Babygirl.

it starts with the tiny shorts that you roll the waistband of to make them even shorter, the curves of your ass cheeks totally on display as you bend over to put on your shoes in the morning. the cropped-too-short tees that he knows you took scissors to yourself, no fucking bra, your tits bouncing out when you reach on your tippy toes to grab something from a high up counter that jack definitely would've gotten if you'd asked instead of wanting to flash him.

when you don't get what you want after a week, you make it worse for him. there's the batted lashes, the eye contact as you lick popsicle juice from your hand, the pouty lips when he won't give in to something.

he finally snaps when you push it too far. he's in his office, trying to brute force his way through paperwork with his reading glasses perched on his nose, when his phone pings. you're the only person who goes through his do not disturb settings, so he checks it right away. if you're texting him from two doors down, you probably just need him to grab something for you and he really doesn't mind doing it for his baby.

then he opens the text. it's a shot of your ass, framed out by a teeny black thong. you've twisted to take it, your waist and the backs of your thighs accentuated by the angle. looking forward to our date xo

he storms over to your bedroom, pleased to find the door not only unlocked but slightly cracked open. an invitation. you're still in the same position, laying on your stomach wearing just that goddamn thong and a cropped tee -- this one he recognizes as his, by the way, from a charity run a few years ago.

you turn to face him with a big smile, not caring at all that he's seeing you basically naked. "hi, daddy! how are-"

without a word, he yanks you to the end of the bed by the hips, his strong hands unrelenting. he tugs your panties down so hard they stretch and threaten to snap. you try to wriggle away from him but he grunts, "stop squirming, you useless slut. be good."

biting your lower lip, you whimper out, "daddy, what are you doing?"

"you think i don’t know what you've been doing?" his hand makes brutal contact with your ass and you let out a shocked, hiccuping gasp. "honey, girls have been begging for my cock since before you were born."

the next time he spanks you, the sound that comes from your mouth betrays the truth: it's a needy, breathy moan.

"so I'm right, huh?" he manuevers to pull off your shirt, too, manhandling it around your limbs with a roughess that turns your brain firmly into the off position. when he returns to his position behind you, he shoves your knees forward so you're presenting your ass to him. you hear him undo the zipper of his jeans and your mouth waters. he challenges you, "tell me what you want and you can have it. admit what a fucking slut you've been."

"I don't know what you're-"

"don't. don't lie to me." the fat head of his cock presses your sloppy entrance and your eyes widen. you hadn't been expecting him to be that big. from just the tip, you can tell he'll split you open. "I raised you better than that, princess." his cock slides forward, nudging your clit, and you whine for more. as he wets himself with your juices, bumbing your clit over and over, he offers, "I want to give you want you need. you're my baby girl and that's my job. want to make you happy. but I can only do that if you're honest with me. so tell me you've been trying to get me to fuck you. admit it."

it takes you a minute to find the words -- he's being really, really distracting with his hands rubbing your waist and hips and ass -- but you manage to because the desire for him outweighs the hot shame in your cheeks. you whimper into your pillow, "I want you to fuck me."

he grabs your hair and yanks your head back, sneering, "aw, you can do better than that. if you want it, ask nicely."

you arch your back and try to get at him, but the iron grip against your scalp makes it impossible. you choke out, "please give me your cock, dad. please."

"that's more like it," he growls. then he shoves into you in one sharp thrust, not particularly caring if you're completely ready or not. it stings for a second but subsides quickly, your eager wet pussy needing to let him in. he can't believe how good you feel, cursing himself for holding out this long when he could've had you as soon as he wanted. "now fucking take it, okay? be good for me."

you nod against the bed, eyebrows pinching together and mouth falling open while he pounds you at an unrelenting pace. using you how he wants. your body is an afterthought. without even thinking, your dominant hand travels between your thighs to try to give your poor throbbing clit some relief.

"no," jack snarls. "not when you're been such a brat." he grabs your hand and wrenches it behind your back, twisting your wrist almost to the point of injury, the pain right at that spot that makes your vision go blurry with tears while your cunt clamps down with want. starting to sound breathy, like he's on the verge of losing control, he admonishes, "you could've just used your words and asked daddy for what you wanted, but instead you've been distracting me and toying with me like I'm not the one in charge here."

"I'm sorry, Jackie," you cry as he starts to spank you again. "I should've been better. I'm so sorry."

the pain is immense and overwhelming because he's not holding back, not at all, the full force of those army muscles turning your backside black and blue. when you just take it though, being so good without complaining, jack's expression softens. he slows his thrusts and wraps his dominant hand around your abdomen, fingers dropping to your aching clit.

rubbing you hard and fast, feeling your thighs twitch and your stomach clenching, he prompts, "what do you say?"

you gasp out while the pleasure rewires your brain, "thank you, daddy."

he prods, slowing his fingers to keep you on the edge. "and? what do I like to hear more than anything?"

looking over your shoulder with tear-stained cheeks, you catch his hazel eyes and tell him so earnestly it makes his heart hurt, "i love you. love you more than anything. need you to take care of you. need you to show me how to be good. love you."

"there's my sweet baby," he coos. "you know you can have whatever you want if you just listen and obey."

you nod eagerly as your face scrunches up, orgasm tightening because of his expert fingers and his unrelenting cock. "I'll be good from now on. promise. be your good girl forever."

he angles his hips to hit you perfectly, matching the pace of his fingers, making your whole body shake. "then you can cum for me, princess."

you don't really have a choice, anyway. your body listens to him. yields to him. your cunt clenches around his cock and you let out an animalistic wail that your neighbors can probably hear. the added wetness and tightness has Jack throwing his head back in ecstasy, savoring each second he has inside of you for the very first time.

he groans as he starts to lose himself, "now, if you're such a whore that you're taking pictures like that and wearing your slutty clothes, are you on birth control?"

unable to speak in the wake of the orgasm, you shake your head and squeak out, "uh-uh."

You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.

“Yeah.”

Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.

“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”

You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.

It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.

Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.

Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.

Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.

But you're not surprised.

Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.

You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.

Still. Eight days.

Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.

You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.

So you step outside.

You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.

You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.

When you look up, you try not to frown.

It's Jack.

Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.

Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.

You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.

And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.

He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.

“How long has it been bleeding?”

“Not that long.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.

“Jesus Christ.”

“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”

“Not anymore.”

Or maybe that's what he says.

Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.

You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.

You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.

And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.

Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.

The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.

Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.

“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.

“I didn't think it was-”

“That bad?” he cuts in.

You shrug.

“I handled it.”

“You were bleeding for two hours.”

“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”

“You're in the ER.”

Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.

Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.

You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.

Or maybe he knows.

“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.

Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.

And no wedding band. Interesting!

“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”

So he knows who you are.

You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.

You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.

Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.

Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”

“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.

Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.

The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.

“Again.”

You repeat the motion.

“Good. Now straighten them.”

You do.

“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.

“No.”

He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.

“Tell me if this feels the same.”

You nod.

“It does.”

Langdon glances at Jack.

“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”

“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.

"Three years ago.”

Another nod.

“You're fine.”

You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.

“This part's going to sting.”

“Define sting.”

Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”

“Great.”

Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.

And.

It.

Fúcking.

Burns.

“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”

That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”

“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.

To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.

“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."

Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.

“Take a deep breath.”

Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.

“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.

It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.

Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.

It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.

The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.

But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.

Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.

How many times has he done this?

How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?

“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.

“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.

You just know he's a good teacher.

He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.

You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.

“I hate this shit.”

Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.

But you refuse to watch.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.

Anything except your own hand.

“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”

Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.

You glance down.

Thread, needle, forceps.

Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.

“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"

And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.

“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.

Maybe you can keep Jack.

You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.

Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.

The first stitch is… weird.

You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.

Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.

Your fingers twitch instinctively.

“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.

“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”

You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.

“Six or seven, probably.”

“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”

“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.

“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.

Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”

They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.

“You’re definitely number two.”

“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.

And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.

Then the door opens.

You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.

You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.

Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.

“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”

Your stomach drops before you even turn around.

You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.

Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.

Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.

He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.

You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.

When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.

“What the fúck happened?”

He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.

You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”

No detail, no explanation.

He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.

Robby’s jaw tightens.

“When?” he asks.

“Earlier.”

“When?”

You hesitate.

“Two hours ago. Probably more.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”

“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.

“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”

“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.

“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.

“Can we not-"

“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.

Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”

But Robby barely reacts.

“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”

Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.

“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.

But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.

You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.

“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.

He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.

A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.

“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.

The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.

“Again.”

You flex them once more.

“Good. Make a fist.”

You do.

Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.

Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.

“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”

“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.

“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”

Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.

“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.

“I wasn't-”

“You were absolutely going to ask.”

Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.

“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”

Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.

No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.

And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.

The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.

Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.

Robby notices the change immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.

“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.

Not angry this time, just tired.

You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.

“Noted.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know.”

“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.

“You should’ve told me.”

You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.

“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.

You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.

You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.

So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.

He blinks. “What-”

“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.

Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.

“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”

For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.

But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.

And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.

Because you’re right.

And that’s the problem.

*

After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.

So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.

“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.

“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”

“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”

“Noted.”

It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.

By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.

“You got someone to take you home?”

You can't help but snort.

“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.

He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.

You just want to go home.

“Yeah. I know you can.”

There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.

“Thanks. Really.”

“For what?”

“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”

You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.

And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.

“Next time, come sooner.”

“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”

“Good plan.”

You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.

“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”

That earns you a crooked grin.

“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.

“Have a good shift.”

“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”

“Yeah. Don't.”

You freeze.

Of course.

Inhale, exhale.

Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.

At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.

So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.

Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.

His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.

Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.

“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.

You shift instinctively.

“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”

The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.

When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.

And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.

No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).

He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.

Close enough to remember.

“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.

The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.

“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”

From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.

“You should've called,” he says.

There it is. Again.

A laugh escapes you.

His audacity...

“Why?”

“Because I would've helped you.”

You almost laugh.

Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.

And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.

Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.

“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”

His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”

“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”

The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.

But neither of you moves.

Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.

Almost.

The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.

“Yeah.”

You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.

Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.

He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.

“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”

There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.

Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Safe territory.

“I'll take something when I get home.”

His gaze lingers.

Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.

Or both.

You're being ridiculous.

“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”

“Wow.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”

Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.

This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.

Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.

Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.

And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.

“Just be careful.”

The words come out softer.

Not doctor-soft.

Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.

You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.

You can't do this.

“I will.”

You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.

His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.

He doesn't.

You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.

What is wrong with you?

“Text me when you get home.”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.

You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.

You need to get the hell out of here.

“No.”

The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.

And for a moment, something in his face falters.

“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.

Or the lack of it.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.

“I'll be fine.”

He nods.

“I know.”

You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.

So as you walk, you don't look back.

But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.

*

By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.

You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.

Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!

The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.

For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.

Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.

You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.

No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.

Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.

And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.

You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.

Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.

Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.

You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”

Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.

You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.

You shake your head.

The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it.

“No,” you say quietly.

Like that helps.

You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.

You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.

You could do a lot of things.

Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.

Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.

Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.

Humorless and pathetic, really.

Because despite everything you miss him.

His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.

Ten days before you're free.

*

Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.

Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.

It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.

You want to use your hand... to test it.

But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).

You tell yourself it's necessary.

You always tell yourself a lot of things.

*

The message comes on the third day.

Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.

No hello. No how are you. No are you available.

Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:

I was told 10 days.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Disappears.

Appears again.

You hate that your pulse picks up.

Then:

Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.

You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.

Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.

You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.

*

You go anyway.

Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.

The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.

Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.

“Back already?”

You glance up.

“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”

His eyes drop to the bandage.

“Follow-up?”

“So I've been told.”

A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.

“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”

“No promises.”

He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.

At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.

Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.

Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.

“Room six.”

“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”

“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”

“Fair.”

“Good luck.”

Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.

The traitor!

The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.

Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.

Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.

Or maybe that's you.

“You came.”

You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.

You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.

“You summoned me via text.”

Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.

“Sit down.”

There's no point arguing, so you do.

The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.

Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.

“Let me see it.”

You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.

His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.

Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.

The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.

Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.

The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.

“Any increased pain?”

“No.”

“Drainage?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

You give him a look.

“No.”

His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“You've been using it.”

You let out a short laugh.

“That's a bold accusation.”

When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.

“You've been working despite our medical advice.”

The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.

You look away first.

“I had deadlines.”

“I know.”

Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.

Because he does know.

He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.

His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.

“The swelling's worse here.”

Damn it.

You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.

“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“I am your doctor.”

The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.

When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.

“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”

You nod, because it should feel reassuring.

Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.

“You'll come back in a week for removal.”

“Yes, doctor.”

His mouth almost curves.

Almost.

You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.

Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.

You don't look back.

Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.

*

You try to work.

You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.

But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.

“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.

Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.

The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.

You can do better than me.

The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.

Your jaw tightens.

“No, that's bullshit.”

You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.

“Shit.”

You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.

It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.

Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.

The screen lights up.

Nothing.

No messages except the family group chat.

No notifications, either.

You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.

I'm happy for you.

You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.

I wish nothing-

Delete.

A frustrated laugh escapes you.

“God.”

The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.

You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.

The music keeps playing in the background.

At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.

Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.

Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.

An older version of me…

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?

“Yeah.”

You rub your eyes.

“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”

The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.

Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.

You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.

The song continues.

Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?

That one almost makes you laugh.

“Fúcking hell.”

You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.

Everything is careful now.

The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.

Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.

Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.

You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Nope.”

Your finger points at nothing.

“We're not doing that.”

But your imagination ignores you completely.

Of course it does.

A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.

Your stomach tightens.

Not jealousy exactly.

Something uglier.

Much uglier.

I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.

You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.

And every time you speak her name

Does she know how you told me

You'd hold me until you died?

Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?

Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.

You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.

You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.

The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.

Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.

It feels really pathetic.

You drag a hand over your face.

“God, I sound insane.”

But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.

*

The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.

There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.

So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.

Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.

And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.

“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.

There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.

When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.

Then he wraps it anyway.

Habit, maybe.

“You’re healed,” he says finally.

“I’m free.”

You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.

A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.

You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.

Like it never left at all.

Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.

“I want you to know something,” you say.

His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.

“I’m happy for you.”

The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.

“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”

You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.

He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.

“What are you doing?”

No denial. That alone tells you enough.

You were right.

“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.

And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t,” he says.

He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.

You almost smile as pick up your bag.

Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.

And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.

“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.

A beat.

“I didn’t need better than you.”

Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.

“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”

The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.

Then, very quietly:

“You should go.”

And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.

Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.

A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.

“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”

The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.

He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.

When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.

“We’re done here.”

*

The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.

Like nothing important happened at all.

You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.

Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.

Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.

But you do.

You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.

We’re done here.

Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.

Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?

The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.

What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?

Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.

Permission.

He always said you were too kind.

Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.

And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

“Fúcking asshole.”

Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.

Sent.

"you're thinking again," he said loudly so she could hear him over the waves.

she glanced over her shoulder, smiling sheepishly.

"am i that obvious?"

"to me?" he said with a smirk as he waded closer to her as the waves crashed against his toned muscles, "always."

she laughed softly as a wave rolled between them.

"i was just...thinking about how nice today was."

"yeah?"

she nodded eagerly.

"i didn't want it to end."

jack reached for her hands beneath the water, lacing their fingers together.

"good thing tomorrow exists."

she looked up at him.

"you'd take me again?"

he smiled, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face.

"i'd take you anywhere." he mused, “we can do whatever we want. vacation is a beautiful thing, baby.”

her heart melted into molten honey as she tried to hide the smile that was creeping across her tinted lips.

but it was impossible, of course. because he was there, looking, oh so handsome and wet. and sun-kissed.

"you're making me blush." she sighed as he guided her further into the water.

"that's the goal." he puffed his chest playfully as she rolled her eyes— though they were shining brightly.

"you're so cheesy sometimes”

"and yet..." he stepped even closer until the water lapped gently against both of them, "...you're still looking at me like that."

"like what?" she trembled, wrapping her arms around his neck while his hands snaked around her hips.

"like i'm the only man on this beach."

she whispered, "you are."

for a second, neither of them spoke.

the only sounds were the waves breaking around them and the distant cries of seagulls flying over them.

jack tutted, his thumb slowly brushing over the fabric of her swimsuit.

"c'mere."

she didn't have to be told twice.

she rose onto her tiptoes in the water, ghosting her lips against his. they both breathed each others sunscreen in as she shook absentmindedly against his grasp.

he smiled against her lips before kissing her—slowly, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.

she smiled into the kiss, and he laughed quietly against her as her fingers wondered into his curly locks.

"what?" he murmured.

"nothing." she said pulling away.

"that's twice you've said 'nothing' today." he said, chasing her lips with his own.

she tucked her face against his neck. "i just..."

he rubbed circles against her back making her arch into him even more.

"just what, sweetheart?"

"...i love you."

the words came out so quietly he almost missed them.

almost.

his expression softened instantly and he leaned back just enough to look at her.

"say it again." he pleaded.

his eyes glittered in the sunlight as he bent down to brush his nose against the nape of her neck.

she giggled, a timid smile blossoming onto her cheeks.

"jack..."

"humor your old man."

she shook her head, smiling as she playfully punched his bicep.

“stop, don’t say that.” she said tenderly as he rested his head against her forehead.

jack laughed, nodding his head motioning for her to speak again.

"i love you."

his eyes grew dark and he kissed her forehead. then her nose. then the corner of her mouth.

"good."

"good?" she laughed. slightly mortified.

"because i'm completely and endlessly in love with you."

she let out the tiniest, happiest gasp before pulling him into another kiss.

behind them, the sun slipped beneath the horizon but neither of them noticed.

it was a beautiful townhouse. it was about three stories of brick and black shutters with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows. it was elegant without being flashy. it was lived-in without looking old.

he'd hummed his acknowledgment and continued walking.

that should have been the end of it.

but it wasn't.

because the next week she pointed it out again.

and the week after that… and the one after.

soon it became part of their routine.

coffee, pastries, the townhouse.

every single saturday morning and every single time they passed it, her pace slowed.

sometimes she'd admire the little balcony on the second floor, or the iron railings, even the huge windows that flooded the interior with sunlight. and other times she would just smile at it quietly before continuing down the block.

jack never teased her about it.

he just listened the way he always listened.

collecting and gathering every detail she offered without her realizing it.

it was like he was storing them away somewhere safe.

—

months later, she was standing in front of the pastry display at the coffee shop when jack casually mentioned the open house.

she looked up immediately.

"what.. really?" she said in disbelief. “i didn’t see a sign, though. are you sure?” she said in the middle of taking a bite of her banana loaf.

"yeah they’re showing the townhouse today.” he repeated with that signature sideways smile. “it’s a private showing.” he shrugged.

the excitement that lit her face was instant and for a moment, jack almost felt guilty because she had absolutely no idea…

when they arrived, the house was somehow even more beautiful inside.

sunlight spilled through oversized windows, warming polished hardwood floors and pale walls.

the entire place felt bright, open and comfortable.

it was a place that people built lives together and they could feel the warmth of a loved and cherished home.

jack spent most of the tour watching her instead of the house.

watching her wander into every room with wide eyes, watching her run her fingertips along the bathroom countertops.

watching her stand in front of windows and imagine things.

he knew she was imagining things because she'd always done that. her imagination was everything that made her into the dreamer that she was.

even in their tiny conversations, or while walking down the street.

she saw dreams everywhere and a beautifully bright future in every empty space.

"this kitchen is incredible." she mused, as she rounded the kitchen island and peered out the windows that rested right above the kitchen sink.

her voice echoed softly through the room as jack leaned against the doorway.

her shoulders sank as she peered into the lush backyard garden.

"It is." he said as he watched her in quiet awe.

she moved toward one of the windows, sunlight caught her hair. the sight of her standing there nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

because she looked like she belonged there.. with him. he nearly groaned at the sight of her. her hair falling behind her shoulders while she playfully pretended to wash the dishes.

he smiled wildly as she looked behind her at him and wiggled her eyebrows, causing them both to giggle.

it looked like she wasn’t visiting.

or imagining.

she was just belonging.

as if the house had been waiting for her this whole entire time.

the realtor eventually left them alone to explore.

that was when the trouble started.

because the more she saw, the more she fell in love with it.

and the more she fell in love with it, the more impossible it became for her to hide her disappointment.

by the time they reached the living room again, she was trying very hard to be realistic.

jack knew that look it was the one where she talked herself out of wanting something.

“it's okay," she said softly.

nobody had even asked a question.

jack raised an eyebrow as she laughed a little sadly.

"this place is just..." her gaze drifted toward the windows.

the fireplace.

the staircase.

everything.

"it's perfect." she hummed as jack placed his hand on the back of her small back. her words came out as barely more than a whisper as she looked up at him.

jack felt something squeeze painfully inside his chest.

because she wasn't being dramatic.

or materialistic, or unrealistic, she just genuinely loved this place.

the same way she loved old bookstores and small coffee shops and rainy afternoons cuddled with a good book.

she loved things completely, with her whole heart.

"a girl can dream, right?" she said softly to him. her smile small.

jack stared at her for a long moment— long enough that she did a double take when she wanted to pull him out and go back home.

"w-what?" she looked at him in confusion.

his hands slipped into his pockets, a nervous habit which was one she rarely ever saw.

then he nodded toward the room around them.

"good thing you don't have to." he nodded earnestly.

confusion flickered across her face. she laughed his name, "what are you talking about?"

"you don't have to dream about it, baby."

the silence that followed stretched before he finally said it.

"i bought it."

she blinked…once…twice.

the words clearly didn't fully register and he wanted to kiss her stupid as she gave him a look of pure confusion.

"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the room.

still nothing.

her mouth opened slightly.

closed it.

opened again.

jack fought back a smile because for someone so smart, she looked completely lost.

"you..." her voice disappeared.

jack nodded trying to get it out of her.

"i bought it." he said cocooning her into his arms as if to block her away from the rest of the world.

another heartbeat passed.

then another.

finally her eyes widened.

not a little.

a lot.

the kind of realization that arrives all at once. it was sudden and overwhelming and her heart was beating so fast she could have sworn that he could hear it.

"f-for us?" the question cracked in the middle.

jack's expression softened immediately.

"yeah." his voice was gentle, “so we can have somewhere that's ours."

the tears arrived instantly.

jack sighed.

because of course they did.

she slapped both hands over her face.

which somehow made it worse.

"sweetheart—"

"you bought me a house?”

his laugh filled the room. "i bought us a house."

"a whole house, jack."

"technically it's a townhouse." he teased causing her to let out a watery laugh.

then immediately started crying harder.

“i want you to decorate it however you want and i’m gonna help you.” he said softly, moving her hair behind her shoulders as she looked up at him. “we’re gonna make it ours.”

the next thing jack knew, she was throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.

of course he caught her automatically.

strong freckled arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against his chest.

the familiar scent of coffee and aftershave surrounded her instantly.

safe, comforting, home.

kack rested his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. neither of them spoke for a while.

they just stood there in the middle of their future living room as the sunlight poured in around them.

the house quiet and waiting.

finally she tilted her head back enough to look at him.

her eyes were red and her cheeks damp.

beautiful.

"you remembered." the words were tiny they made jack frown.

"remembered what?" he wanted to know, as he wiped his thumb against her wet cheeks.

she laughed softly. "the windows."

his expression immediately melted because of course that's what she was talking about.

not the price, or the size and not even the investment of it all.

the windows.

the thing she'd mentioned months ago during a random walk.

"the balcony." her voice trembled.

"the flower boxes."

jack brushed his thumb against her bottom lip as it quivered.

"i remember everything you tell me." he mused.

and judging by the way her face crumpled, that might have been the most emotional thing he'd said all day.

—

later, after the realtor returned and paperwork was discussed and the reality of it all slowly settled around them, they found themselves standing on the little front patio.

the one she'd always admired and pointed out dozens of times.

jack handed her the key, simple and unassuming. yet somehow heavier than anything she'd ever held before.

she stared at it in her palm, then up at him, then back at the house.

their house. their future.

their home.

jack leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before giving her the smile that destroyed her every single time because it was the kind of smile he reserved only for her.

"what do you say we go back and start to unpack" he hummed.

and this time, when she looked at the townhouse, she didn't have to imagine anymore.