next to Deran’s. You wiped your forehead of the sweat that was already beginning to gather there. “Okay,” You huffed, mainly to yourself “Okay.” You did a quick inventory. Craig looked superficially fine, but he had that dazed look in his eyes that told you he probably had a concussion. Deran got the worse of it, glass stuck in his nose and several lacerations all over his body. You assumed he was driving. 

Suddenly, Pope wasn’t on the chair anymore. You looked around for him. He was limping toward the house. “Pope!” You called after him “You-”

“I’m fine!” He growled, teeth bared. “I’ve gotta make a call.” His voice was deep, almost sinister, and final. He tore the sliding door open and practically fell into the kitchen, disappearing from view. You pressed your eyes together and let out a frustrated grumble, but returned your focus back to Deran. You worked quickly, picking the glass from both Deran and Craig’s wounds. You had to give Deran a few stitches in his lip and several bandages across his face, but he was a good sport about it. Craig just needed a sling for his arm, which was broken and would need a cast from urgent care in the morning. He hadn’t vomited and was generally aware, so you weren’t too worried about the concussion, but you still made him talk to you while you worked on cleaning the scrapes on Deran’s shoulder. 

Headlights pulled you from your conversation. You looked at Deran, silently asking if they were expecting someone. From the way he tensed beneath you, you assumed they were not. Before Craig could get up, the sliding door opened. Pope emerged from the house, bandages on his arm and neck. A fine enough job, but the bleeding hadn’t been contained. He walked towards the gate, steps uneven and face furious. J appeared from the driveway. His brows shot up as he saw the state of his uncles.

“Holy shit.” He whispered. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Pope bit out, words laced with venom. “Have a nice drive back?” 

“I couldn’t just leave,” J reasoned, shrugging with his hands in his pockets “It would have looked suspicious.” Pope let out a humorless laugh.

“Suspicious.” He echoed, slinking into J’s personal space.  “You know what looks suspicious, J? The fact that the driver of the semi knew who you were.” He pressed an accusing finger into J’s chest. “Told me to ‘say hi to my nephew.’ You know anything about that?” To J’s credit, the boy looked genuinely taken aback. 

“No.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Pope hissed, shoving J away from him. “I told you what happens when you lie to me.” After the push, Pope swayed slightly, staggering before catching himself. You were on your feet in an instant, approaching him from behind in case you had to stabilize him. He shot you a look over his shoulder that told you to back off. You didn’t. 

“You’re still bleeding,” You said calmly, pointing at his back, where a dark patch had begun to seep through the clean shirt he’d put on. 

“M’not.” He grumbled, but he seemed less sure. More dazed. Pope took another step. And almost fell to the ground. You were able to tuck your arm under his armpit, hand splayed on his chest, and hold him up long enough until J got his other side. The two of you pulled him to the nearest chair. J gave you room and you began tugging at his shirt. “Get off f’me,” He barked at you, starting to get up. You put your hands on his chest and pushed him back into the chair.

“Andrew. Sit. Down.” Your voice was firm, commanding. Your jaw was set and you held his gaze steadily. Pope blinked up at you in surprise. You had used his name. His real name. He swallowed and nodded. Pope straightened his spine, flinching as he slid one of his hands across his lower back. When he pulled his hand away, blood coated his fingers. Suddenly, the earth shifted beneath him and he gripped the table beside him, breath coming out in short huffs.

“I think there’s some broken glass,” He rasped out. “I didn’t feel it before.” J got the triage kit while you helped Pope get his shirt off. 

“Next time,” You growled at him, eyes still harsh, “let me take a look at you before you go sulk in the bathroom.” Pope’s gaze fell from you and he gave a little nod. You scoffed and shook your head, directing him on how to get the best angle and removing the tiny shards of glass that were embedded in his skin.

By the time you finished making sure everyone was cared for, you were exhausted. You were standing in the kitchen, washing your tools and hands of the blood that stained them. The overhead lights were too bright, your vision was a little fuzzy, and the entire night felt like a strange dream. But that was okay, because all three men were stable. Craig and Deran had left to fake a car accident that gave them plausible reason to go to the hospital in the morning. J had slipped out a few minutes after Pope’s attention was no longer on him. And Pope was sitting at the dining table outside, staring at the reflections that danced across the pool. You let your eyes follow the curve of his shirtless torso. You had told him to keep it off for the night, to let his wounds breathe. His bandages were fresh (you had replaced the shoddy ones he’d put on) and you didn’t see any blood blooming across the gauze. A good sign. If only he had let you do it in the first place. Your nose twitched with irritation. Stupid, stubborn man. You scrubbed harder at the skin of your hands, only stopping when they were rubbed raw and the blood was washed from under your fingernails. You sighed and turned off the faucet. The embrace of sleep called to you and you felt your eyelids droop. You leaned back against the counter and rubbed at your eyes. When you brought your hands down, Pope was standing inside, giving you one of his looks. You hadn’t heard him come in. You really tried to grasp what emotion he was trying to convey, but it was lost on you.

“What?” You asked, harsher than you meant to. He flinched. Barely, but enough to notice. Pope just stood there, wringing his hands and looking at you with those large, sad eyes. You exhaled through your nose. “I should go home.” You pushed yourself off the counter and grabbed your keys. Pope moved to block your exit.

“No.” His voice was soft, almost intimately so.

“No?” Your eyes crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean, no?” “It’s late,” he said simply “You can stay here. If you want.” You looked behind you to see the time on the microwave. It was 4 am. You rubbed a hand over your face. Pope had a point. You were falling asleep washing your hands. You probably shouldn’t drive. He seemed like he had his mind made up and, honestly, you really didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. You gave him a small nod. Pope’s eyes lit up, half expecting you to refuse him, and gestured for you to follow him. You did. He took you down an unfamiliar hallway and turned into a room you instantly recognized as his. You’d never seen it before, but it was so unmistakable Pope’s. No clutter, not even a wall decoration. Just a bed with neatly tucked in sheets and a dresser that had a picture frame laying face-down on it. You were too busy taking in the space to notice that Pope had begun striping the bed. A new pair of sheets rested on the bedside table. 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” You protested weakly. You could hear the exhaustion fraying the edges of your voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone needs clean sheets.” He tucked in the corners of the fresh white linens before standing back and admiring his work. You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t want clean sheets. You wanted to be able to smell him as you fell asleep. Having your skin against the same fabric as his made your legs tingle. But that was probably just the sleep deprivation talking.

“Thank you.” you said instead. He gave an acknowledging noise and gathered the old sheets in his arms. He began to walk out, but you brushed your hand against his shoulder. “Hey, I’m…I’m sorry I was so rude earlier. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. It was unprofessional.” You took a deep breath, debating if you should continue. “I just don’t enjoy seeing you hurt. I hate watching you suffer. Knowing I can help you but not being able to. I hate it. I get it if you have a hard time asking for help. But it’s what I’m here for. I want to help you, Pope.” I want to take care of you. That was what you wanted to say. I want to be there for you. Please let me be there for you. A tense moment of silence expanded between the two of you. Pope’s bottom lip disappeared under his teeth. 

“Don’t be sorry, I…” He trailed off. You could tell he had a lot he wanted to say, but didn’t quite know how to string the words together. He shook his head. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Pope walked out of the room. You realized then that you had taken his bed. You were about to follow him and ask where he planned on sleeping that night, but the hall lights turned off, plunging the room into darkness, and you took that as a sign that Pope was done with you for the night.

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Several weeks passed and you didn’t hear anything from the Codys. Based on Pope’s interaction with J that night, you assumed there was some family tension. And you were happy with staying away from that. You had texted Craig and Deran to check up on their healing progress and it was going well. But outside of that, life had been normal. The California summer was in full swing, and you were sprawled out on your bed, comforter kicked to the floor and starfishing under your ceiling fan to keep as cool as possible. A task that was working fine enough until you heard a knock at your door. Your head snapped up and adrenaline shot through your body. You checked the time on your phone. It was only 9 pm, but it was still an odd hour for visitors- especially considering you never got any. Pope had warned you about this, that enemies of his family and other dangerous people might come seeking you out in the dead of night. But would they knock? You swallowed your anxiety and crawled out of bed. Quietly, you tiptoed across the floor of your apartment to look out the peephole of the door. You relaxed instantly when you saw the familiar face. You unlocked the door and gently swung it open. The warm night air brushed against your thighs and you could smell the dew beginning to collect on the grass. 

“Pope?” You said groggily, rubbing at your eyes. “What are you doing here?” You noticed that his car wasn’t anywhere to be seen. “How’d you get here?” You lived at least three miles from the nearest bus stop. Pope didn’t say anything and you were able to get a look at him as awareness started to sweep sleep from your brain. His cuts on his neck and arm were almost healed, but he had a new gash above his eyebrow. Blood painted the side of his face. A face that was contorted in despair. His eyes were massive dark spots and they were fixated on you. You were suddenly hyper aware that you were only wearing a large t-shirt and sleep shorts that barely covered your ass. You shifted self-consciously. Pope’s chest was rising and falling with quick, panicked breaths. One of his hands was pressed to his abdomen and the other was clenching and unclenching rapidly. He looked beaten, physically and emotionally.

“I’m sorry,” He choked out. His voice was shaky and wet. His eyes darted around and his body was tense. “I…I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t go back to that house. You’re the only one I…You’re the only one I trust to help me.”

“What happened?” Pope didn’t reply. His lip quivered and a sob shook through him. His free hand rose to his face to cover his mouth. Tears welled in his eyes and he let out another sobbing breath. “Oh, Andrew.” Your face fell and your heart swelled. You threw your arms around his neck and pulled him close to you. His face fell to the crook of your neck and he cried against you. You felt the wetness of his tears on your skin. You held him tightly, running comforting strokes over his back and his hand gripped onto the fabric of your shirt. “It’s okay,” You soothed. “It’s okay.” You stood there for what could have been minutes or hours, in the doorway of your apartment, just holding him. The only sounds were his sniffles and the occasional car driving past. When he was ready, Pope pulled back, but his hand still fisted the back of your shirt. Shiny streaks of tears stained his cheeks and his breathing was still hiccuping. Your hand gently disentangled him from your back and you walked him inside your apartment. You closed the door and locked it. You led him by the hand to your couch, where you told him to sit while you got your medical supplies. After you deposited him, he sat there for a moment, blinking and arm still outstretched. He flexed his hand, confused that your warmth was no longer in his palm. 

When you returned, you were holding your kit. You unpacked it on the coffee table. Nylon threads, a hooked stitching needle, disinfectant, water, a washcloth, bandages, and a dose of lidocaine that had been too easy to snatch from the medicine cart at the hospital. After mixing some water and disinfectant solution, you sat back on your knees, looking up at him from your position on the ground. Pope was pressing his hand to his side and you could see the deep red that was beginning to slip through his fingers. You laced your fingers around his and gently removed his palm. 

“Gonna take a look, okay?” You told him and he nodded. Sweat was beginning to bead at his temples. You lifted the side of his shirt with care and sucked in a breath when you saw the slash that cut through the side of his abdomen. Likely a knife wound of some kind. You put on your gloves and disinfected the cut, running your fingers along the edge of the wound to assess its depth. Pope shivered beneath you. “Okay,” you breathed “Looks pretty straightforward. You’ll need stitches, but it didn’t cut deep enough for more than one layer.” You gave him a tight smile “Doable.” Pope’s eyes were half-lidded as he looked down at you and his jaw was slackened slightly. He really was beautiful, even with the bruises and blood and despair splashed across his face. You took the dose of lidocaine and took the cap off the syringe. You offered him one of your hands to hold. He took it without hesitation. “Squeeze if you need to. You won’t hurt me. It’s gonna sting a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” his voice was breathy, ragged, and he squeezed your hand tighter. You pressed the needle below the wound and plunged the syringe down. Once he was sufficiently numbed, you prepared the sutures. It took some convincing to have Pope let go of your hand, but after assuring him that, yes, both hands were needed for the stitches, he grumbled and released you. 

You stitched him up quickly and efficiently, looping the thread over the gash and pulling tight. At the half-way point, Pope’s legs were shaking from the shock. You squeezed his knee reassuringly. “We’re about halfway done, alright? You’re doing so well for me.” Pope froze beneath you and his breath hitched. He blinked hard and turned his face from you. You noticed he was holding his breath. “Breathe for me, Pope. In and out. I’m almost done, I promise.” His neck reddened and his jaw clenched, but he did as you said. 

“Good.” You soothed. Pope looked at you. He had the same look in his eyes as he did when he was on alert, like he was trying to read you. You ignored it. After another line of stitches, you tied off the thread and shucked off your gloves. “All done!” You tossed your gloves and the needle into a red biohazard bag. You pulled yourself up onto the couch and grabbed the washcloth from the coffee table, wetting it with the water and disinfectant solution. You gently turned his face to get a better look at his temple. “You gonna tell me what happened?” You used your pointer finger to dab at the cut above his eyebrow.

“Smurf’s usin’ me as her little…attack dog again.” His voice was shaky, coming down from his adrenaline high caused by the stitches. “That’s all I am to her. I mean just look at me.” His gaze settled heavy on his knuckles and he flexed them. They were bruised purple and scabbed over. “Everything I touch gets mangled and bloody. And the worst part is I don’t even know why I do it. At some point I did but…the more I think about it, I can never remember a reason. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s just…who I am. That's all I am.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“It is.” he bit back “And if you keep…if you keep getting close to me you’re gonna realize that one day. You’re gonna realize what I am. I…I hurt people. She sent me after this guy ‘nd I beat him in front of…in front of his kid. Who does that? I’m a monster!” His voice was gravelly, growing louder with each word. Pope’s lip quivered and his anger morphed into a kind of despair.

“You’re not a monster.” Your voice was unwavering. “You don’t scare me, Pope,” You told him. And you meant it. Your free hand went to rest on his forearm and he flinched slightly. But he didn't pull away. “You could never scare me. You’re so much more than that and it kills me that you don’t see it.” His lips pressed together and his brow twitched. The muscles at the corners of his mouth pulled upward and then relaxed, and you saw him swallow. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. He took a few deep breaths.

“Please,” Pope choked out, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze moved from where it was burning a hole in your carpet to capture your eyes in an equally blazing way. His eyes were wide, pleading, dark, and wet. His eyebrows tilted up ever so slightly, the way a dog would when begging for scraps at a table. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, pressing his palms together tighter. As if it was the only way to stay grounded in the moment. “Call me Andrew.” You tilted your head, lowering your hand from his face. 

“Andrew,” Your voice was equally as soft. You raised the washcloth again, gesturing for him to turn his head so you could regain your angle. But he didn’t move, keeping your eyes locked with his. You could feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. Maybe caused by the adrenaline crash after fighting for his life. Maybe caused by the way the air had shifted slightly between you two. Not too intense, just enough to notice. It shifted from the simple relationship of patient and nurse to something more charged. Something more intimate. You swallowed. He stared into your soul, searching for something with his eyes. Those eyes. Big and wet and dark as ink. You knew Pope- Andrew- had a staring problem. And from a distance, you didn’t mind it, but up close, it was intimidating. His face was blank and you couldn’t tell what was churning in that mind of his. Andrew’s gaze held the normal edge that you were used to, like an animal unsure of its next move. But underneath it, there was something softer. Squishier. A hesitance that was so unlike the man you knew. Like he was waging a war with himself and he wasn’t sure what outcome he preferred, whether he won or lost. 

Suddenly, his lips were on yours. It was a cautious kiss, slow pecks testing the waters. You inhaled sharply. Surprise jolted through you, but soon melted into bliss as you pressed your face against his. You dropped the washcloth to the ground and brought your hands to his face, holding his cheeks. They were still sticky with dried tears. You felt the stubble against his skin. You hadn’t really noticed that it was there until just now. He was usually so clean-shaven, neatly kept like the rest of his appearance. But he must not have shaved that morning and the thought of seeing him disheveled, seeing him broken down to his most intimate forms, made your heart tumble with yearning. Andrew slowly raised his hand and traced his fingers down yours, as if he was checking to make sure you were real. Like you were actually touching him like that. 

You poked your tongue out, testing the waters even further, giving him a chance to back out if all he needed was something gentle. Andrew exhaled sharply as he opened his lips and let your tongue into his mouth, breath fanning across your nose. You felt his fingers dance across your waist and settle on your upper thigh. Your kisses became more open and less controlled. Your lips worked against his and he nipped at your mouth before soothing the bite with his own tongue. The kiss got sloppy fast, both of your breathing becoming shallow and more needy. His tongue ran against yours and Andrew whimpered slightly as he sucked on your bottom lip. His grip became harsher, digging into the meat of your thigh and pulling you closer to him. You ignored the burning in your lungs for as long as you could, but you eventually had to pull away from him, gasping for breath and feeling a string of saliva still connecting the two of you. Your eyes fluttered open. Andrew was looking at you, hungry, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen and red. Pants were coming through his parted lips and his nose twitched. The sight sent a shock of arousal down your spine before pooling as heat in your lower abdomen. You needed him. Your hands slid down his face and neck before settling on his chest. Andrew sucked in a breath at your touch. He tensed slightly under your fingers, and something told you it had been a long time since he felt a touch like this. Gentle. Nonthreatening. Needy.

Andrew held your gaze as he slid off the couch and onto the floor, kneeling between your legs. His fingers slid up your thighs and hooked into the waistband of your shorts. You could see the painfully hard outline of his cock pressing against the fabric of his jeans. He looked up at you with reverence, lips parted and eyes wide. Like he was about to start praying at an altar. You wiggled your hips forward and felt the wetness beginning to collect between your folds. All you wanted was to feel his tongue in you. Feel his lips suckle on your clit and watch his face as he tongue-fucked you to your release. But you reigned yourself in. Your hands rested on his. 

“Wait,” You whisper. Andrew let out a frustrated whimper. How could you deny him this? When it was so clearly the only thing he wanted? “Andrew, we don’t have to. You had a rough day a-and I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. We can just talk if that’s what you want.”

“Won’t regret it,” He insisted, gripping the fabric of your shorts in his fingers “I’ve wanted to do this for so long. Needed you for such a long time.”

“But your stitches. I-” “Shut up.” He sighed, tugging on your shorts. “Please. Let me taste you.” You opened your mouth before closing it. You had run out of excuses. You lifted your hips and let him pull your shorts down. Andrew lifted your ankle and pulled the garment off you. His eyes darkened when he saw you weren’t wearing underwear. They felt too constraining in the heat of the night. You shimmied forward on the couch so that your pussy was level with his face. He licked his lips and you felt like you were about to die from how badly you needed him. He pulled you down closer to him, burying his face between your folds and taking a deep inhale. The first swipe of his tongue against you made you toss your head back against the couch with a sigh. Andrew flattened his tongue and dragged his jaw upwards, licking a broad stripe up your entire sex. He wrapped his lips around your clit and gave a harsh suck, making your thighs clasp against his ears. His hands pressed your legs closer to him, urging you to squeeze his head between your legs- a position he would die in if you’d let him. He teased you, swirling the point of his tongue around your bundle of nerves until you were gasping before swiping the muscle down the length of your cunt, dipping into your hole just enough for you to feel a pleasant burn then letting it slip out and flatting it against you. The cycle was brutal. The band in your belly tightened and loosened. It was like he knew exactly how to work your body right up to the edge and how to let you down gently while still sending bursts of pleasure through your body. You were completely lost in the pure bliss Andrew blessed you with. Your hand flew to his hair, tugging lightly on his curls and pressing your thighs tighter against him as he moaned into your wetness. You could see a wet spot forming on the tent in his pants and he bucked against the air. And yet Andrew was so lost in you, too- your taste, your feel, your smell- that he really didn’t notice his own discomfort. 

When he finally slipped two of his fingers into your hole, curling up against the spongy spot, while also furiously licking at your clit, your moans grew louder. Your juices ran down his knuckles and he pressed a third finger into your heat. Your breathing was more ruined, eyes screwed shut as you chased your release. You didn’t notice, but Andrew’s gaze was locked on you, memorizing every little twitch of your mouth, every little noise that fell from your lips. A moment he’d like to relive every night for the rest of his life, if you’d let him. Even if you didn’t, he’d be jerking himself off to it for eternity, only imagining how you looked in that moment. You were glowing, a light sheen of sweat shining on your face and a mix of spit and slick coating your inner thighs. He curled his fingers again and reveled in the way you clenched against him. You rutted against his face. It wasn’t intentional, really, just a primal need. You used his face to get yourself off, and Andrew’s eyes drifted closed, immersed in the sensation of being reduced to an object for your own pleasure. It wasn’t long before you felt your abdomen tighten. You pressed your legs even tighter against him. The feeling of his fingers, his tongue, and his other hand rubbing soothing circles on your thigh was too overwhelming. You came with a cry, throwing your head back and pulling Andrew’s face deeper into you. You felt a wetness rip from your pussy, squirt coating Andrew’s face. You were too lost in your pleasure to care. You shook against him, riding out the last traces of your orgasm on his tongue. You breathed heavily, eyes slowly opening to look at him. Andrew sat back and looked at you, swiping a finger through the squirt that coated his chin. Embarrassment rose in your chest, and you shifted so that you were sitting up.

“I’m…so sorry,” You gasp, still slightly out of breath. “I didn’t mean to…do…that.” Andrew made sure you watched as he sucked his fingers clean. His eyes were dark with lust, lips puffy and slicked. You could see the curls at the back of his head plastered against the column of his neck by sweat. He didn’t say a word, just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up on top of you, laying you down on the couch. One of his arms braced himself next to your head and the other fiddled with the button on his pants. You helped him pop it and tug the zipper down. Andrew kicked off his jeans and pulled his boxers down just enough for his cock to jump out. You licked your lips hungrily as he guided his length to your entrance. He slid his dick through your folds, coating his tip in your juices before slowly pushing into you. The burn was instant and you sucked in a breath, grabbing his biceps to steady yourself as he pushed deeper into you. You both groaned in unison as Andrew bottomed out and his other arm came down, caging your head beneath him. He kissed you again as he rolled his hips slowly, swallowing your moans. 

“You okay?” He asked, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth. You nodded.

“You’re just…” You gasped “You’re so big.” He kissed up your jaw and behind your ear.

“M’sorry,” He whispered, “Jus’tell me if it’s too much.” 

Andrew set a slow pace at first, like he was scared that releasing his full strength would hurt you. The slow drag of him against you was sinful. Addictive. Dangerous. You wanted- no, you needed more. You wrapped your legs around his waist and dug your heels into his ass, urging him to fuck you harder. He obliged, shifting from rolling his hips to snapping in and out, forcing moans from deep in your chest. Andrew’s breaths were coming out in short puffs, sweat dripping down his face as he put all of his energy into fucking you into the cusions of your couch. After a particularly loud moan spilled from your lips, he shoved two of his fingers in your mouth. You realized instantly that they were the same two fingers that had curled inside of you only moments before. 

“Shhh,” Andrew grumbled “Don’t wanna wake the neighbors. You gonna be a good girl f’me and keep quiet?” You nodded emphatically and Andrew swirled his fingers against your tongue, gathering your spit before withdrawing and immediately rubbing circles around your clit with the wettened digits. Your core tightened around him at the feeling and your nails clawed down his back. He shuttered and groaned at the sensation, humping harder against you. His hip bone was grinding into yours, and your shoulder was beginning to ache from the awkward position, but you felt so full and so content that you didn’t dare complain. You would rather die than lose the sensation of Andrew inside of you. Andrew looked down at you with pure awe. You were his Goddess beneath him, allowing him the highest honor of being able to not only touch you, but to bring you to the verge of inexplicable pleasure for the second time. Each one of his thrusts purged a small, high-pitched moan from him.

“Feels so good,” You whine, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. Your second orgasm was building fast. You could tell Andrew was getting close, rhythm becoming uneven. 

“Yea?” He whined. The sound was heartbreaking, high pitched and broken and small.  “I make you feel good? ‘M I doin’ a good job fucking you?” It wasn’t dirty talk, but a genuine question. He needed to hear it, the sounds coming from you weren’t enough.

“So good. You fuck me so good Andrew.” He mewled at your words, burying his face in your neck and moaning into your skin. 

“Gonna fill you up. Wanna have you squirting on my face every day for the rest of my life,” He rambled “Wanna feel you come around me over and over again. Squeezing me so tight. S’like you were made for me. Only me.”

“Fuck, please, Andrew!” You moaned, words coming out breathy with every thrust into you “Only you!” Your words spurred him on. He pulled your shirt up just high enough where one of your breasts was on display. Andrew bit his lip at the sight, eyes locked on the smooth curves of your tit. His mouth captured your nipple, tongue swirling and lips sucking as he snapped his hips into you. Andrew’s teeth grazed the bud and the band in your belly snapped, causing a squelching sound to fill your living room as you came on his cock. Andrew wasn’t far behind, small whimpers and moans mixed in with short pants as he emptied himself into you while still latched onto your nipple, gasping out small ‘thank you’s as he did. He pushed as far into you as physically possible, emptying his seed right against your cervix. 

Andrew collapsed on top of you, face nuzzled into your neck and peppering kisses against your sweaty skin. Your fingers scratched at his scalp, grounding both of you as you came down from your high. Your legs were shaking and your walls were still fluttering. Andrew began to pull out but you let out a needy whine and squeezed your heels into his rear, begging him to stay put. He let out a little huff of amusement and lifted his head, pressing kisses to your forehead, eyelids, nose, and eventually mouth. He swiped an eyelash from your cheek and looked down at you with a glowing smile. The two of you stayed there for a few moments before he broke the silence.

“Thank you,” he croaked out, voice raw from his moans. “For letting me in tonight.” You smiled at him, pressing your lips to his in a series of short kisses.

“Any time.” You hum. “Seriously, though, no strenuous activity for a few days. I don’t want to redo your stitches. I’m pretty proud of them.”

“No promises,” He mumbled. “Might just have to pop one so I can come back and see my favorite nurse.”

 “Y’know,” you drawl “I do offer a bedside service. If you're interested.”

“Yea?” He laughed airily, “What’s that gonna cost me?”

You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

here are some of the fics I could recognise, and the users that sue was accused of copying by an anon :

this one by me and the copy

this one by @like-a-pond and the copy

this one that I assumed would be by @morwap (i saw her mentioned in an anon's ask) and the copy

there were also way more. I saw around one that was poly!marauders and the rest were jason todd x reader.

I went to dm her to resolve things privately, but that didn't work out.

this is the first screenshot. my last reply here was answered a long time later, which wasn't the case with the other messages.

I decided to go to her blog and see what she could be doing, and then I saw that she had copied two more fics.

this one by me (she strikes again) and the copy

this one by @saintnoxia and the copy

finally, she responded.

(TW : NAME CALLING AND SUICIDE THREATS)

these were the final messages she sent. at this point, I had enough evidence, and I also didn't want to either be gaslighted or insulted again.

here are a few other things :

it's clear she thinks pretending will make the anons go away.

honestly, I feel like this is aphrodite (iykyk) who has come back to haunt us again, but honestly im not sure.

for now, I'll just monitor her blog (she hasn't blocked me..... yet).

please reblog this and spread it as much as you can. we can't let this slide. it's so disheartening to get your works stolen by someone else. we need to tell her this is unacceptable.

(sorry for tagging this with x reader tags !!!!)

From learning how to nail hairstyles and intricate braids with those skilled hands, to teaching her how valuable she was as a human being and how to never ever let anyone walk over her, Jack had taught you many things in the process too. 

“Never be so kind, you forget to be clever, P.”

“Never be so clever, you forget to be polite, kiddo.” 

Were some of the things you’d hear him say when you’d walk past her room before bedtime. 

For how much of an easy kid she was growing up, she was also endlessly curious. Being the child of two doctors–even if not related by blood–she’d taken after your need to always know more. You’d find her eyeing the books from your home library; thick tomes on her lap “just for the pictures, mom,” she’d say. 

She’d memorize the pictures.

The intricate names she would ask about during dinner on weekends. Jack, ever the teacher, was always happy to explain it in a way she’d understand. But he’d also always reassure her she’d never have to follow that path if she didn’t want to. 

To think that this had become your life after someone decided to abandon a perfectly healthy baby in a bathroom all those years ago. You resented the person who did it for a long time, but as the years passed you felt actually grateful that it had led Poppy into your arms. It wasn’t easy to learn how to take care of her, but once you figured it out, your life had never been more fulfilled. 

But old wounds are better left untouched. 

Which is why, nine years later, when you get a call from Robby saying someone abandoned a baby at the ER entrance, your whole body tenses up next to Jack. 

“Honey?” He asks when he notices, stepping away from the lunch bag he’d been prepping for you before leaving to start your shifts at the hospital. “What happened?”

You don’t answer, you only stare ahead at no point in particular. You can hear Robby going ‘Hello?’ on the other side of the line, but all you can do is focus on the fridge in front of you, where dozens of pictures of your little family of three are held by magnets. 

“Robby, talk to me,” Jack says once he got the phone from you and put it on speaker. 

Robby exhales before speaking. “Somebody left a baby at the ER entrance.”

Jack turns to you immediately, but you’re still lost inside your head. 

“Is uh–is the baby okay? How old?” He asks. 

“She has a high fever, and hasn’t stopped crying since Princess found her. We’re running checks on her. We think she might be…around five months old…Whitaker is with her right now,” he explains, his voice goes a little distant which makes you think he might be peeking into Pedes to get a look on her. “I’m calling you because there was a leak in my neighborhood, and I need to go check on my house. I won’t be here for the shift handover, can you take care of baby Jane Doe for me, please?” 

Baby Jane Doe. Baby Jane Doe.

The name echoes and echoes inside your head. You called your daughter that for months, unsure if you should name her before handling all the paperwork and she was legally yours. It was mostly fear, that she’d be taken away from you when you were already too attached, and giving her a name would only make it worse. 

It was the day you’d finally gotten her custody, that Dana had sent you the most beautiful arrangement of flowers you’d ever seen. 

Poppies. 

Dozens of fresh, vibrant, gorgeous poppies. It only felt right to give your girl such a sweet name. 

But now there’s another nameless girl at PTMC. Scared. Sick. History repeating itself. Why?

You don’t listen to the rest of their call, you only notice it ends when Jack sets your phone next to the lunchbag and guides you carefully to sit down on the nearest couch. He sits next to you, placing his big hand over yours.  

“Honey, I need to know what’s going on in your head,” he says gently, rubbing soothing circles on your skin. 

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, because why on earth is this affecting you so much? Your girl is safe in her room, probably reading the comics Jack bought her last week, waiting for her nanny Annie to arrive before you leave for work. 

But what if she wasn’t? What if you’d never told Jack to take her home? What if she was lonely and scared in a foster home? Is that going to happen to the baby at PTMC? Can you help her? Jack is getting old and you’re not far behind, another baby wouldn’t be responsible–

“Hey,” Jack cuts your train of thoughts. It crashes against those worried hazel eyes of his. “She’s not Poppy,” he says, already knowing where your head is going. 

“But that’s the thing, Jack. Who’s going to help her?” You finally speak, barely keeping your voice from breaking. “What if she stays Jane Doe for the rest of her life?” 

Jack only nods in understanding, shifting closer so your knees are together and his hand can run up and down your spine. 

“We don’t know anything about her yet. Maybe the person who left her there will come back, you never know,” he reassures. “Best thing we can do for her is make sure she gets the best care possible.” 

“But–“

“I know this is personal, I know it better than anyone, my love,” he says, smiling sadly. “But we gotta do it for the kiddo. We would’ve wanted someone to be there for our daughter too, wouldn’t we?” 

You stare at him in silence for a few seconds, before nudging him with your shoulder weakly. 

“I hate it when you make sense.”

Jack snorts and shakes his head, standing up from the couch with a groan. He extends his hand to you, but something catches the corner of his eye first. 

“P?” He calls out, narrowing his eyes at the floral shorts barely peeking out from the hallway. “What are you doing there, kid?” 

The girl in question steps out of her hiding spot. For how clever she usually is, she’s actually a terrible liar. So she just stands with her hands behind her back with guilt written all over her face. It would usually make you bite back a smile while Jack reminds her it’s not polite to eavesdrop, but the topic of the conversation raises a red flag in your mind. 

How much of that did she hear? 

“Did something happen at the hospital?” Poppy asks, pretending to be casual about it. Once again, it’s not her strongest skill to be smooth about it. 

“Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart,” you say immediately. “Annie is almost here, dad and I are heading out soon.”

She nods, her face does the cute thing where she pouts and her eyes go up and around when she’s not satisfied with the answer. 

“But I heard there was something about a baby,” she confesses, making Jack lift an eyebrow in disapproval. “I was just coming for a snack, dad, and then…I heard Uncle Robby’s voice.” 

So she heard all of it. Great. She knows she’s adopted, yes, but you never told her someone had abandoned her in some bathroom. 

Before you can panic, Jack sighs, putting his hands on his hips. 

“Uncle Robby wants us to check on a baby that was left at the ED,” he explains. “Sometimes things like this can happen, kid. But like mom said it’s nothing you need to worry about, we got it.” 

Dad Abbot. Always reassuring. Always letting her know she never needs to worry about our adult problems. 

But she worries, you can see it in her face. How she scrunches her eyebrows. You know she’s fiddling with her fingers behind her back even if you can’t see her hands. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the thing she asks next. 

“Is that how it happened with me?” 

You hope the years you’ve spent working at the ED give you the grace of having a poker face, even if your heart is about to pound its way out of your chest. Jack seems to be holding up very well on his own. 

“What–“ Nevermind. He just cleared his throat when his voice came out too high. “What makes you think that, sweetheart?” He asks, now in his normal raspy tone. 

But you know he’s fighting for his life as much as you’re right now. 

Poppy contemplates for a second before answering, but by the way she keeps shifting on her feet too anxiously, and her hands keep fiddling behind her back, you realize she’s hiding something. 

“Honey, what do you have there?” You ask. 

It doesn’t take long for Poppy to break. She brings one hand to the front, where she’s holding a pink hospital bracelet. Her hospital bracelet. 

You both frown at it when you recognize what it is. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen it. 

“Where did you find that?” You ask, but she doesn’t say anything. “Poppy…” you say in a more stern tone. 

“Mom is asking you something, P,” Jack adds. 

The girl sighs, dropping her hand to drag her feet all the way past Jack and toward the couch you’re sitting on. She plops down defeated, and cups the little bracelet with both hands. Jack walks closer, and sits down next to her, so that she’s in the middle of you two. 

Baby Jane Doe. 4th of July, 2026. The pink band reads. 

“Remember you asked me to help you find dad’s passport last month?” She starts, and you nod. “I–this was in the drawer I was looking through. I saw the date and I was curious about it because it’s the year I was born in, so I always kept it in my pocket. I didn’t know what it meant, Baby Jane Doe…until I heard uncle Robby say it.” 

Jack looks between you and her, but you keep your eyes locked on your daughter. 

“You never told me how I was found, but I’m a big girl now. I can take it,” she says, moving further back on the couch so she can look at both of you. She got the intense eye contact thing from Jack. “Did someone just…leave me there too?” 

This time you do look at Jack, because he’s always been your rock in situations like this. He gives you a reassuring look, before turning his undivided attention to her. He takes her small hand in his calloused, wrinkled one, covering the hospital bracelet she’s holding.  

“We told you the part that mattered when you were little. That you were adopted and that we chose you,” he starts, talking very softly to her. “You were found alone at the hospital that day, yes, but that only led you to find us, P.”  

Poppy’s lower lip wobbles, so she takes her eyes away from her dad to look at you for comfort. You give her a soft smile, putting your hand over Jack’s so now you’re both holding her. 

“Dana was the one fighting to get you a safe home that day. She told me you just needed a place until social services came for you,” you explain, recalling how crazy it’d been to arrive at the chaos of that day and finding out there was an abandoned baby on top of it all. “I went to see you and…I just knew we had to be the ones to bring you home.” 

Jack nods, remembering how nervous you’d been that day to tell him you wanted to foster a random baby. 

“Were you scared?” She asks. 

“I was terrified,” you chuckle. “I didn’t know how it was gonna work with us being on the night shift. We decided it was better if I stayed home with you for a while.”

“You stopped going to the hospital?” She asks surprised. 

“Just until you were old enough to have a nanny. We only ever wanted you to feel safe. To know you always had us there for you,” you explain. “And your dad he…he was the best person I could start that journey with.” 

Jack smiles, leaning over Poppy so he can place a kiss on your forehead, then to hers. 

“You were found, P, and after that you were never alone again. That’s what matters,” he says, caressing the back of her hair. “And you will never be if we can help it.”

Poppy sniffles, pushing away from Jack’s embrace just enough to wipe the tears that had spilled from her eyes. 

“I never thanked you,” she says, but you’re quick to shake your head. 

“Poppy Abbot, you never have to thank us for loving you,” you say firmly. “We should be the ones thanking you for letting us be your parents. Even if our lives are…a little bit different.” 

“Yeah, kid. I know our schedules are not easy,” Jack adds with a tired chuckle. “Our clock is upside down, but we try our best to let you have a normal life. I hope it feels that way for you.”

That’s when Poppy realizes you’ve both spent her entire childhood trying to be worthy of her, when all along she’d been growing up thinking she had the coolest parents in the world. 

“But I never wanted normal, we’re the weirdest and the wildest of them all!” she says Jack’s motto, getting a shaky laugh from both of you. “And I love it. I love you. I really love our family,” she confesses, extending her arms like when she was five years old and needed a cuddle with her favorite people. 

Jack waits until you get your arms around her to wrap his arms around you, holding both of his girls like nothing else matters in the world. Poppy lets out a precious laugh when Jack tickles her, and your cuteness aggression tells you to squish her with all your strength so she stops growing up so fast. 

You miss when she was just a tiny bundle, drooling on Jack’s bare chest and you didn’t have to share her with the world. But she will always be yours. She’s no longer baby Jane Doe and she’ll never be again. 

Not while she has you and Jack. 

And you’ll do everything in your power to make sure the Jane Doe at the hospital right now gets her forever home too, just like Dana did all those years ago.

Part Three

Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated 🤍 I don’t know if there’ll be more to this but she has a name now!! I’m loving Dad!Jack and his family of three 🫶🏼

Dividers by @anitalenia

you laid over his lap, stripped to your panties and holding still as he dragged his folded belt up and down the back of your thighs. the leather was cold and ‘begging to be used’ as he put it.

pope leaned over to give your ass a small kiss, “you ready, sweetheart? told you there’d be consequences to actin’ out.”

he warned you multiple times about getting all touchy in public. he wasn’t ashamed, but he didn’t want anything being able to imagine you sexually in the slightest. pope was greedy like that, but he only ever went as far as these kinds of punishments.

“just wanted to feel you,” you justified, “i missed you all week, pope.”

he let out a sigh before grabbing a handful of your left cheek and squeezing harshly. pope paused and looked at the before of you that would be red all over soon. he gently moved your head down forward to relax and not tense your neck.

a hot smack landed across your ass, causing a heavy breath to leave your lips. you bit your tongue and kept quiet because you knew it would only get worse from here. nine smacks later, your ass was hot and flushed with blood. pope blew air on your skin to soothe you; he didn’t want to do this but you made him, he told you over and over.

he adjusted you in his lap, “gonna take care of you right, pretty girl, mkay?” he pulled your panties down to your knees and inched the fold of the belt to your clit, rubbing gently against the leather for his own amusement. “feels good? that’s your punishment right there, practically fucking you.”

he eventually set the belt aside and pulled you up to straddle him, your legs on either side of his big thighs. “sit up right for me honey.. gonna do something new.” pope stretched his belt in his hands and carefully wrapped it around your neck, looping it and clasping it comfortably. he hummed in approval and gave the extra leather a sharp yank to collide your lips together.

“think you can be a good puppy for me, sweetie?”

you nodded and kissed his lips again needily before he pulled your face away. pope guided you onto the bed, helping you on all fours, and shifted your legs wide. he got on the plush mattress and admired you for a while just letting his eyes scan the way he had you. the way you wanted to be for him.

pope groaned as he felt his cock harden in his black boxers, ready to palm himself at just the sight of you. he reached slowly for the belt, held it behind you, and let it tighten around your neck. “feel good? can you take a deep breath for me, sweetheart?”

you took in air easily through your nose and out through your mouth, earning a praise from him in return. “good, puppy. alright, you gotta be as quiet for me as you can, mkay? muffle those pretty noises just this once.”

the pillow he set out in front of you before was put to use. pope started gently on you, pressing his tip inside your slick pussy and pacing himself slowly. moving his body back and forth gave him leverage over the belt, making it snug and tugging against your neck. small whimpers fell from your mouth as he went from using his tip to easing all of him inside.

“attagirl, you gotta stay just like this. quiet and pretty.”

his speed got quicker making sloppy sounds as your pussy dripped all on the front of his thighs. pope grew aggressive as he heard your moans get louder, which he specifically told you to not let happen.

pope couldn’t even slow down as a punishment; instead, he tugged on your makeshift collar and grunted your name angrily. you stuffed your face into the pillow and let out muffled sobs as he pounded into you. “gonna cum inside you, pretty girl. you want that? you want it all inside?”

you opened your mouth to speak, trying to lift your head to reply. he tugged at the belt harder this time and clicked his tongue in disapproval, “nod.”

you nodded.

pope smiled as his cock twitched inside of you, begging for release. he thrusted two rough times before slowing down and cumming inside. his hot cum leaked down your pussy as he pulled out and smeared his tip against your ass.