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I am a thirty-something woman (she/her) living with severe anxiety, PTSD, Social Anxiety, and chronic pain. I am probably one of the most awkward women on the planet and I think that reflects in my writing. I also try to be as inclusive as possible. Everyone deserves to feel seen and to be represented. And at the very least I hope I can make you laugh. 🤭
So sit back and enjoy and remember comments, reblogs, and likes are very appreciated.
I am a thirty-something woman living with severe anxiety, PTSD, Social Anxiety, and chronic pain. I am probably one of the most awkward women on the planet and I think that reflects in my writing. I also try to be as inclusive as possible. Everyone deserves to feel seen and to be represented. And at the very least I hope I can make you laugh. 🤭 So sit back and enjoy and remember comments, reblogs, and likes are very appreciated.
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Summary: Jack Abbot books an oceanfront vacation house in the Outer Banks and insists every suspiciously luxurious feature is simply “for the house.” The private pool. The hot tub. The king bed facing the ocean. The indoor shower with the bench. The outdoor shower. It’s all very practical. Obviously. Except Jack has had this whole week planned from the start, and with no shifts, no alarms, no pagers, and nowhere else to be, all that focus, patience, and husbandly devotion has exactly one place to go. You.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, oral sex f/m receiving, intercourse, outdoor shower sex, implied/mentioned sex in multiple places, married couple being obsessed with each other, vacation Jack is a menace, soft aftercare, body worship, prosthetic/accessibility mention, lots of consent/check-ins, excessive use of the word vacation.
Author’s Note: Vacation Jack has entered the chat, and he is everyone’s problem. This is married Jack, soft Jack, smug Jack, worships-his-wife-like-it-is-his-life’s-work Jack. I hope you enjoy him taking vacation extremely seriously.
Xoxo, Del
Jack had been weird since the airport. Not the kind of weird that meant he was standing in a security line while mentally triaging three patients who were not in front of him. Worse. Relaxed weird. He had moved through the terminal with one hand curled around the handle of his suitcase and the other settled at the small of your back, calm as anything. No pager. No phone call from the hospital. No schedule to double-check. No crease between his brows while he thought five steps ahead of everyone else. Just Jack in a soft gray T-shirt, sunglasses tucked into the collar, wedding ring catching the fluorescent airport light every time his hand shifted against you. It was unsettling.
“You keep looking at me,” Jack said from the seat beside you, his voice low enough not to carry.
You turned away from the plane window and looked at him properly. “Because you’re being weird.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Weird?”
“Calm,” you said, like the evidence was obvious.
His thumb moved once over your thigh, lazy and warm where his hand rested above your knee. “That’s weird?”
“For you?” You gave him a look. “Yes.”
Jack’s smile deepened. “I’m on vacation.”
“You keep saying that like it explains everything,” you said.
“It explains a lot,” Jack replied, his hand still warm on your leg.
You narrowed your eyes at him. Jack leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “Hey, baby.”
Absolutely not. You knew that tone. You had been married to that tone. You had folded laundry with that tone. You had woken up to that tone pressed against the back of your neck and immediately lost whatever argument you had planned about needing sleep. You turned your head slowly. “Why did you say that like you’re about to be annoying?”
Jack’s mouth curved wider. “You in the mile-high club?”
You stared at him. “Jack Abbot.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said.
You leaned back against your seat. “Absolutely not.”
Jack sat back too, completely unbothered. “Worth a shot.”
“We have been on vacation for forty-seven minutes,” you said.
Jack glanced at his watch. “Strong start.”
“You are not serious,” you said, fighting the smile already pulling at your mouth.
“I’m very serious,” Jack said, his thumb sweeping over your thigh again. “I planned a whole week.”
“You planned a whole week, so naturally your first thought was sex in an airplane bathroom?” you asked.
“No,” Jack said, calm as anything. “That was my second thought.”
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to smile. Jack looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You’re enjoying vacation Jack.”
“I’m concerned about vacation Jack,” you said.
“Good,” Jack replied.
“That was not the reassurance you thought it was,” you told him.
Jack lifted your hand, brought your knuckles to his mouth, and kissed them like he had all the time in the world. Which, unfortunately, he did. That was the problem. At home, there was always something. Work. Laundry. Groceries. A shift starting too early or ending too late. Jack coming home exhausted but still kissing you in the kitchen like he could not help himself. You falling asleep against his shoulder on the couch because you both had the best intentions and the worst schedules. At home, loving each other sometimes came in pieces. A hand on your hip while one of you reached for coffee. A kiss before sunrise. A shower taken together because it was the only private twenty minutes you could steal. Jack’s fingers brushing yours under a table. Your face tucked into his neck for exactly thirty seconds before one of your phones went off. This was different. This was Jack with no alarm set. Jack with his shoulders loose. Jack with nowhere else to be. Jack with an entire week and a look in his eyes that made you wonder, briefly and sincerely, if you had made a mistake getting on this plane with him.
By the time you landed in North Carolina, picked up the rental car, and started driving toward the Outer Banks, the feeling had only gotten worse. The windows were down. The air had gone warm and salty, slipping through the car and lifting the ends of your hair. Jack drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting over your thigh, his thumb moving every now and then like he was not even thinking about it. You, unfortunately, were thinking about it a lot. You were thinking about his hand. His forearm. The way his shirt stretched when he turned the wheel. The quiet contentment on his face as the road opened in front of you and the sky went wide and blue above the water.
“You’re doing it again,” Jack said, eyes still on the road.
You blinked. “Doing what?”
His thumb dragged once over your thigh. “Looking at me.”
“I’m allowed to look at my husband,” you said, turning slightly in your seat.
Jack glanced over just long enough for you to catch the curve of his mouth. “You’re allowed to do a lot of things with your husband.”
You let your head fall back against the seat. “See? That. That is what I mean.”
His hand tightened on your thigh, warm and amused. “What?”
“Vacation Jack,” you said, pointing at him like the evidence was obvious.
Jack looked back at the road. “He sounds nice.”
“He sounds like a menace,” you said.
Jack’s smile deepened. “He rented you a beach house.”
“You rented us a beach house,” you corrected.
Jack shrugged one shoulder. “Same thing.”
That should have been your first warning. Not the mile-high joke. Not the hand on your thigh. Not even the way he kept saying vacation like it was both an explanation and a threat. That sentence. He rented you a beach house. Because when Jack finally pulled into the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and the house came into view, you realized with sudden, full-body clarity that your husband had not rented a beach house. He had rented a house. A house. Oceanfront. Tall windows. Wide decks. Pale wood and white trim and a private path disappearing through dune grass toward the beach. It looked like something from an architectural magazine. The kind of house people stayed in when they owned linen pants unironically and knew how to arrange lemons in a bowl. You sat in the passenger seat and stared. Jack put the car in park. You did not move.
He glanced over. “You okay?”
“Jack,” you said, still looking at the house.
His hand paused on the gearshift. “What?”
“This is a house.”
Jack looked through the windshield. “That was the goal.”
“No.” You turned to him. “This is a house.”
“It had good reviews,” Jack said.
You stared at him. He added, “And beach access.”
“Jack.”
“And a kitchen,” he said.
“You’re not helping yourself,” you told him.
His expression stayed perfectly composed, but you knew him too well. You saw the smugness hiding at the corner of his mouth. You saw the way he looked at you instead of the house, like he had been waiting for this exact reaction. Your chest softened before you could stop it.
“Oh my god,” you said quietly. “You’re proud of yourself.”
Jack took the keys from the ignition. “I made a good choice.”
“You made an insane choice,” you said.
“I made a good insane choice,” he replied.
You got out of the car slowly, still staring up at the house as warm coastal air wrapped around you. Jack came around the back, opened the trunk, and started pulling out luggage like this was normal. Like he had not driven you up to a house with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the ocean glittering behind it. You followed him up the steps to the front door in a daze. “Before we go in,” you said, stopping behind him, “I need you to know that I am suspicious.”
Jack unlocked the door. “Of the house?”
“Of you,” you said.
He pushed the door open. “That’s fair.”
You forgot the rest of your sentence. The house opened wide in front of you, bright and airy and flooded with light. Pale floors stretched toward the back wall, which was almost entirely glass. Beyond it, the ocean moved blue and endless, sunlight breaking across the water in bright pieces. There was a living room with soft white couches, a huge kitchen to the left, and a deck beyond the glass doors that looked like it had been built specifically for long mornings, bare feet, and coffee gone cold because you were too busy watching the waves. For a second, you did not accuse Jack of anything. You just stood there. Jack set the bags down inside the door and came up behind you. His hand settled at your waist, careful and warm.
“Good?” he asked.
You swallowed. “Jack.”
His voice softened. “Yeah?”
“This is beautiful,” you said.
He did not say anything right away. When you turned your head, he was not looking at the ocean. He was looking at you. Like this had been the view he had actually been waiting for. Something tender pressed behind your ribs. Then Jack’s thumb moved against your waist, and the faintest hint of a smile returned to his face. “If we’re doing vacation,” he said, “we’re doing it right.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “That sounds like something a man says before revealing he spent too much money.”
“It was a reasonable amount of money,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Do not lie to me in this beautiful house.”
His mouth curved. “Vacation.”
“There it is,” you said.
Jack kissed the side of your head, then stepped around you and picked up two of the bags. “Come on.”
“You’re giving me a tour?” you asked, following him.
“I am,” Jack said.
“Should I be afraid?”
He looked back at you. “Probably.”
You followed him into the kitchen first. It was ridiculous. Huge island. Stone counters. Ocean view. A stove that looked nicer than your entire apartment had when you and Jack had first moved in together. There were glass-front cabinets, a farmhouse sink, and enough counter space to host a cooking show. You stopped beside the island. “This kitchen is bigger than our living room.”
Jack set one bag down near the pantry. “Good for cooking.”
“Are we cooking?” you asked.
“Probably,” he said.
You looked over at him. “That was vague.”
Jack came back to you and leaned one hip against the island, arms folding loosely over his chest, looking entirely too comfortable in a kitchen he had absolutely not chosen for practical reasons alone. You looked at him. He looked back. Your eyes narrowed. “Here?”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Here what?”
“You know what,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “I pictured coffee.”
You stared at him. “You rented this kitchen for coffee?”
“Breakfast too,” Jack said.
“How domestic.”
His hand reached out, fingers hooking lightly around your waist to draw you a step closer. “You sitting right there while I cook.”
You followed his gaze to the wide stretch of counter beside him. “On the island?”
“Mm-hm,” Jack said.
You looked back at him. “That sounds innocent.”
“It started that way,” he said.
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack noticed. He smiled like he had not done a single thing wrong. “Coffee first.”
“You are being smug,” you said.
“I’m being honest,” Jack replied.
“You are being honest smugly.”
He leaned in and kissed you once, quick and warm. “Vacation.”
You pointed at him as soon as he pulled back. “You cannot keep using that as a defense.”
“I can,” Jack said.
“You can’t.”
“I am,” he said, stepping away before you could decide whether to pull him back or yell at him. Both felt appropriate. The tour continued through the living room, where Jack said he pictured you curled into the corner of the couch with a book and your feet in his lap. That one was sweet enough that you almost let your guard down. Almost. Then he opened the glass doors to the deck, and the ocean air rushed in. Outside, the house became even more outrageous. There was a private pool tucked into the deck below, blue water flashing beneath the sun. A hot tub sat beneath a covered section, shaded and close enough to the doors to be convenient. Beyond that, a path wound through sea grass toward the beach. There were chaise lounges lined up near the pool, angled toward the water, with tall privacy hedges and fencing positioned in a way that felt less accidental the longer you looked at it. You stepped onto the deck. Jack followed behind you. You looked at the pool. Then the loungers. Then the hot tub. Then Jack.
“No,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “No?”
“Absolutely not,” you said, pointing toward the pool.
Jack stepped beside you. “You don’t even know what I pictured.”
“I know exactly what you pictured,” you said.
“You’re projecting,” he replied.
“You picked a house with privacy hedges around the chaise lounges.”
“For shade,” Jack said.
You turned your head slowly. “For crimes.”
Jack laughed then, low and surprised, and the sound moved through you warmer than the sun. He caught your hand and pulled you closer, his arm sliding around your waist from behind as you both looked out over the deck. “Out there,” Jack said, nodding toward the chaise lounges, “I pictured you with a book.”
“That sounds sweet,” you said.
“It was,” he replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “Was?”
“And sunscreen,” Jack said.
You closed your eyes. “Jack.”
“What?” His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Sunscreen is important.”
“You are weaponizing responsibility,” you said.
“I’m taking care of my wife,” he said.
“You always say that right before doing something suspicious.”
Jack’s mouth curved against your shoulder. “You always like it.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack hummed, pleased and infuriating, and pointed toward the pool. “I pictured you in there, too.”
“Swimming?” you asked.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Jack.”
“You asked for the tour,” he reminded you.
“I did not ask for the director’s commentary.”
“You’re getting it anyway,” he said.
You looked toward the hot tub. “And that?”
Jack followed your gaze. For once, he did not immediately make a joke. The hot tub sat under the covered deck, tucked into its own little pocket of shade and privacy. From there, you would be able to hear the ocean without seeing anything but the water, the sky, and each other. “That one was quiet,” he said.
You blinked. “Quiet?”
His hand spread over your stomach, pulling your back a little more securely against his chest. “You. Me. The ocean loud enough that we don’t have to be.”
Your stomach dipped. “Jack,” you said, his name coming out softer than you meant it to.
His voice stayed calm, but his mouth was close to your ear now. “You asked what I pictured.”
You leaned back against him because your knees had gotten a little unreliable. “I’m starting to regret that.”
Jack’s hand tightened gently at your waist. “No, you’re not.”
The worst part was that he was right. Then you saw the small structure tucked off to the side of the pool, its white door propped open to reveal shelves stacked with towels and beach chairs. You pointed. “Is that a pool house?”
“Storage,” Jack said.
You turned in his arms. “Storage?”
“Towels,” he said. “Floats. Probably cleaning supplies.”
You raised your eyebrows. “And you were definitely thinking about pool chemicals when you booked it.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Mostly towels.”
“That was worse,” you said.
His hands stayed at your waist. “I pictured you pulling me in there.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“You get bossy when you’re relaxed,” Jack said.
“I do not,” you argued.
“You absolutely do.”
“I would never,” you said, trying to sound offended.
Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m counting on it.”
For a second, you forgot how to answer him. He smiled, kissed the corner of your mouth, and then had the audacity to step back and continue the tour. By the time he brought the bags upstairs, you were starting to understand the full scope of your situation. This was not a house. This was a map. Jack had not just booked somewhere pretty. He had walked through the listing photos and imagined a whole week of you and him. Coffee and sunlight. Books by the pool. Salt on your skin. His hands on your body. Dinner on the deck. Sleeping late. No phones. No alarms. No one needing either of you before you had even opened your eyes. You were still processing that when you reached the primary bedroom. Then you stopped in the doorway. “Oh,” you said.
The bedroom was worse. Not worse, technically. Beautiful. Soft white bedding. Pale curtains. Glass doors that opened onto a private deck. A king bed facing the ocean, like whoever designed the room had personally declared subtlety dead. Sunlight moved over the sheets in warm, shifting bands, and beyond the windows, the water stretched wide and blue and endless. Jack set the suitcases near the dresser and came to stand behind you. He did not touch you right away. That somehow made it worse.
“And here?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. His voice changed when he answered. Softer. Lower. Less teasing. “Here, I pictured you sleeping in.”
Your throat went tight.
“No alarm,” he said. “No phone. No shift. No one needing you before you even open your eyes.”
You stared at the bed, at the ocean beyond it, at the room he had chosen because he knew you. Because he knew how tired you got. Because he knew how often you woke already making lists in your head, already bracing for the day, already giving pieces of yourself away before breakfast. “That’s what you pictured?” you asked.
Jack stepped closer, his chest brushing your back. “Some of it.” There he was again.
You let out a shaky laugh. “Of course.”
His thumb traced a slow line along your hip. “I pictured this too.”
You looked over your shoulder. “What?”
He leaned down and kissed the side of your neck. Not rushed. Not hungry, not yet. Just warm and deliberate and certain. “Standing behind you,” Jack said against your skin. “Right here.”
Your eyes fluttered. He continued, “Watching you realize I planned this.”
“You are so smug,” you said.
“I am,” he replied.
“At least you admit it.”
His mouth moved higher, just beneath your ear. “I pictured you happy.”
That undid you more than anything else could have. Your hand found his over your waist. Jack’s fingers threaded through yours. “I pictured you rested,” he said. “Spoiled. A little sunburned even though I’m going to be annoying about sunscreen.”
You huffed a laugh. He smiled against your skin. “I pictured us here,” Jack said.
There it was. The whole thing. Not the pool. Not the hot tub. Not the ridiculous kitchen, the private deck, or the bed facing the water. Us. Your chest went so soft it almost hurt.
“You really thought about all of this,” you said.
“Yeah,” Jack answered.
You turned enough to look at him. “Every room?”
“Not every room,” he said.
“Liar.”
Jack’s mouth curved against your neck. “Fine. Most rooms.”
You turned fully in his arms, hands landing on his chest. “This house is insane.”
“No,” Jack said.
“No?” you asked.
His hands settled at your waist. “It’s exactly enough.”
You hated how easily he could do that. Take all your teasing and fold it into something earnest. Make you laugh one second and ache the next.
“You spent too much money,” you said, but there was no heat in it.
Jack’s expression softened. “I wanted you to have a week where nothing needed you.”
You looked up at him. His thumb moved once at your waist. “Nothing but you?” you asked.
Jack’s smile returned, slow and warm. “I’m allowed to need you a little.”
“A little?”
“Vacation,” he said.
You groaned. “You are impossible.”
“You married me.”
“I was young,” you said.
Jack laughed, and the sound loosened something in you. Then he kissed you. It was supposed to be quick. You could tell by the way he started it, soft and almost sweet, his hand lifting to your jaw while the ocean moved bright and endless beyond the windows. But then you kissed him back. And Jack, relaxed, rested, vacation Jack, did not rush. He kissed you like he had imagined this too. Like he had thought about getting you into this room, into this light, with nothing waiting for either of you except a whole week of time. His thumb brushed along your cheek. His other hand stayed low on your back, steady and warm, holding you close without trapping you there. When he pulled back, your breath had gone uneven.
Jack looked perfectly fine, which was unfair. “We should finish the tour,” he said.
You blinked at him. “There’s more?”
His smile turned dangerous. “Bathroom.”
“Oh no,” you said.
“Oh yes,” Jack replied.
The bathroom was somehow even more ridiculous than the bedroom. Double vanity. Huge mirror. Soft lighting. A tub positioned near a window overlooking the water. Smooth stone tile. A glass shower big enough for two people to move comfortably, with rainfall showerheads and a built-in bench along one wall. You stopped in the doorway. Jack stopped behind you. For a second, the joke rose automatically. A shower bench. Of course. Of course, Jack had seen that in the photos and gotten ideas. Of course, your husband, who loved showering with you on a normal Tuesday when both of you were half asleep and stealing time before work, would look at this gorgeous, oversized shower and imagine exactly—
Then you glanced at him. The teasing paused in your throat. Jack was looking at the bench. Not smugly this time. Not only that, anyway. Something quieter crossed his face. Practical. Honest. Familiar in a way that made your heart squeeze. Because it was not just another suspicious feature. It was space. Ease. A place for him to sit without balancing, without bracing himself against slick tile, without turning something as simple as a shower into a calculation.
“Oh,” you said softly. Jack looked at you. You reached for his hand. “Good.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Good?”
You nodded. “I want that for you.”
For a moment, he did not answer. Then his fingers tightened gently around yours. “Yeah,” Jack said. It was simple. Quiet. Enough. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “I also pictured you in here.”
There he was. You stared at him. “Of course you did.”
“Wet,” Jack said.
“Jack.”
“Naked,” he added.
“Jack.”
“Letting me take care of you,” he said.
That got you quiet again. He stepped behind you and nodded toward the bench. “I pictured sitting there. Hot water on. You between my knees.” Your breath caught. His hands settled gently at your hips. “Washing your hair. Getting the sunscreen off your shoulders because you always miss right here.”
His fingers brushed the back of your arm, light and specific, and you hated that he was right.
“I do not always miss there,” you said.
“You always miss there,” Jack replied.
“I have survived this long.”
“Barely,” he said.
You laughed, but it came out thin because his mouth was near your neck again and his hands were warm through your shirt. “That’s what you pictured?” you asked.
“Some of it,” Jack said.
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep meaning it,” he replied.
You turned your head enough to look at him. “You love showering with your wife.”
Jack’s face did not change. “I do.”
“No shame?”
“None.”
“Not even a little?” you asked.
He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “I love my wife wet and naked and close enough that I can put my hands on her. I also love when she lets me wash her hair because she makes that little sound when she relaxes.” Your mouth parted. Jack’s thumb slid beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to touch warm skin. “So, no. No shame.”
You stared at him for a second. Then you pointed toward the bedroom. “You are dangerous in this house.”
“I’m dangerous at home too,” Jack said.
“At home, you have work.”
His gaze held yours. “Not this week.”
That sentence should not have affected you the way it did. It dropped low in your stomach and stayed there. Not this week. No shift. No alarm. No phone. No pager. No stolen pieces. A whole week. Jack kissed your shoulder once and then, cruelly, released you. “Come on,” he said.
You frowned. “There is still more?”
“One more thing,” Jack said.
You followed him because, apparently, you had learned nothing. He led you back through the bedroom, down the stairs, and out through the sliding doors. The deck was warm beneath your sandals. The ocean wind moved through your hair. Jack kept your hand in his as he guided you down the steps, past the pool, past the chaise lounges, past the hot tub you were absolutely not thinking about. Then he stopped near the outdoor shower. It was tucked against the side of the house behind a slatted privacy wall, open to the sky but hidden from the neighbors. Smooth wood. Brushed metal fixtures. Hooks for towels. A little shelf for soap and shampoo. Practical, beautiful, and so clearly part of Jack’s mental vacation itinerary that you almost laughed.
You looked at it. Then at him. “Sand?” you asked.
Jack nodded. “Sand.”
“And salt?” you asked.
“Definitely salt,” he said.
You crossed your arms. “And?” His mouth curved. You lifted your eyebrows. “Jack.”
He stepped closer, not touching you yet. “Water warming up.” Your breath caught because his voice had gone low again. “Your swimsuit still wet,” Jack said. “You accusing me of planning it.”
“You did plan it,” you said.
“I did,” he replied. No hesitation. No shame. Just Jack, standing in the sun, telling you exactly what he wanted because you were his wife and he knew you liked knowing.
Your pulse moved everywhere. “And then?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s eyes warmed. Then he reached for you slowly, giving you every chance to step back. You did not. His hands found your waist. “Then,” he said, “I pictured kissing you before you could finish the accusation.”
“You think that would work?” you asked.
“I know it would,” Jack said.
“You are so full of yourself on vacation.”
“Only because I know my wife,” he said.
You opened your mouth to argue. Jack kissed you. It was not like the bedroom kiss. This one had heat under it immediately. Sunlight on your shoulders. Ocean air against your skin. His hands at your waist, steady and familiar. The outdoor shower beside you like a promise he had not cashed in yet. He kissed you once. Twice. A third time, slower, until your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and your body leaned toward his like it had already decided something your brain was still pretending to debate. When he pulled back, his mouth stayed close.
“See?” Jack murmured.
You took a breath. It did not help. “You’re being smug again,” you said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
“At least pretend to be sorry.”
“No,” Jack said.
You laughed, helpless and breathless, and tipped your forehead against his chest. Jack’s arms came around you, holding you there in the warm shade beside the house while the ocean moved beyond the dunes. For a moment, neither of you said anything. No phone rang. No one called his name. No one needed you. There was only the water, the wind, the house, his hands, your heartbeat, and the terrifying knowledge that Jack Abbot had planned an entire week with this much attention. Eventually, you lifted your head. “We should unpack,” you said.
Jack’s hands stayed on your waist. “We should.”
“Groceries,” you added.
“Eventually,” he said.
“Dinner.”
“Eventually,” Jack said again.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re going to keep doing this all week, aren’t you?”
“Showing you what I pictured?” he asked.
You nodded. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, gentle enough to make your breath catch all over again. “Only the parts you like,” Jack said. Your stomach flipped. “And only if you want me to,” he added.
There he was. Your Jack. Smug and impossible and gorgeous in the sun, but still your Jack. Still watching you closely. Still making sure. Still turning heat into something safe enough to melt into. You slid your hands up his chest. “Vacation Jack is a problem.”
His smile touched your mouth. “Vacation.”
“You are not allowed to say that anymore,” you said.
“I’m going to say it all week,” Jack replied.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Jack kissed you again, slower this time, and you knew with sudden, humiliating certainty that groceries were not happening any time soon. Neither was unpacking. Dinner was looking unlikely, too. But Jack’s hands were warm. The ocean was loud. The house was empty. And for once, there was nowhere else either of you had to be.
Groceries did not happen. Unpacking barely happened. Dinner, as you had predicted, did not stand a chance. You made it back upstairs with two suitcases, one tote bag, and a truly admirable amount of denial. Jack carried most of it, because of course he did, one bag over his shoulder and another in his hand as he followed you into the bedroom. The sun had started to lower by then, warm gold spilling across the white bedding and catching in soft strips over the floor. Beyond the glass doors, the ocean moved steadily, loud enough to make the whole room feel separate from the rest of the world. You set your tote on the bench at the foot of the bed and opened it with purpose. “We are unpacking,” you said.
Jack set the suitcases near the dresser. “We are.”
You pulled out a folded shirt and set it on the bed. “We are being responsible adults.”
Jack leaned back against the dresser and watched you. “We are.”
You unfolded the shirt, refolded it badly, and pointed at him without looking up. “You’re doing it again.”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I’m another amenity,” you said, finally turning to face him.
His mouth curved. You should have known better than to give him that. Jack pushed away from the dresser and crossed the room slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’re the reason I booked the amenities.”
Your fingers tightened in the shirt. “Jack.”
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your chin up. “What?”
“You can’t say things like that when I’m trying to unpack.”
His hands settled at your waist. “You’re not trying very hard.”
You looked down at the shirt in your hand, then back at him. “That is not the point.”
Jack’s thumbs moved once over your hips. “No?”
“No,” you said, but your voice had already softened.
His gaze dipped to your mouth. “What’s the point?”
You swallowed. “That you’re distracting me.”
“I know.”
“You’re admitting it?”
Jack leaned in, brushing his mouth along your jaw instead of kissing you properly. “I’m looking at my wife in the room I pictured her in.” Your breath caught. His lips moved to the place just beneath your ear. “I’m allowed to be distracted.” The shirt slipped from your hand onto the bed. Jack noticed. His smile touched your skin. “There you go.”
“You are so smug,” you whispered.
His hands slid a little more securely around your waist. “Devoted.”
You huffed a laugh, but it came out uneven because his mouth had moved to your neck. “That is not the same thing.”
“It is tonight,” Jack said.
He kissed you then, slow and warm, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other stayed low on your back. You leaned into him without meaning to, your hands finding his chest, fingers pressing into soft cotton and the solid warmth beneath it. For a moment, it was just kissing. Just his mouth on yours, unhurried and familiar. His thumb brushing your cheek. The sound of the ocean filling the quiet spaces between your breaths. Then you tried to pull him closer. Jack let you for half a second. Then his hand tightened gently at your waist, slowing you.
You pulled back enough to glare at him. “Seriously?”
His eyes were warm. “We’re not in a hurry.”
“You keep saying that like it’s not a threat.”
Jack’s thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “It isn’t.”
“Jack.”
His mouth brushed yours. “It’s a promise.” That did something to you. Something obvious, apparently, because Jack watched your face change and went still in that careful way he had. Not uncertain. Not distant. Just attentive. “Still good?” he asked.
You nodded. Jack did not move. You exhaled. “Yes.”
His mouth curved, softer this time. “Good.” Then he kissed you again. Slower. Deeper. Like he had all night. Like he had all week. Like the entire house had gone quiet just to give him time to learn you again. His hands moved with infuriating patience, tracing your waist, your ribs, the line of your back. He touched you like none of it was routine. Like every inch of you had been missed. Like he had spent too many mornings kissing you quickly before work and too many nights pulling you against him half-asleep and now he had finally been handed enough time to do it properly. You tried to make a sound that was not desperate. It failed.
Jack’s mouth paused against yours. “I know.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” you said.
His hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your skin. “I know that sound.” Your eyes fluttered. He kissed the corner of your mouth. “I know what it means.”
You should have had a comeback for that. You had nothing. Jack took the silence for what it was and began to undress you slowly. Not in a practiced, showy way. Not like he was trying to prove anything. He just took his time, easing fabric over your head, letting his mouth follow where his hands had been. Your shoulder. Your collarbone. The soft curve beneath it. The inside of your wrist, when he lifted your hand and kissed there too, like even that deserved attention. By the time your shirt hit the floor, your breathing had changed. Jack heard it. His eyes lifted to yours. “There she is.”
You swallowed. “Don’t start.”
His hand smoothed over your side. “I haven’t even started.”
That was the problem. He had not. He had barely done anything, really. He had kissed you and touched you and watched you like he had nothing else in the world to do, and already you felt too warm, too aware, too seen. “You’re staring,” you said.
Jack’s hand settled over your hip. “I get to.”
Your mouth parted. He leaned in and kissed the center of your chest, then lower, then paused with his forehead resting lightly against you. His hands stayed gentle, thumbs moving in slow arcs against your skin. “I get you for a whole week,” he said. Your fingers slid into his hair. “No pages,” Jack said, kissing lower. “No alarms.”
“Jack,” you whispered.
“No one knocking on the door,” he continued, his mouth moving over your stomach. “No one needing either of us.”
You tried to steady yourself with a breath. “You sound very pleased about that.”
Jack looked up at you. “I am.”
“Smug,” you said.
His mouth touched your skin again. “Devoted.”
The word went straight through you. Jack guided you back until your legs met the edge of the bed. You sat because he wanted you to, because your knees were not doing much useful work anyway, and he sank down in front of you like the motion cost him nothing. Like this was exactly where he had intended to end up from the moment he walked you into the room. The ocean shifted blue and gold beyond the windows. Jack’s hands moved over your thighs. You looked down at him. “You pictured this too?”
He kissed just above your knee. “Some of it.”
“Of course you did.”
His eyes found yours. “I pictured taking my time.” Your stomach dipped. He kissed higher, still slow, still patient, his hands steady on you. “I pictured you letting me.”
Your fingers tightened in the bedding. Jack stopped immediately. His thumb swept over your thigh. “Still good?”
You nodded too quickly. “Yes.”
His gaze held yours for one more second. Then his mouth curved. “Good.”
He kept going. And he worshipped you. There was no other word for it. Jack kissed every place he uncovered. Every place his hands moved. Every place that made your breath change. He learned you as if he did not already know you, as if being married to you had only made him more interested, not less. Like familiarity had turned into devotion in his hands. You tried to stay clever. You really did. But Jack noticed everything. The hitch in your breath. The way your fingers twisted in the sheets. The little sound you made when his mouth found the inside of your thigh. The way you tried to swallow his name and failed. “Jack,” you breathed.
His mouth moved against your skin. “I know.”
“Please.”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
Your head tipped back. “Don’t stop.”
Jack’s hands tightened gently, holding you where he wanted you. “I’m not stopping.”
He did not. He took his time with you. That was the worst part. He did not rush, did not let you rush him, did not give in when your hips shifted restlessly beneath his hands. He only held you there, mouth warm and patient, learning every sound you tried to swallow until your body stopped pretending it could be reasonable. At some point, your hand found his hair. Jack made a low sound, pleased and rough, and your whole body reacted to it. “There,” he murmured against you. “That’s it.”
You shook your head, already too far gone to know what you were arguing against. “Jack.”
“I know, baby.”
“More,” you whispered.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “More?”
You nodded, breath catching. “Please. More.”
His hand slid over your hip, firm enough to ground you. “There you are.”
He gave you more. Not rushed. Never rushed. His mouth and tongue worked you up slowly, paying attention to every shift of your body, every uneven breath, every broken little sound you could not keep in. The room blurred around the edges. The ocean got louder. Or maybe that was your pulse. You could not tell anymore. All you knew was Jack. His hands. His mouth. His voice. “Jack,” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Yes. Yes, please. Don’t stop.”
He stayed with you, steady and relentless in the gentlest way, his voice low against your skin. “I’m right here,” he murmured. “Let go.”
Your whole body tightened beneath his hands. “Jack,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m gonna—”
“I know,” he said, holding you through the first helpless tremor. “I’ve got you.”
You came with his name in your mouth. Jack stayed with you through it. He did not pull away. He did not hurry you along. He kept one hand firm at your hip and the other spread over your stomach, grounding you while pleasure moved through you in waves and left you shaking beneath him. For a while, he only let you breathe. His mouth pressed soft, unhurried kisses to your thigh, your hip, the sensitive skin beneath your navel. His hands gentled immediately, no longer asking anything from you, only keeping you close while your heartbeat slowly found its way back to normal. “There you go,” Jack murmured, his voice rougher than before. “Breathe for me.” You made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but failed completely. His mouth curved against your skin. “Good.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “You are very pleased with yourself.”
Jack kissed your hip. “I’m pleased with you.”
That was unfair. You dropped your head back against the bed. “That was worse.”
He smiled against your skin. You should have known he was not done. You realized it in the way his hand slid back over your thigh. In the way his mouth returned to your skin. In the way he watched you now, careful and intent, waiting for the exact moment your body softened again instead of simply trembled. “Jack,” you said, already suspicious.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “What?”
“You’re not done.”
His thumb moved slowly over your hip. “No.”
Your stomach flipped. “I just—”
“I know,” Jack said, softer. “I was here.”
You stared at him. He lowered his mouth to your thigh again, his eyes still on yours. “I’m still here.”
Your hand found his hair before you could stop yourself. Jack’s gaze darkened. Then he started again. Slower at first. Careful. His fingers joined his mouth, slow and careful at first, and your breath caught so sharply that he paused. His eyes lifted immediately. “Still good?”
You nodded, already overwhelmed. Jack stilled. “Words, baby,” he said.
Your hands found the sheets. “Yes.”
His mouth curved against you. “Good.”
Then he took you apart again. The second time came slower. Deeper. Meaner, somehow, because Jack knew exactly what he was doing now. He knew which sounds meant keep going. He knew when your thighs started to tense. He knew when your hand flew back to his hair and when your voice broke around his name. He noticed everything. He always did. “Jack,” you said, but it barely sounded like his name anymore. His answer was a low hum against your skin. “Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”
Jack’s hand pressed gently against your stomach, holding you there, keeping you present. “That’s it.”
Your breath broke. “Feels so good.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“Don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.”
You tried to say something else. Something clever. Something teasing. Something that sounded like you had not been reduced to nothing but want and his name. What came out instead was, “Jack.”
His grip tightened slightly. “I’ve got you.”
“More.” He gave you more. Your breath caught hard, then broke. “Jack,” you gasped, hand tightening in his hair. “I’m gonna come again.”
His answer was a low, rough sound against your skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me have it.”
You came apart again with his name in your mouth and his hands holding you steady, the ocean moving beyond the windows and sunlight going soft over the sheets. Jack stayed with you through that, too, slower now, careful as your body shook and then softened beneath him. When it was over, you felt boneless. Overheated. Completely ruined in a way that should have embarrassed you but did not, because Jack was already kissing his way back up your body like he had not finished loving any part of you. Your hands found his face before he could say anything smug enough to destroy you further. “Come here,” you whispered.
Jack paused above you, eyes searching yours. “Yeah?”
You nodded, drawing him down until his weight settled carefully over you. “I want you close.”
His expression changed. The smugness eased out of him, leaving only heat and tenderness and something so openly adoring that your chest ached with it. Jack kissed you once, softer than you expected. Then again. Then he settled between your thighs, careful with you, still watching. “Still good?” he asked.
You wrapped your arms around him. “Jack.”
His mouth brushed your cheek. “Words.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”
That was all he needed. He entered you slowly at first. Careful. Close. One hand braced beside your head, the other tangled with yours against the sheets. His forehead dipped to yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. There was only the sound of the ocean, your uneven breathing, and Jack’s mouth brushing yours every time you made a sound he wanted to keep. He set a deep, slow pace. “There you are,” he murmured.
You clung to him. “I love you.”
Jack’s rhythm faltered for half a breath. Then his forehead pressed more firmly to yours. “I love you too,” he said, voice rough. “So much.”
You pulled him closer, needing the weight of him, the warmth of him, the familiar shape of his body over yours. “Feels so good.”
Jack kissed you, and the kiss caught on your next breath. “Yeah?”
You nodded, already losing the thread again. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping,” he said.
He did not. He gave you what you asked for. Slow at first, then less so when your body answered him, when your legs tightened around his hips, when your hands slid over his back and your voice broke softly against his mouth. He stayed close through all of it, kissing you when you got too loud, then pulling back just enough to hear you when you tried to hide. At some point, your words dissolved again. Yes. More. Jack. Please. I love you.
He took each one like it meant something. Like every sound was a gift. Like every breathless, broken version of his name had gone straight through him. “You’re so beautiful,” he said against your mouth. Your eyes burned suddenly, overwhelmed by the room, by the ocean, by the way he was looking at you like this was not just sex. Like this was everything he had been trying to give you since he opened the front door.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.” His hand tightened around yours. “I’ve got you.”
You believed him. You always believed him. Your body tightened around him, pleasure building again so fast it stole the breath from your lungs. “Jack,” you gasped, clutching at his back. “I’m gonna come.”
His rhythm faltered, then deepened, his mouth pressing hard to your jaw. “I know, baby,” he said, voice rough. “Me too.”
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
“Not stopping.”
When you fell apart for the third time, Jack followed you over with his face tucked against your neck and your name pressed rough and quiet into your skin. He held you through it, shaking once, then going still and warm above you while the last of the sunlight faded across the bed. For a long moment, neither of you moved. You could feel his heartbeat against yours. You could hear the ocean. You could feel his mouth brushing your shoulder, once, twice, like he still had not found a place on you he did not want to kiss. Eventually, Jack shifted his weight carefully off you, but he did not go far. He stayed close, one arm still draped over your waist, his face turned into your neck. You stared at the ceiling and tried to remember your own name.
Jack pressed a kiss beneath your jaw. “You with me?”
You let out a weak sound. “Unfortunately.”
His laugh was quiet against your skin. “Unfortunately?”
You turned your head to look at him. “I had plans.”
Jack lifted his head, hair mussed, mouth soft, eyes far too pleased. “Unpacking?”
“Groceries,” you said.
His hand moved over your stomach. “Dinner.”
You pointed at him with as much authority as you could manage while naked and boneless beneath a sheet. “Do not act like you care about dinner.”
“I care deeply about dinner,” Jack said.
“You destroyed dinner.”
“I delayed dinner,” he corrected.
“You personally dismantled dinner as a concept.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “That seems dramatic.”
“I am weak,” you said. “I have earned drama.”
His expression softened immediately. “Water first.”
You groaned. “Do not say hydration.”
Jack sat up, entirely too beautiful in the fading light. “Hydration matters.”
“I hate vacation Jack.”
He leaned down and kissed your bare shoulder. “No, you don’t.”
You closed your eyes because he was right and because your body still felt like it had been poured into the mattress. “I’m too tired to argue.”
“Good,” Jack said.
You cracked one eye open. “Good?”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I like winning.”
“You are a menace.”
Jack kissed your forehead before he got out of bed. “Devoted.”
You watched him cross the room, reach for his shorts, and pull them on with the relaxed confidence of a man who had thoroughly ruined your life and intended to order takeout afterward. He grabbed a bottle of water from one of the bags, opened it, and came back to the bed. When he held it out, you took it only because he lifted his eyebrows at you. “You are very bossy for a man on vacation,” you said before drinking.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m taking care of my wife.”
You swallowed, then lowered the bottle to glare at him. “You keep saying that after ruining me.”
His hand came up, thumb brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Both can be true,” Jack said. You hated that your heart went soft. You hated more that he saw it happen. Jack smiled, warm and insufferable, and leaned in to kiss you again. This one was slow. Quiet. Almost sweet. When he pulled back, you reached for him without thinking, and he came easily, settling beside you on top of the sheets. You tucked yourself against him, cheek on his chest, your body still humming and loose. Jack’s hand moved up and down your back. Outside, the sky had gone dusky over the water. Inside, the room was warm and dim and wrecked in small, obvious ways. Your shirt on the floor. His shoes abandoned near the dresser. One suitcase open, untouched. The bedcovers twisted around your legs. Dinner still had not happened. Groceries definitely were not happening. You tilted your face against his chest. “We need food.”
Jack’s hand paused on your back. “I’ll order.”
“You planned that too?”
“I planned options,” he said.
You lifted your head to look at him. “Of course you did.”
His mouth curved. “Vacation.”
You dropped your face back to his chest with a groan. Jack laughed and kissed the top of your head. You felt the sound under your cheek. You felt the warmth of him around you. You felt, with sudden, dangerous clarity, that this was only the first night. And Jack still had a whole week.
You woke up to the ocean. Not an alarm. Not Jack’s phone buzzing on the nightstand. Not the quiet, practiced sound of him trying to get out of bed without waking you before your shift. The ocean. For a few seconds, you did not move. You stayed exactly where you were, cheek pressed into the pillow, body warm beneath the sheets, light spilling soft and gold through the curtains. The glass doors were cracked open just enough to let the sound in, waves rolling steady beyond the deck, the air carrying the faintest trace of salt. Then you became aware of three things at once. One, you were naked. Two, you were sore. Three, your husband was not in bed. That last one was suspicious. You opened one eye. Jack’s side of the bed was rumpled and empty, the sheet still twisted from where he had slept close to you most of the night. His shirt was still on the floor near the suitcase. Your suitcase was still open and mostly untouched. Your clothes from yesterday had been moved to the chair, which meant Jack had cleaned up just enough to be annoying about it. You lifted your head. The bedroom door was open. From somewhere downstairs came the low sound of cabinets, then the quiet clink of a mug against the counter. Of course. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. He had personally destroyed your ability to unpack, delayed dinner until takeout had been eaten in bed, made you drink an entire bottle of water while naked and boneless beneath the sheet, and now he was probably downstairs acting like a responsible adult because he had woken up first. You loved him. You hated him. You were going to marry him again. Slowly, carefully, you sat up. Your whole body protested. “Oh my god,” you whispered to the empty room.
From downstairs, Jack called, “You okay?”
You froze. Of course he heard you. Of course. You looked toward the open bedroom door. “Stop having doctor hearing.”
“I have husband hearing,” Jack called back.
You rubbed both hands over your face. “That is worse.”
“There’s coffee,” he said from somewhere near the kitchen.
You narrowed your eyes at the doorway. “Is that a peace offering?”
“No,” Jack called back. “It’s coffee.”
You tried not to smile. It took you a minute to find clothes. Not because you had unpacked, obviously, but because your husband had made an absolute ruin of any organized plan you had for this vacation. Eventually, you pulled on a soft pair of shorts and one of Jack’s T-shirts from the open suitcase, mostly because it was closest and partly because you knew exactly what it would do to him. You made your way downstairs slowly. Jack was in the kitchen. Barefoot. Hair still messy from sleep. Black sweatpants low on his hips. No shirt. Standing in front of the stove like he had not personally changed the chemical composition of your bones the night before. You stopped in the doorway. Jack looked over his shoulder, spatula in hand. “Morning.”
You stared at him. His eyes dipped once, taking in his shirt on your body, then returned to your face with a heat that did not belong anywhere near breakfast. You crossed your arms. “No.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “No?”
“You do not get to stand there like that.”
He looked down at himself. “Like what?”
“Shirtless,” you said.
Jack glanced back at the stove. “I’m making breakfast.”
“You are making threats,” you told him.
His mouth twitched. “Eggs.”
“Threatening eggs.”
Jack turned the burner lower, set the spatula down, and reached for the mug beside him. “Coffee?” You eyed him. He lifted a second mug from the counter. “Decaf for you if you want it. Regular if you want to live dangerously.”
You walked toward him, slow and careful. Jack noticed. His amusement softened immediately. “Sore?”
You stopped in front of him. “Do not sound proud.”
“I don’t,” Jack said.
“You do.”
His hand found your waist, gentle over the soft cotton of his shirt. “I sound concerned.”
“You sound like a man who caused a problem and then packed a first-aid kit.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hydration matters.”
You pointed at him. “You are not allowed to say that before nine in the morning.”
“It’s nine-thirty,” he said.
You glanced toward the clock on the stove. “That cannot be right.”
Jack handed you the mug. “You slept in.”
You took it slowly. For some reason, that was what got you. Not the house. Not the ocean. Not the ridiculous bedroom. Not even Jack standing shirtless in a sunlit kitchen making breakfast like some kind of vacation hallucination. You slept in. No alarm. No shift. No phone dragging you out of bed before your body was ready. No list already forming in your head before your eyes opened. Just sleep. Jack watched your face change. His thumb moved once at your waist. “Good?”
You looked down into the coffee. “Yeah.”
His voice softened. “Good.”
You took a sip, mostly so you would not have to respond right away. It was perfect. Of course it was. You lowered the mug and looked at him. “You’re very annoying.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “I know.”
“You made good coffee,” you added.
“I did.”
You smiled softly. “You let me sleep.”
“You needed it,” Jack replied.
“You made breakfast.”
Jack turned back toward the stove. “Still making it.”
“And you’re shirtless,” you added.
He slid eggs onto a plate. “That part was for me.”
You laughed. “For you?”
Jack carried the plate to the island and set it in front of you. “I like when you look at me.”
Your stomach flipped because, apparently it had no loyalty to you whatsoever. You picked up your fork. “I’m eating.”
“You should,” Jack said.
Your eyes narrowed, “You are not distracting me from breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied.
You gave him a look. “You absolutely would.”
Jack reached for a glass and filled it with water. “I’m being responsible.”
You took the water when he slid it toward you. “You are being obscene with responsible vocabulary.”
His smile deepened. “Eat.”
You pointed your fork at him. “Bossy.”
“Concerned,” Jack said.
“Smug.”
“Devoted,” he corrected.
You hated that it still worked. Jack knew it did. He leaned across the island and kissed your temple before you could call him out for it. Breakfast was eggs, toast, fruit he had somehow remembered to pick up the night before when you had been half-asleep and wrapped in a sheet, and coffee that tasted better because you were drinking it in his shirt with the ocean visible through the windows. Jack ate standing at first, which lasted about thirty seconds before you pointed at the stool beside you. “Sit,” you said.
He looked at you over his mug. “I’m fine.”
“I did not ask if you were fine.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No?”
You pointed again. “Sit down and eat like a normal vacation person.”
“A normal vacation person?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said. “The kind who does not hover shirtless in a kitchen after committing crimes against his wife.”
Jack sat, still smiling. “Crimes?”
You took another bite of toast. “Several.”
His knee brushed yours under the island. “You seemed enthusiastic.”
You nearly choked on your coffee. “Jack.”
He reached over and steadied your mug with one hand. “Careful.”
“You do not get to say things like that and then ‘careful’ me.”
“I can do both,” he said.
“You keep doing both.”
Jack’s hand settled on your thigh beneath the island, warm and familiar. “That’s marriage.”
You looked at him. “That is not the official definition.”
“It’s ours,” he said.
That softened you before you were ready for it. Jack saw that too, because he saw everything. His thumb moved once over your leg. You looked out through the windows instead of at him. The pool glimmered below the deck. The chaise lounges sat in neat rows in the morning sun. The hot tub was quiet beneath the shaded overhang. Beyond the dune grass, the ocean rolled on like it had nowhere else to be either.
By the second day, you stopped pretending the kitchen was only for cooking. It happened after breakfast, when you were rinsing plates at the sink, and Jack came up behind you with his hands warm on your hips. You had meant to be useful. You had meant to clean up, change, maybe go for a beach walk before the sun got too high. Jack had kissed the side of your neck instead. You had told him the dishes were not done. He had reached past you, turned off the water, and said, very calmly, “They can wait.”
Then he had turned you around, lifted you onto the island he had claimed was for coffee, and kissed you until you forgot there were dishes in the sink at all. It was not the bed. It was not slow in the same way the first night had been slow. It was Jack standing between your knees in the bright morning kitchen, your hands in his hair, his mouth on yours, the whole house quiet around you while the ocean moved beyond the windows. It was your shorts on the floor. His hands under his shirt on your body. Your back against cool stone and Jack’s voice at your ear, low and wrecked, telling you he had pictured this too. Afterward, while you sat on the counter with his forehead against your shoulder and your breath still coming too fast, Jack reached blindly for the dish towel. You lifted your head. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning the counter,” he said, voice rough.
You stared at him. “Jack.”
He lifted his head, eyes warm and shameless. “Responsible.”
“You just had sex with me on the kitchen island.”
“And now I’m cleaning it.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack smiled. “Vacation.”
By the third night, you stopped letting Jack say hot tub without narrowing your eyes. The hot tub incident happened after dinner, when the sky had gone dark, and the deck lights glowed warm against the water. Jack had said it would be relaxing. You had believed him because, apparently, marriage did not make you smarter. It had started relaxing. Warm water. His arm around your waist. Your back against his chest. The ocean loud beyond the deck. His mouth at your shoulder while his hands moved under the water, slow and unhurried, until relaxing stopped being the correct word for any of it. You had turned in his lap to kiss him. That had been your mistake. Or his. Probably both. The kiss deepened. The water moved around you. Jack’s hands settled on your hips, guiding you closer until there was no space left between you. By the time you realized neither of you had any intention of stopping, your arms were around his neck and his mouth was at your throat, both of you tucked beneath the covered deck with only the ocean loud enough to swallow the sounds you were trying not to make.
“No one’s close enough to hear you,” Jack had murmured against your skin.
You had clutched at his shoulders. “Jack.”
His hand had tightened at your waist. “That was also a selling point.”
Afterward, wrapped in a towel and glaring at him across the deck, you said, “I almost drowned.”
Jack handed you a glass of water. “You did not almost drown.”
“Emotionally, I did.”
His mouth curved. “That’s not drowning.”
“It felt medically significant.”
“Good thing I’m a doctor,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are not my doctor on vacation.”
Jack leaned in, water still in his hand, and kissed the corner of your mouth. “Vacation.”
You took the glass from him because he was right about hydration and because your legs felt unreliable enough that pride was no longer useful.
The chaise lounge was worse. That had started with sunscreen, which Jack insisted on with the solemn focus of a man completing a surgical checklist. He had made you lie on your stomach by the pool with your book open beside you and the sun warm across your back. “Responsible,” Jack said, warming sunscreen between his palms.
You rested your cheek against your folded arms. “You are using that word loosely.”
His hands settled on your shoulders. “I’m protecting your skin.”
“You are enjoying yourself.”
“I can do both,” he said. He could. That was the problem. His hands moved with slow, thorough care, working sunscreen over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. He was careful around the edges of your swimsuit, careful in a way that turned less careful the longer you stayed quiet beneath him. When his mouth eventually touched the back of your knee, you lifted your head.
“Jack,” you said.
His hand slid over your calf. “Missed a spot.”
“That is not where people put sunscreen.”
His mouth moved higher. “I’m being thorough.”
The book slid off the lounge and hit the deck. You did not pick it up. Jack kissed his way up the back of your thigh, turned you over with careful hands, and settled between your legs like the chaise lounge had been built for exactly this. He kept one hand spread over your stomach, holding you steady, while his mouth moved lower and the sun warmed every inch of skin he had just covered with sunscreen. You gripped the cushion. You said his name. Then you said it again, louder, because the privacy fence was apparently as private as the listing promised, and Jack loved proving a point.
Later, when you were lying boneless in the shade, and Jack was stretched out beside you looking entirely too pleased with himself, you turned your head and glared at him. “You said sunscreen first.”
“I applied sunscreen first,” Jack said.
“That does not make what happened afterward responsible.”
His sunglasses were low on his nose when he looked at you. “I disagree.”
“You would.”
He reached over and brushed his thumb along your wrist. “You liked it.”
You closed your eyes. “I loved it. That is not the point.”
“It feels like part of the point,” Jack said.
You hated how often he was right.
The indoor shower became a problem, too. That one was not fair, because it really was practical. The bench mattered. The space mattered. The ease of it mattered. You saw the difference in him the first time he used it, the way his shoulders loosened when he did not have to brace himself or calculate each movement against slick tile. So you did not make jokes at first. You sat on the bench because he asked you to, warm water running over both of you, steam softening the edges of the glass. Jack settled behind you, careful and steady, and washed the salt out of your hair with his fingers. For a while, it was sweet. It stayed sweet, even when his mouth found your shoulder. Even when his hands moved lower. Even when you reached back for him and heard his breath catch against your wet skin. Then you turned in his lap, water running over both of you, and kissed him until his hands tightened on your waist. The bench made everything easier. Safer. Close in a way that did not ask either of you to balance or brace or think past the next breath. Jack let you set the pace at first. Then he stopped being patient. By the time the water started cooling, your forehead was against his, your arms around his shoulders, his hands firm at your hips while he moved beneath you, and the shower glass had fogged so completely that the rest of the bathroom disappeared.
Afterward, wrapped in one of the absurdly soft white towels, you leaned against the vanity and watched Jack adjust his prosthetic with damp hair falling over his forehead. “That shower is a safety feature,” he said.
You pointed at him. “You are not allowed to weaponize accessibility.”
Jack looked up at you, mouth curving. “I was taking care of my wife.”
“You were doing several things to your wife.”
“Efficient,” he said.
You laughed so hard you had to sit down on the edge of the tub. Jack crossed the bathroom, still smiling, and kissed your wet forehead. “Worth the rental?” he asked.
You looked around the ridiculous bathroom, then back at him. “For the house.”
His laugh warmed the whole room.
By the fourth afternoon, you had stopped pretending Jack was the only problem. He was standing near the pool house, hair damp from the water, towel low on his hips, saying something completely innocent about grabbing another drink. You had taken one look at him and decided you were done being reasonable. “Come here,” you said.
Jack looked over, amused. “Need something?”
You hooked two fingers in the waistband of his swim trunks and pulled him toward the shade of the pool house. His amusement disappeared. “Oh,” Jack said, voice lower.
You smiled up at him. “Vacation.”
That time, Jack was the one who forgot how to argue. The pool house was cooler than the deck, shaded and private, the shelves stacked with towels behind him. You backed him against the closed door, kissed him once, and watched the last of his smugness disappear when you sank slowly in front of him. Jack’s hand found the wall. His head tipped back. For once, he was the one saying your name like it was the only word he had left.
The days started to blur after that. Not because nothing happened. Because everything did. Morning coffee on the deck with your feet in Jack’s lap. Beach walks with damp sand under your heels and his hand wrapped around yours. Long afternoons where you read three pages of your book and remembered none of them because Jack was stretched out beside the pool, sun-warmed and unfairly handsome, occasionally looking over at you like he was still picturing things. There were naps with the glass doors open. There were showers that took too long. There were groceries eventually, though Jack had kissed you against the rental car in the parking lot until you forgot half the list. There were dinners eaten outside while the sky turned pink and orange over the water. There were nights where Jack ordered food because neither of you felt like moving, and mornings where he made breakfast because he woke before you and apparently considered feeding you part of his vacation itinerary. There was water. So much water. Jack handed it to you constantly. At the pool. After the beach. After the hot tub. After sex. Before coffee. Beside the bed. On the deck. Once, insultingly, while you were brushing your teeth.
“You are obsessed,” you told him around your toothbrush.
Jack leaned against the bathroom doorway with a bottle in his hand. “You’re dehydrated.”
You spat into the sink and glared at him through the mirror. “Vacation Jack is a menace.”
His eyes met yours in the reflection. “Vacation Jack is keeping you alive.”
“Vacation Jack is the reason I need medical intervention.”
Jack held out the water. “Drink.”
You took it. Obviously.
By the fifth evening, you caught him in the kitchen again. He had one hand braced lightly on the counter while he looked into the fridge, his weight shifted in that subtle way you knew better than to comment on too directly. The day had been long in the sun. A good long. A beach-walk, pool-swim, shower-too-long kind of long. Jack was still moving like he intended to make dinner. Absolutely not. You crossed the kitchen and took the cutting board from his hand.
Jack looked down at it, then at you. “I was using that.”
“I know,” you said.
His brows lifted. “Do I get it back?”
“No.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Am I in trouble?”
“Sit down,” you said.
His expression changed, amusement softening into something more careful. “Baby, I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“I can cook,” Jack said.
“I know,” you repeated.
“Then why am I being banished?”
You set the cutting board on the counter behind you, rose onto your toes, and kissed him once. Slow enough to quiet him. Soft enough to mean it. When you pulled back, your hand stayed against his chest. “Because I want to take care of my husband.”
Jack went still. Not dramatically. Just enough that you felt the breath he did not quite take. Your thumb moved over his shirt. “You have taken very good care of me all week.”
His eyes softened. “Have I?”
You gave him a look. “Do not fish for compliments when you know exactly what you’ve done.”
Jack’s mouth curved again, but the tenderness stayed. “I know some of what I’ve done.”
“You know all of what you’ve done.”
“Most,” he said.
You pointed toward the patio doors. “Chair. Ocean view. Go.”
He glanced toward the patio. “You’re very bossy on vacation.”
You turned back to him. “You pictured that, remember?”
Jack looked back at you. For a second, his smile went quieter. “I did,” he said.
You pointed toward the patio again. “So go enjoy the accuracy of your imagination.”
He caught your hand before you could turn away and kissed your knuckles. “Thank you.”
You softened immediately. “For dinner?”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your wedding ring. “For knowing when to tell me to sit down.”
You hated how quickly your throat tightened. To cover it, you squeezed his hand and lifted your chin. “I’m very wise.”
“And bossy,” he said.
“You love that.”
Jack kissed your knuckles again. “I do.”
He went outside, finally, settling into one of the patio chairs with a view of the water. You watched him through the glass for a moment before you started dinner. He leaned back slowly, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, face turned toward the ocean. The evening light moved over him, softening the lines of his shoulders and catching in his hair. For once, he looked like he was letting himself be still. Not useful. Not on call. Not anticipating the next thing. Just Jack. Your Jack. The man who had built an entire week around giving you rest and laughter and ocean views and his full attention. The man who still needed to be reminded, sometimes, that he was allowed to receive those things too. So you made dinner. Nothing fancy. Pasta, a salad from whatever you had managed to buy at the store, bread warmed in the oven because Jack had insisted vacation bread was different from regular bread, and you had not had the energy to challenge him. You carried the plates outside as the sun lowered toward the water. Jack looked up when the patio door slid open. “That smells good.”
“You sound surprised,” you said, setting his plate in front of him.
“I sound grateful,” Jack said. His hand wrapped around your wrist before you could walk away. “Come here.”
You looked down at him. “I have to get my plate.”
“In a minute,” Jack said. You let him tug you closer. He looked up at you, warm and soft in the evening light. “Thank you.”
Your chest ached. “You already said that.”
Jack’s thumb brushed your wrist. “I’m saying it again.”
“For pasta?” you asked.
“For this,” Jack said. His thumb brushed your wrist. You knew what he meant. The chair. The ocean. The pause. The way you had noticed without making him explain. The way you had taken the knife from his hand and told him to rest like it was not up for debate. You leaned down and kissed him. Jack’s hand slid to your waist, gentle and familiar. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours.
“You’re welcome,” you said softly.
His mouth curved. “Very wise.”
“And bossy,” you added.
“And bossy,” Jack agreed.
You touched his cheek once before stepping back. “Eat your dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
You paused at the door and looked back. “Careful.”
Jack’s smile widened. “With what?”
“That tone.”
He leaned back in the chair, relaxed and too handsome for his own good. “Vacation.”
You pointed at him. “I am feeding you out of love.”
“I know,” he said.
You glared at him. “I can take it away.”
“You won’t,” Jack replied with a smirk.
You narrowed your eyes further. “You’re too confident.”
Jack picked up his fork, still smiling. “You love me.”
That was the problem. You did. So you got your own plate, came back outside, and sat beside him while the sky softened into pink and gold and the ocean kept moving below you. For a while, you ate in comfortable quiet. Jack’s foot brushed yours under the table.
You looked over at him. “Don’t start.”
He lifted his glass, eyes innocent. “I’m eating dinner.”
You watched his face. “You’re thinking.”
“I do that,” Jack said.
You sighed. “You’re thinking loudly.”
His mouth twitched. “I’m thinking this is nice.” That shut you up. He looked out toward the water. “You. Me. No plans.”
“We have plans,” you said after a second.
Jack turned back to you. “Do we?”
“Yes,” you said, gesturing with your fork. “Finish dinner. Clean up. Sit out here. Maybe actually watch the sunset like normal people.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Ambitious.”
“No detours,” you added.
His eyes warmed. “You sure?”
You pointed your fork at him. “I am taking care of you tonight.”
Something tender moved over his face. He set his glass down. “Okay.”
The ease of his answer made your heart hurt. “Okay?” you asked.
Jack reached across the small table and held out his hand. You slid yours into it. His thumb moved over your ring again. “Okay.”
So you watched the sunset. Actually watched it. The sky turned orange, then rose, then dusky purple at the edges. The ocean caught every color and broke it apart over the waves. Jack’s hand stayed around yours on the tabletop, warm and steady. Your plates emptied slowly. The air cooled enough that he went inside halfway through and came back with a sweatshirt for you without being asked. You took it from him, trying not to smile. “You are physically incapable of not taking care of me.”
Jack sat down again. “You looked cold.”
“I was cold,” you agreed.
Jack nodded once. “Then I was right.”
“You are very pleased when you’re right,” you said.
“I’m right a lot,” Jack replied.
You pulled the sweatshirt over your head. “That is deeply annoying.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in his sweatshirt, and the look on his face made your stomach warm all over again. Then he seemed to catch himself. He picked up his water instead. You noticed. Your heart went soft. “Good choice,” you said.
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours over the rim of the glass. “I can behave.”
You laughed. “Since when?”
Jack lowered the glass. “Since you said you were taking care of me.”
That landed quietly between you. You reached across the table and touched his wrist. Jack turned his hand beneath yours, palm up. You threaded your fingers together. “Good,” you said.
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “Good?”
You looked at him, the man you loved, relaxed and sun-warmed and softened by the week, sitting still because you had asked him to. “Yeah,” you said. “Good.”
Jack brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. For once, he did not make a joke. For once, you did not either. The sun disappeared behind the water. The deck lights clicked on around you. And for one whole evening, vacation meant dinner, quiet, ocean air, and Jack letting himself be loved back.
The beach did it. That was what you decided later. Not Jack. Not the house. Not the fact that he had been walking around all week looking sun-warmed and relaxed and married in a way that felt personally designed to weaken you. The beach. The beach was responsible. You had spent the afternoon in the water, letting the waves push against your legs while Jack stood close enough behind you to steady you every time the current pulled a little too hard. You had laughed when he caught your waist. He had laughed when you accused him of using the ocean as an excuse to put his hands on you. Then the sun had started to lower. The water had gone gold. Jack had kissed you in the surf with one hand at your back and the other at your jaw, salt on his mouth and ocean around your knees, and something about it had tipped the whole day sideways.
By the time you made it back up the private beach path, you were sandy, damp, warm, and too aware of him. Jack walked behind you, carrying the beach bag over one shoulder, his hair wet from the ocean, his chest bare, his swim trunks hanging low on his hips. His sunglasses were pushed into his hair. His skin was sun-warmed and salt-damp and unfairly golden in the late afternoon light. At the top of the path, you stopped beside the deck stairs and shook sand from one foot.
Jack came up behind you. “You good?”
You looked over your shoulder. “I have sand everywhere.”
His mouth curved. “That happens at the beach.”
“You know exactly what comes after beach,” you said.
Jack’s gaze flicked, very briefly, toward the side of the house. The outdoor shower. You pointed at him. “There.”
His face stayed innocent. “You need to rinse off.”
“You have been waiting all week to say that.”
Jack moved past you toward the side of the house. “Come on.”
You did not follow immediately. He stopped after three steps and looked back. The sun was behind him, low enough to catch along the edges of his shoulders and turn the wet ends of his hair gold. Beyond him, the outdoor shower waited behind the slatted privacy wall, practical and beautiful and ridiculous. Jack lifted his brows. “You coming?”
You stared at him. That was the problem. You had been, repeatedly, all week, and he knew it. His mouth twitched like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. You walked toward him mostly to prove you still had dignity. You did not. Jack set the beach bag on the low teak bench tucked beneath the towel hooks. He pulled out two towels and hung them neatly out of the spray. The normalcy of it made everything worse. He was just preparing. Just moving around the small space with the same quiet competence he brought to everything. Towels. Soap. Shampoo. His wedding ring flashing in the sun. Your swimsuit still damp against your skin. The privacy wall blocking the rest of the deck from view. The ocean loud beyond the dunes.
“You are very organized for a man about to be inappropriate,” you said.
Jack turned the shower knob. Water sputtered once, then streamed down against the wood slats and stone floor. He held one hand beneath it, testing the temperature. “I’m being responsible.”
“You keep saying that.”
He shrugged. “It keeps being true.”
You stepped into the shower space, arms crossed over your chest. “This is for sand.”
Jack looked at you over his shoulder. “And salt.”
“And?” you asked.
His hand stayed under the water. His eyes moved over you slowly. Not like the bedroom. Not patient. Not careful in the same soft, devotional way. This was sharper. Hungrier. Like the whole week had been building toward this exact moment and he was tired of pretending it had not.
“And this,” Jack said.
Then he reached for you. You had time to take one breath before his hands were on your waist and his mouth was on yours. The kiss was immediate. No slow beginning. No teasing pass. No careful little preview. Jack kissed you like he had spent the entire walk up from the beach thinking about it. Like the salt on your skin and the wet curve of your swimsuit and the warmth of the sun had all stacked up against him until even vacation Jack’s patience had limits. Your back hit the privacy wall with a soft thud. Jack’s hand came up behind your head before you could feel the wood, cushioning you automatically even while his mouth stayed urgent on yours.
That made it worse. The desperation. The care. The fact that even when he was losing control, he was still Jack. You grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him closer. He made a low sound into your mouth. The water ran beside you, splashing warm against the stone. Steam rose faintly where it hit sun-heated wood. Jack’s hand slid from your waist to your hip, then back again, like he could not decide where he wanted to touch you first and hated that he had to choose.
You broke the kiss only because you needed air. Jack did not go far. His mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, salt and heat and pressure all at once. “You planned this,” you said, breathless.
His mouth dragged over the side of your throat. “I told you I did.”
You exhaled, “You admitted it too easily.”
Jack’s mouth moved lower.
Your stomach flipped. Jack’s hand found the tie of your swimsuit. He paused. His forehead pressed briefly to your temple. “Yes?”
You swallowed hard. “Yes.”
His fingers moved. The wet fabric loosened. Jack kissed the spot beneath your ear. “Tell me if you want me to slow down.”
You almost laughed. It came out as a shaky breath instead. “You’ve been slow all week.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “Not right now.”
“No,” you whispered. “Not right now.”
That was all he needed. He pulled you under the water with him. Warmth poured over your shoulders, down your back, over skin already hot from the sun and his hands. You gasped into his mouth when he kissed you again, and Jack caught the sound like he had been waiting for it. Your hands found his chest immediately. Saltwater. Warm skin. The steady beat of him under your palms. Jack looked down at you, breathing harder now, eyes darker than they had been all day.
“You,” he said.
It was not a sentence. It did not need to be. It was new enough to steal your breath. Jack, who always had a line. Jack, who could ruin you with three calm words and a raised eyebrow. Jack, who had spent the whole week walking you through exactly what he pictured. This Jack was looking at you like language had become inconvenient.
You pushed wet hair off his forehead. “Vacation Jack finally speechless?”
His hands tightened on your hips. “Not speechless.”
“No?”
His mouth came down hard against yours. “Busy.”
You laughed into the kiss, and then you stopped laughing because his hands moved with purpose. The water kept running. His mouth kept finding yours. Your swimsuit disappeared, guided away with hands that were both impatient and careful. Jack kissed each new place the water touched, but not with the unhurried reverence of the bedroom. This was needier. Messier. His mouth at your shoulder. Your collarbone. The top of your chest. His hands at your waist, your back, your hips, like he could not stand the thought of any part of you being out of reach.
“Jack,” you breathed. He hummed against your skin. You tipped your head back against the wall. “Oh my god.”
His mouth moved lower. Your hand flew to his hair. Jack looked up immediately. “Still good?” he asked, voice rough.
You nodded. His eyes held yours. You remembered what he needed. “Yes,” you said again. “Please.”
The heat in his face shifted. Not smug now. Not playful. Focused. Jack’s gaze dropped to the low teak bench beneath the towel hooks. Your breath caught before he said anything. His hand slid to your hip. “Sit.”
You looked from him to the bench. “Here?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Here.”
The wood was warm from the sun when you sank onto it, water spilling over your shoulders and down your chest. Jack stepped between your knees, one hand braced against the slatted wall beside your head, the other sliding over your thigh.
For a second, he only looked at you. Wet. Bare. Breathless. His wife, exactly where he had pictured you. Then his mouth found your skin. Jack stayed standing between your thighs, bending to kiss the water from your stomach, your hip, the sensitive skin just beneath it. His hand hooked behind your knee, drawing you closer to the edge of the bench, and your fingers flew to his hair when his mouth and tongue moved lower. The sound you made was immediate and helpless and much too loud.
Jack’s grip flexed on your thigh. You looked down at him, water running over his shoulders, his eyes closed like he was the one being ruined by it. “Jack,” you gasped.
His answer was a low sound against your skin. You pressed one hand to the bench and the other into his wet hair, trying to breathe, trying to hold still, trying to survive him when he clearly had no interest in making that easy. This was not like the bedroom. The bedroom had been slow enough to make you ache with it. This was Jack taking what he had been imagining since the listing photos. This was salt on your skin and water over both of you and his patience finally fraying at the edges. He still noticed everything, but now he reacted faster. Greedier. The second your breath caught, he chased it. The second your hips shifted, he held you closer. The second his name broke in your mouth, he answered like he had been waiting for it.
“Jack,” you said again. “Yes. Yes, right there.”
His hand tightened at your thigh. You made a sound that did not even try to be quiet. The ocean was loud. The shower was louder. Jack loved that. You could tell by the way he looked up at you, eyes dark and wrecked, mouth still against you like he had no intention of stopping.
“You’re louder out here,” he murmured.
You tried to glare at him. It did not work. “You said no one could hear.”
His mouth curved. “I said no one was close enough.”
“Jack.”
“I like hearing you,” he said.
Then he lowered his mouth again before you could answer. Your thoughts scattered. Both hands went to his hair now, fingers slipping through wet strands, holding on because there was nowhere else for all of it to go. Jack kept you seated at the edge of the bench, one hand steady at your hip, the other sliding up your thigh with a kind of impatience that made your entire body go tight.
“Don’t stop,” you gasped. He did not. “Please.” He did not. “Jack, I’m—”
He groaned like he knew. Like he wanted it. Like the sound of you coming apart against his mouth was exactly what he had pictured when he stood in front of this shower for the first time and told you sand, salt, and. Your whole body tightened. “Jack,” you cried, hand fisting in his hair. “I’m gonna come.”
He held you harder. “Good,” he said, rough and low. “Let me have it.”
You came with the water running over you and his name breaking out of you, your thighs shaking around him, one hand in his hair and the other gripping the bench like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Jack stayed with you through it. He did not rush you. He did not pull away until your body softened beneath his hands and your breathing started to find a rhythm again. Then he straightened, one arm sliding around your waist before your balance could even think about failing. His mouth found yours, and you tasted salt and heat and him. You clung to him.
Jack kissed you like he was not done. You knew he was not done. You were not either. Your hands moved to his trunks. He made a sound against your mouth. You paused, breathless, fingers hooked at his waistband. “Yes?”
Jack’s eyes flashed to yours. For all his earlier desperation, he went still for that. Then he nodded once. “Yes.” Your fingers moved. His forehead dropped briefly to yours. “Baby,” he said, voice strained.
You kissed him. That seemed to be the end of his patience. Jack’s hands were on you again, guiding, lifting, turning just enough to get you both where he wanted without either of you slipping. Your back met the wall again, warm water streaming over your shoulders while the late sun burned gold through the slats. He checked you once more. Even then.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “Still with me?”
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Yes.”
His hand slid beneath your thigh, urging it higher against his hip. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”
Jack’s breath broke. Then he was there. Close. Everywhere.
Your head tipped back against the wall, and Jack’s mouth found your throat at the exact moment your body took him in. The sound you made was not quiet. Jack’s hand slammed against the wall beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed.
The word went straight through you. You clutched at him. “Jack.”
“I know.” His voice was rough now, almost unrecognizable. “I know.”
He moved carefully at first. Carefully because the floor was wet. Carefully because it was still Jack. But there was nothing patient about it. Not really. Not in the way his mouth kept dragging over your skin. Not in the way his hand gripped your thigh. Not in the way his breath kept catching against your neck every time you said his name. The shower poured over both of you. The ocean roared beyond the wall. His body was solid and hot against yours, pinning you there, holding you up, taking the weight you could not manage anymore.
You loved him. You loved him so much you could barely stand it. “I love you,” you gasped.
Jack’s rhythm faltered. His forehead pressed to your temple. “Say it again.”
You tightened your arms around him. “I love you.”
His mouth found yours, hard and desperate. “Again.”
“Jack.”
“Again,” he said, voice breaking around the word.
Your chest split open. “I love you,” you said into his mouth. “I love you, I love you.”
He groaned, rough and helpless, and buried his face in your neck. His hand shifted at your thigh, holding you closer, changing the angle just enough that your whole body jerked against him.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
Jack’s mouth moved against your throat. “There?”
“Yes.” Your nails pressed into his shoulders. “Yes. More.”
He gave you more. The wall was solid behind you. Jack was solid in front of you. The water kept running over your skin, over his shoulders, between you, making everything slippery and hot and impossible to hold onto except him. You said his name again. Then yes. Then more. Then don’t stop.
Jack took every word like it hit him somewhere deep. He was not quiet either now. Not completely. His breath was rough at your ear. Your name slipped out of him once, then again, low and wrecked, like he was trying to keep himself together and failing because you were wrapped around him, wet and shaking and saying you loved him.
“Feels so good,” you whispered.
His hand tightened at your thigh. “Yeah?”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “So good.”
Jack kissed you hard enough to steal the rest of it. You felt yourself getting close again, too fast and not fast enough, pleasure building sharp and hot beneath your skin. Your fingers slipped on his wet shoulders. Your leg tightened around his hip. Your breath caught once, twice, and Jack knew. “I’ve got you,” he said.
You shook your head. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you,” he repeated, rougher this time.
“I’m gonna—”
“I know.” His mouth brushed yours. “Come for me.”
You did. You came hard, clinging to him, his name breaking out of you as the water ran over both of you and the ocean swallowed the sound. Jack followed almost immediately, one hand braced against the wall, the other holding you so close there was nowhere for either of you to go. For a moment, everything narrowed to heat and water and his mouth at your shoulder. Then slowly, Jack stilled. His breathing was ragged against your neck. Yours was not much better. You were both wet, shaking, and pressed against the wall of an outdoor shower in broad late-afternoon light like two people who had completely forgotten how vacations were supposed to work. Jack’s hand slid from the wall to the back of your head, cushioning you more gently now.
“Okay?” he asked. You tried to answer. Nothing came out. Jack lifted his head immediately. “Baby?”
You nodded quickly, then found your voice. “Yes.”
His face softened with relief, though his breathing was still uneven. “Yeah?”
You let your head fall back against the wall. “I think I saw god.”
Jack stared at you for half a second. Then he laughed, breathless and startled, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. You smiled up at the open sky. The shower kept running. His arms stayed around you. After a moment, Jack kissed your shoulder. “Can you stand?”
You frowned. “That is an offensive question.”
“It’s a practical question,” Jack replied.
You sighed. “It is offensively practical.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I need to know if I should keep holding you.”
You tightened your arms around his neck. “You should keep holding me.”
Jack’s hand moved over your back. “Okay.”
For a while, he just held you under the water. No more urgency. No more desperate hands or frantic kisses. Just warm water, his body around yours, his breath slowly evening out against your temple. Eventually, Jack reached for the soap. You cracked one eye open. “Are you actually rinsing off now?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That was the original plan.”
You returned his smile. “You told me this was for sand.”
“It was,” he said.
“And salt,” you added.
He nodded. “Also true.”
“And?” you murmured.
He started washing your shoulder, gentle now, careful around skin he had just kissed like he was trying to memorize it. His eyes met yours. “And this,” he said.
Your heart flipped over itself. You let him wash the salt from your skin. Let him turn you carefully beneath the water. Let him smooth soap over your shoulders, your arms, your back. Let him be soft again because that was Jack too. Desperate one minute, devastatingly gentle the next. When he reached your hip, his thumb moved once, almost absent.
You looked up at him. “Do not start again.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours, innocent in a way that fooled exactly no one. “I’m rinsing you off.”
“You are thinking,” you replied.
Jack smirked. “I do that.”
You sighed. “You’re thinking loudly.”
His mouth curved. “I’m thinking we need dinner.”
You stared at him. “That is not what you were thinking.”
“No,” Jack admitted. “But we do need dinner.”
You laughed, tired and happy, and leaned forward until your forehead rested against his chest. Jack kissed your wet hair. “You okay?” he asked again, quieter.
You nodded against him. “Yeah.”
His hand moved over your back. “Good.”
You tipped your face up. “You?”
His eyes softened. “Yeah.”
“You sure?” you asked.
Jack’s smile turned smaller, warmer. “Very.”
You reached up and pushed wet hair off his forehead. For a second, he let you. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack, standing with you beneath the outdoor shower, sun going soft around the privacy wall, water running over both of you while the ocean moved beyond the dunes.
Jack kissed you once more, slow and satisfied and warm under the water. This time, neither of you rushed. This time, the shower was actually for rinsing off. Mostly.
On the last morning, you woke to Jack still in bed. No coffee brewing downstairs. No suitcase zipped by the door. No quiet, careful attempt to start the day before you were ready. Just Jack behind you, warm and bare under the sheets, his hand spread over your stomach while the ocean moved beyond the cracked-open doors.
“You’re awake,” you murmured, your voice still rough with sleep.
Jack kissed your shoulder. “So are you.”
You shifted slightly against him. “You’re usually doing something by now.”
His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I am doing something.”
You smiled into the pillow. “Holding me hostage?”
“Memorizing,” Jack said.
Your chest went soft. You turned in his arms enough to look at him. “Was it what you pictured?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and tired and entirely too pleased with himself. “No.”
Your brows lifted. “No?”
His mouth curved. “Better.”
You groaned and tucked your face into his chest. “I need a vacation from vacation Jack.”
Jack’s hand slid over your back. “We can book another one.”
“Absolutely not,” you said against his skin.
“Different house,” he offered.
You lifted your head. “No.”
“Better shower,” Jack said.
“Jack.”
His smile widened. “Vacation.”
You laughed despite yourself, and Jack’s arms tightened around you. “You are not allowed to say vacation anymore,” you said.
His mouth brushed your temple. “Vacation.”
You pinched his side lightly. “I hate you.”
Jack laughed softly. “No, you don’t.”
No, you didn’t. Outside, the ocean kept moving. Inside, the suitcases stayed empty for a few more minutes, and Jack’s hand stayed warm at your waist.
Plot: The Pitt needs Jack but he's asleep. Accidental cuddling when you go wake him up. No established relationship. This is the Oh moment. 1.6 K of fluff.
A/N: I decided it was only fair do a Jack Abbot version of the sleepy on-call room trope I did for Robby in A Match Being Struck. John Shen whump if you squint.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
You didn’t see Shen and Parker playing Rock Paper Scissors down the hall as they each hoped to avoid being the one to wake Abbot. You missed Parker’s arms go up in victory, followed by her peace sign as she walked off with a smug smile. All you saw was Shen leaning over the counter, drink in hand, as he said,
“Can you go grab Abbot for me? He’s asleep and I can’t have a repeat of last time.” He shuddered at the mention of it.
“Just put your drink down before you wake him,” you said. He curled the cup closer to his chest at the mere suggestion he separate from it.
“I can’t risk it. That was a dark day.” He was looking past you, lost in thought reliving the last time he’d woken the sleeping attending. Abbot, the former soldier who understandably had seen some scary things that often led to PTSD. Abbot, the part-time SWAT medic, who might not react well to being startled awake by a coworker and might knock said coworker’s favourite Dunkin’ drink from his hand. Shen had been devastated, low on caffeine, and the least chill you’d ever seen him. It would have been funny if the rest of his shift hadn’t been so rough because of the spill. “Please, dude,” he begged. You sighed and agreed to get Jack.
The room wasn’t as dark or as quiet as it should be for sleep but soldiers and nightshift workers could sleep anywhere and anytime. Jack was laying on his stomach on a couch in the staff lounge. His prothetic leg was within reach, leaning against the arm of the couch. You considered calling his name loudly, startling him awake from a safe distance but that felt mean. As soon as he was awake, it would be nothing but noise and chaos until his shift ended. He looked so peaceful, you really didn’t know how things went so south with Shen.
You made your way closer, opting for a soft approach. Sitting down gently on the edge of the couch by his ribs, you said his name and waited for movement from him. You tried again, nothing. You eyed his back a moment, making sure it moved with breathing. You put a hand on his shoulder, and slowly slid it across his back, smiling when he started to stir. See Shen? This was how you carefully woke a sound sleeper. You dragged your hand back across the same simple path of his shoulders, smug that your soothing gesture had solved everything when Jack mumbled,
“Hey, sweetheart.” What?! No. That was not the desired effect, especially not when hearing that term of endearment in his sleepy voice seemed to short-circuit a very important part of your brain. In his stirring, his forehead came to rest against your thigh. He sighed like a weary sailor finding land after seasons at sea. You squirmed slightly at the heat his heavy exhale brushed against the seam of your pants. He started move more purposefully, and you thought he was waking up. Instead, his arm reached for more contact and you froze when it snaked slowly around your thigh, his hand tucking underneath your leg, and successfully stopping you from pulling in your next breath.
It was the second time today you’d seen a man hug something protectively to his chest but you were having a very different reaction to this one. You managed a shaky breath, but Jack Abbot wasn’t done. On another sleepy exhale, his hand skimmed up the underside of your leg, sparking sweet sensations as it slid until his palm was nestled in the nook of your knee. That alone might have been survivable but the placement of his hand meant that his forearm laid along your inner thigh and his elbow was cushioned in the most uncoworkerly corner of your body: your crotch.
You made a sound. One you’d definitely never made at the hospital. One Jack Abbot definitely heard, because he tightened his hold on you and said,
“Lay down with me, honey.” The sudden surge of temptation to accept his invitation was so strong, it constricted your chest. Your heart twisted at how sweet he’d sounded. He’d said it so lovingly, like you were together, like you were… Oh. Oh no. Was he thinking about his dead wife?! “Need you,” he said softly and it was a knife through your heart.
“Dr. Abbot,” you said as professionally as possible but not being able to breathe properly really took the power out of your voice. Overwhelmed by the delicious feelings flooding from all points of contact with him and horrified at yourself for the lust flowing through you while he was wholesomely just deeply in love with his late wife, you reached out for something to help steady you. Aiming for the couch, but being off-kilter because of the cuddly boa constrictor of a coworker currently coiled around your leg, your hand landed left of where you’d planned, right onto his head where it sunk into a soft sea of salt and pepper curls. You made another noise in frustration, torn between needing this to end and never wanting it to. Letting your hand slide off him turned into more of a caress, and his eye cracked open.
He stared up at you sleepily, almost suspiciously, but maintained his strong grasp. For a second there was a flicker not unlike the look in Shen’s eyes as he had cradled the iced coffee to his chest. Or the look in a dog’s eye when they’ve got something they know you’re going to try to take away and they plan to fight you for it.
“Hi,” you said, more than a little breathless. “Shen needs you.”
He woke up quickly then, jerking his head and hands away from you, turning one way then another before he was sitting alert and army-trained on the couch.
“Fuck, sorry, I thought I was dreaming.”
“About your wife,” you added on, needing to acknowledge it.
“What?” He asked, his face twisting at the out of the blue mention of her.
“What?” You echoed, wondering why he seemed confused. He tilted his head at you, quietly considering.
“I wasn’t dreaming about my wife.” The statement came lightly but it made the air in the room incredibly heavy. It felt like he was actually admitting something else. Something potentially life-changing.
You sprang from the couch, set on a quick escape, only to hear a clatter as his prosthesis was knocked from its resting place. Mortified at not only putting hands on an attending and stirring up memories of his late wife, now you could add destruction of property or hate crime against the disabled by throwing around his much-needed leg. You crouched to reach for it, desperate to right the wrong. Jack had the same instinct about saving his leg, only faster. This meant you sort of collided, landing with your arm outstretched along his and your chin on his shoulder.
He looked down, at where you had not managed to grasp his prothesis, but instead had your hand wrapped around his. Thankfully you weren’t attached to a heart rate monitor when he turned his head to look at you, because all sorts of alarms would be going off and a whole team would be running in to save you when his nose bumped yours. Marvelling at his face just a breath away, you didn’t know how you were going to recover from this.
“Wanna know who I was dreaming about?” He teased, tempting you with the idea of you two.
“I think I understand now why Shen dropped his drink,” You whispered.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a hint of a laugh, and the corner of his mouth started to lift in a smirk before he pulled his mouth to the side to hide it. Jack shook his head at you, and it took him out of your space enough that you could think clearly again. You stood on shaky legs and backed away towards the door as he accused,
“Hey, you started it.” You stayed quiet, unable to defend yourself, because you had, in fact, started it with the shoulder slide. At the door, you paused as he started adjusting his prosthesis,
“Is your leg alright?” You asked, hoping you hadn’t damaged it. Jack peered up at you, amusement brightening his eyes.
“Is yours?” He asked, gesturing to where your skin was still suffering from aftershocks.
“My leg is,” you looked down at the limb in question, “fine,” you lied, trying to downplay your reaction to him. But did that sound too nonchalant or even ungrateful to say about your perfectly fine leg to someone holding a prosthesis? “It’s great,” you overcompensated, mildly concerned that might be bragging. He nodded,
“Yeah, it felt great.” You laughed at his unexpected feedback.
“You did not just say that. Is that your medical opinion?” He smiled at you, all too pleased with himself and your heart skipped a beat. It was a toss up whether having him alert and flirty or semi-conscious and cuddly was more hazardous to your cardiac health. From the gleam in his eye, you knew he was about to deliver some devastatingly flirtatious line. You needed to get out while you still could. “Go find Shen,” you ordered, fleeing the room.
You sped-walked down the hall, leg still tingling while you wondered if this was a newfound version of phantom limb, and how long the symptoms would last. Peeking over your shoulder to see if Jack had come out yet, you rounded the corner quickly and crashed into someone in scrubs. Beyond the contact, there was the sound of plastic hitting the floor and liquid splashing.
A/N: I tried to tag but something went wonky. I’ll try again later.
Jack Abbot Masterlist
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Before Jack offered to be the father of your baby and so much more, you had waited that long and longer for yarn deliveries. But every morning after shift, as you crawled into bed and curled into Jack’s chest. Your mind was swirling with what ifs. It had even affected your work. You were security. You were supposed to wade into the fight, separate the drunks, try to subdue patients in the midst of psychiatric episodes.
Now you found yourself hesitating, and one memorable night, when an angry patient in chairs had burst past a nurse, going to call another patient, had burst back storming toward trauma two. Ranting and raving about his broken wrist and the wait time. You had been alone in manning the floor that night. Ahmed had food poisoning, and Collins was visiting family in Hershey. So you had been alone trying to contain a powder keg waiting for a spark. And the spark was storming the central hub, looking unhinged. You had placed a hand on your taser and stepped forward. Placing yourself between Princess and the man. Holding one hand out, you had tried to defuse the situation, telling him to head back to the chairs, or you were going to call the cops.
The man, however, was in no mood to be cooperative and had swatted at you. Missed, stumbled, and nearly flattened both you and Princess when he tipped forward like a felled tree. Then Jack seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He drove his palm into the guy's chest and propelled him backward, where Mateo grabbed hold of his arm and forcibly removed him.
The look of terror as he turned, cupping your face as he took you in. Not seeing a scratch, he looked over your shoulder to check on Princess, who smirked, gave a cheeky thumbs-up, and hustled off, muttering about winning a bet.
But it was after the holiday party for the kids, as your boobs throbbed in your Mrs. Clause costume, and you watched Jack interact with the kids, that the wait became unbearable.
It was now three days before Christmas, and it was finally day fourteen. Jack was also a nervous wreck, but he hid it better. Hovering constantly, touching you, pressing kisses into your neck and shoulders, and promising that no matter the results, everything would be fine.
You remember the sexy little grin he had given you that morning over breakfast. “Either way, I don’t intend to let you out of bed.”
His hazel eyes had darkened, and he dragged the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, and you flushed when a tiny whimper escaped your throat. His answering groan was deep and made his chest rumble against yours.
“My girl likes the sound of that, huh?” He whispered hotly in your ear. He nudged your legs apart on the stool at your counter and stepped between your thighs. “Of your legs thrown over my shoulders.”
Your hands had gripped his bare shoulders, and you felt him hard and hot, straining against the front of his boxer briefs, pressing into the thin cotton of your panties. “My cock so deep inside you, you can’t even remember your own name.”
You tilt your chin up, nipping at his stubbled chin. The salt and pepper stubble rough against your lips. Your hands smooth up the warm flecked skin of his shoulders into his curls and try to pull him down. He gives a rough chuckle as you try to pull him down into a kiss. But he playfully pulls back, placing a kiss on your nose. His grin was smug as he pulled back with a soft tick.
“Ahah, sweetheart,” Jack growled, the hazel eyes totally eclipsed by black. But you could also see playfulness shining through. Your nails dug into his neck, but he just gave an approving rumble. “Your shimmying in your seat.” He drawled, one hand lazily tracing up your bare, thick thigh, his callused hand rasping across the smooth, sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
“Hey, eyes on me, baby.” He squeezed your leg as your eyes squeezed closed at his teasing. “If I pushed aside these panties, just how wet would you be? Hmm.”
“God, Jack.” You gasped as his fingers danced across the sopping cotton of your underwear. Your hips jerked on the leather seat. Jack’s answering groan was feral.
“Good girl,” he gasped as his lips fell to your neck. Sucking a mark into the place where your shoulder met your neck. You gave a mew of desperation. “You’re fucking soaked. My girl always so ready for me.”
“Always!” You sobbed, your hands falling to his narrow hips to pull him into you, needing friction and pressure before you combusted. “Only for you, baby. Oh God—please!” You gasp out as one hand slipped around to slip beneath his boxer briefs to dig your nails into his ass. He gave a surprised hiss, and his hips snapped forward, drawing a soundless cry from your lips. Your head fell back, lips falling open in a cry that refused to leave your throat.
His callused fingers hooked in the wet fabric and pushed them to the side. There was a frantic fumble as you helped push his underwear out of the way. With one hand, he tilted your hips and pulled from your neck, resting his forehead against yours. Dark hazel eyes locked on your own and, with one smooth motion, slid deep inside you.
“Fuck,” he gasped, breath puffing over your lips. Your cry echoed through the kitchen. In the back of your mind, you hoped Kyle was anywhere else but on the other side of your shared living room wall. If that twitchy teen broke down another of your front doors, right now you would kill him.
Unlike the night before, when Jack had insisted on edging you until your eyes crossed. This was in no way slow. Your bar stood rocked with each powerful movement of his hips. Your nails scored down his back as he nudged your head to the side and sucked a bruise onto your flesh. A mark that no doubt would not be hidden by your uniform top.
Desperate to take him deeper, your knees crept up around his ribs, and you arched your back. His muttered curse and the bruising grip he had on your hip tightened.
“Ja—oh—oh!” You could not form a coherent thought as the coil in your abdomen finally snapped and your blissful cry was smothered as you bit into his shoulder. Your teeth pressed into his flesh, leaving your own mark.
“Fuck—baby.” He murmured as, with one final snap of his hips, he pressed as deep as he could go. Filling you.
It took a few minutes for your brain to come back online—sweat cooling on your skin, making you shiver. Jack nuzzled your jaw with his nose, leaving soft kisses along your jaw, before placing a reverent kiss on your lips.
“As I was saying.” He rasped, a smug grin curling his lips, making his eyes crinkle. “Whatever the results. Whether it's another month of tracking and three days keeping you in bed.” Jack leaned in just close enough to catch your bottom lip between his teeth. “Well, who am I to complain?”
An hour later, Jack insisted on taking you to the outpatient lab at PTMC, which was why one young phlebotomist looked terrified as Jack hovered over his shoulder.
“Jack,” you sighed, turning your eyes on the anxious doctor. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest. His biceps were tense and flexing beneath his sweater, and you fought a besotted sigh. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he watched the tech tie the tourniquet around your arm.
“How old are you?” He drawled in that deep, gravely tone that seemed to drop an octave with every syllable. Despite why you were there, that deep rasp sent a shiver down your spine and made your thighs clench.
Joel swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he fumbled with the plastic packaging of the needle. "I'm twenty-four, sir. Er, Doctor Abbot."
"Twenty-four," Jack repeated, tasting the word as if they tasted rancid. He took a slow, intimidating step closer, casting a broad shadow over the small blue, uncomfortable phlebotomy chair. The pleather creaked as you shifted, trying to get comfortable. “And did they teach you in your vast experience that the median cubital vein requires a gentle touch, or were you planning to harpoon her?"
"Jack," you whispered, trying to place a placating hand on his tense forearm. But your own heart was hammering against your ribs. The full fourteen days of waiting had frayed both of your nerves, and seeing him go full protective-attending mode was both terrifying and undeniably hot.
Joel's hands were noticeably shaking now. He tried to uncap the needle, but his trembling fingers slipped, nearly grazing his own glove. A tiny, pathetic sound escaped the poor kid's throat, and you could actually see a sheen of panicked tears welling in his wide eyes.
Jack’s patience, already paper-thin from two weeks of anticipation and tracking your cycles, completely snapped.
"Give me that," Jack growled, stepping in and shoving Joel out of the way with his broad shoulder.
Joel stumbled back, practically hugging the wall of the outpatient lab at PTMC, as Jack took his place. The terrifying, overbearing doctor instantly vanished the moment Jack knelt beside your chair. His demeanor shifted into something so intensely gentle it gave you whiplash.
He discarded the standard needle Joel had been holding with a scowl and reached into the compartment for a much smaller, pediatric butterfly needle. "I've got you, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that soothing, low register.
His calloused hands were perfectly steady as he adjusted the blue rubber tourniquet around your bicep. With the precision of a man who spent his life saving people in the trauma bays, he slipped the tiny butterfly needle into your vein with barely a pinch.
When blood appeared in the tubing, he pressed the vial into the hub. His hazel eyes locked on yours, warm and shining with an unfiltered, desperate hope that made the breath catch and your bottom lip tremble. Your nose burned in a herald to oncoming tears. You bit your lip and shifted your free arm slightly. Your chubby arm pressed heavily against your breast, making you cringe.
Jack froze his while his right hand kept the needle perfectly still, his left hand cupped your arm, his thumb dropping to the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist. He began to rub soft, rhythmic circles against your pulse point. The soothing friction grounded you, sending a wave of calm crashing over your jittery nerves and making your chest ache with how much you loved him.
"Almost done, baby," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. He swapped the vials with practiced ease until they were full of the blood that would determine your future. “Then we’ll get you home and out of the bra.”
You nearly whimpered in relief at the thought of removing the torture device that was pressing into your sore breasts. For the past week, they had been sore and incredibly sensitive. You were desperately hoping it was from hCG levels and not your oncoming period. But only the blood test would tell.
With a swift, fluid motion, Jack popped the blue rubber tourniquet, releasing the pressure on your arm. He grabbed a square of sterile gauze, pressing it gently but firmly over the puncture site as he smoothly withdrew the needle.
"Hold that," he instructed softly. As you pressed two fingers to the gauze, Jack secured it with a strip of medical tape, his thumb lingering on your warm skin for just a second longer than necessary.
Standing up to his full height, Jack turned back to Joel, who looked like he was contemplating a career change to something less stressful, like bomb defusal.
Jack gathered the filled vials, dropping them into the little blue plastic basket. He shoved the basket into Joel's chest. The tech scrambled to catch it, holding it like it was a live grenade.
"Mark this STAT priority," Jack demanded, his voice returning to its gruff, authoritative bark. He glared down at the trembling phlebotomist, his jaw clenched. "If I don't have those results uploaded to the portal in two hours, I am coming back down here, Joel. Am I clear?"
Joel gave a pathetic sound that sounded like a squeaky toy that Pebbles loved to chew on at 3 am. Turned on his heel, collided with the door frame, his head snapping back so as not to break his nose, and hurriedly corrected his trajectory and disappeared down the hall with a squeak of his sneakers on the tile.
You gave Jack a look as he smoothed the red mark on your bicep with his thumb. “You didn’t have to scare him like that.” You scolded softly, and Jack gave an unrepentant roll of his eyes.
“He looked like the type who had to play seek and find with your veins.” He grabbed your purse off the counter and handed it to you. His arm fell around your waist as he led you out of the room and into the hall and finally out into the cold halls of the atrium.
You gave a fond sigh, and Jack felt the need to defend himself. “He was going to leave a bruise the size of a grapefruit on your arm.”
Now you laughed as automatic doors opened and you stepped out into the freezing late December air. It was three days til Christmas, and the cold bit at your nose. “So what, you're the only one allowed to leave a mark, Jack?”
He reached into his pocket for his key fob and hit the unlock button. He gazed down at you, pulling you closer into his side. He dipped his chin to look at you; the expression was both loving and possessive, and he answered. “Damn, straight.”
—-
Your apartment may not have been huge, but it was comfortable. Normally. Now it felt like a cage. You had tried to relax. You changed into your lounge pants and an old Army shirt you had stolen from Jack. It was nearing eleven in the morning, and both of you should have been asleep. You had work tonight, and this close to the holidays, there were always brawls over last-minute shopping, slips on black ice, or disastrous results from ice skating dates. Even the occasional burn from the test run from deep frying the holiday poultry that turned into a trip to the ED and having to endure debridement and cleanings. If these well-meaning people only knew what would await them if the deep fryer caught back, they would order takeout. You may only be a security guard, but you knew it was best to leave the deep fryer to the professionals.
Jack was lying in bed beside you. His prosthetic rested against the nightstand; the light icy blue satin sheets pooled on the bare skin of his stomach. He was not much better. He had tried finding a movie. Lasted five minutes into Rush Hour before growing restless and flipping to the animal channel, where they took you behind the scenes of the San Diego Zoo.
But as much as you loved animals, you really didn’t care about the P Horses and the conversation project right now. By the time the clock struck 12:30 p.m., you could hear Jack’s teeth grinding as you sprawled across his chest, trying to get some sleep. But even the soothing stroke of his warm hand down your back did nothing to soothe you. If you looked up, you were sure you would see a scowl on his handsome face, as he plotted the demise of Joel. He had said two hours, and it was going on three. If they reached four without an answer, you had no doubt Jack would make a very unfriendly call or visit to the head of the lab.
It was just when you thought you could hear the final threads of Jack’s patience crumble to dust that your phone dinged. If that was from the group chat and Dennis was asking if anyone had seen his ID badge again, you were going to scream. But you dove across the bed, your hand closing over your phone and spotting the notification on your MyChart app. You logged in with your fingerprint, then paused and handed it over to Jack. You couldn’t look.
Jack propped himself up against the headboard, reaching for his readers on the bedside table and thumbing through the app, bringing up your results. Your heart fluttered against your ribs like a caffeinated hummingbird, your teeth clamped harshly on your bottom lip as he read. Then finally, when you thought you would scream, the phone fell from his fingers into his lap, and he turned wet eyes on you.
For a second, you felt your stomach drop, worried that he was upset by a negative result. Then he laughed. Not one of his deep chuckles or even a belly laugh. This was a sound of surprise and all-consuming joy.
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this is for my writing challenge! you can find the masterlist here!
summary: you and deran were close friends, which was how you ended up scoring a babysitting gig for his niece, lena. you were "hired" one day without pope's knowledge. deran figured that he would be okay with it because you were close to the family and they all trusted you. pope saw this as an opportunity to finally get closer to the woman he couldn't stop thinking about lately.
contains: same old! pope, babysitter! reader, implied age difference, fem/afab! reader, au where pope has custody over lena, baz and cath not in the picture, reader calls lena 'bean' because why not it's a cute nickname, pope is weak for his girls, eventual smut, pope LOVES kissing you, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), very sensual sex
word count: 5.3k
you were sitting by the poolside while lena was testing to see how far she could make it across the pool in one breath. you applauded as she made it at least halfway across, her little legs kicking her through the water with all their might. her smile is triumphant as she beams up at you.
"i got so far!"
she exclaims as she swims over to the edge of the pool by you, her arms resting on the warm pavement.
"you sure did! keep on practicing and you'll make it all the way across in no time at all."
you speak encouragingly, watching her eyes light up with hope. a throat is cleared behind you, causing both you and lena to look over in the direction of the gate. you both spot a stern-looking pope, but his face seems to soften as soon as his eyes land on lena in the pool. it wasn't easy for him, taking lena under his wing after what happened to her parents. he sees the smile on the little girl's face, then glances at you, then back at her, and he feels something shift within him.
"she'll be out in the ocean learning how to surf like you guys soon."
you smile softly as you talk to him, which causes an unfamiliar sense of warmth to settle in his chest. he nods at you before walking over to lena, he crouches down as he meets her gaze.
"ten more minutes, then shower before dinner's ready."
his voice was rough, but it had an uncharacteristic softness to it as he spoke to lena. she nodded, her big eyes staring at him like he hung the stars in the sky. it made your heart swell, seeing how the two of them bonded so well, especially given all the shit they'd been through. pope cody wasn't comforting to anyone except for lena, at least that's what you'd thought at first. as lena swims away and busies herself, pope stands to his full height and turns around to look at you.
"what are you doing here?"
he hadn't meant for the question to sound so harsh and bothered. he saw the way your face scrunched a bit at his tone and immediately regretted his choice of words.
"i'm watching over lena while you take care of your personal things."
"i didn't ask you to do that."
"deran said you could use the extra help."
he stands there for a moment, blinking at you. he hadn't realized that it wasn't realistic for deran and craig to watch lena when pope couldn't, especially since they were often away from home more than he was. he nods slowly, now that everything was starting to make sense once again. he glances over his shoulder at lena, who's now wearing a particularly suspicious grin as she watches the two of you interact. he turns back to you, eyes briefly drifting toward your light green tank top. he could just barely see inside your shirt, the shadow almost highlighting your cleavage. he snaps himself out of the trance and meets your gaze again.
"how much do you want for it?"
you shrug at his question, glancing over at lena who has started cleaning up her pool toys. you clearly hadn't thought about it yet, not really worried about the money as much as you were about lena.
"i don't need to be paid, i have a job. i'm just here to watch lena when you aren't able to."
he looks slightly taken aback by your answer. why were you so willing to help them out without being paid? he searches your expression for any sort of hint otherwise, but he finds nothing.
"i mean- being fed would be nice."
a slight scoff escapes his lips at your words. he just nods and makes his way back inside. a couple minutes later, lena goes inside to wash up before dinner. you make your way inside, your nostrils immediately filled with the smell of something delicious. you watch as pope busies himself in the kitchen, making what looked to be lasagna.
"looks good..."
you try to talk casually, but are met with a deadpan look.
"haven't cooked any of it yet."
his tone was flat, almost questioning as he looked at you. you let out a heavy sigh and made your way toward the living room to rest on the couch. pope mentally slaps himself for being so cut and dry with you. he'd never admit it out loud, but he wanted you to be around. he wanted to know more about you. he'd seen you here and there whenever you were helping deran with something or attending one of his pool parties. he'd always thought you were pretty, probably too young for him, but that never stopped his mind from wandering.
he continues to work on making dinner, his mind lost in a sea of thoughts that all revolved around you. especially how happy lena had looked while being with you. it almost mirrored the way she looked when she was with pope. he wondered what it would be like, if maybe you and him could be her new and improved parents. no... you were basically a stranger to him he can't be thinking of starting a family like this. lena's soft voice jars him out of his mind.
"can i have a soda with dinner?"
"yeah, but that's your only one for the day."
she nods, a giddy smile on her face as she bounces off toward the living room, presumably to join you. she plops down next to you on the couch, resting her head on your arm as she watches the cartoon you're playing on the TV. she glances up at you, a toothy grin spreading across her face. you look down at her, a bit wary at what this could mean.
"what's that look for?"
you watch as she tries to hold back the giggles.
"uncle pope thinks you're really pretty."
you can't help but roll your eyes and laugh at the little girl. part of you wondered if she was telling the truth. kids were always more perceptive than anyone liked to give them credit for.
"yeah? did he tell you that?"
you chuckle at her while her eyes are fixated on the cartoon.
"yeah... he told me one day on the way to school."
you pause at that. because now this was all starting to sound real. did he really think you were pretty? hell, you'd always been attracted to him too, but never in a million years did you think it would be a mutual feeling. before you have any more time to think about it, pope is calling you guys into the kitchen for dinner. you and lena set the dining room table while pope brings out the lasagna dish. lena sits between you and pope at the table, unable to help herself as she steals glances at both of you while eating.
"uncle pope, we talked about starting a garden today."
pope looks curiously at his niece, then up at you.
"what kind of garden?"
his eyebrows are furrowed like he's almost a bit hesitant to know the answer.
"i thought that maybe we could try a vegetable or fruit garden, make some of our own stuff. it's fun and could mean less money spent on groceries."
you chime in, watching as lena's eyes light up. she looks over at you with a bright smile.
"does that mean we can grow lemons?"
you blink, raising an eyebrow at her.
"that's what you want to grow first?"
"to make lemonade! if we have lemons we'll never run out of lemonade!"
this time, you and pope both chuckle at her exclamation.
"we'll have to buy the tree, otherwise it'll take forever to grow from the seed. that just means lemons will come first."
you smile at the little girl who happily bounces in her seat while finishing her dinner. you glance up at pope, who can't decide if he wants to see lena's excited expression, or your soft one as you think about how to start the garden.
"i mean- as long as it's okay with you."
you nod at him, forgetting that you guys likely needed his approval before creating a garden.
"just don't make me water it. and i'm not being blamed if anything in there dies or gets eaten by rabbits."
you smirk at him, knowing damn well that if lena asked he would help you out with the garden. or maybe, she'd use it as an attempt to get you and pope alone so everything can go according to her little master plan.
after about a week of planting and rearranging soil, lena's garden was finally starting to come together. you'd been around every day to help her with, teaching her the best watering techniques. you let her pick out what she wanted to grow, and then helped her organize based on what plants needed more sunlight. the whole time, pope busies himself with watching over the two of you. his rationalization is that gardening can be very dangerous, and he doesn't want either of you getting hurt. the real reason was because watching you with lena, the way you brought out the brightest in the little girl, it felt right to him. like you were meant to be here with the two of them, nowhere else.
lena notices him and waves him over to show him the final product. he steps out of the sliding glass door and makes his way over to the new garden.
"we did it, uncle pope! we have our own garden!"
lena jumps up and down excitedly, pointing at the freshly laid soil and some of the pre-grown trees you had helped her plant.
"you guys did great."
he nods slowly, looking over at you. your face was glistening with sweat after working in the heat for the past couple hours. he couldn't take his eyes off of you, you were glowing. then he saw your genuine smile as you watched lena get excited about the garden. he wanted to be another reason that you could smile like that. he watches from nearby as you help lena water for the first time. you were patient with her, letting her do most of it on her own and only helping when she asked. lena looks over at pope with the brightest smile he's seen from her in a long time. looks like they both really needed to keep you around.
once you were finished watering, pope ushered the two of you inside. he was getting worried that you were out in the sun for too long. earlier, he had definitely hounded the two of you about wearing enough sunscreen. he gives you both a glass of water, watching shamelessly as you lift the glass to your lips and take a few swallows of the cold liquid. it was like he was in a trance every time he watched you, unable to peel his eyes away, even if you were doing the most mundane things. lena's giggles bring him back to center, he glances over at her and sees the knowing look in her eyes.
"c'mon, bean... let's go get washed up. i'll help you pick out your clothes."
she nods, hopping out of the stool and walking off toward her room with you. once you help her find her clothes, you walk back out to the kitchen, now alone with the man you found yourself growing increasingly fond of.
"you can use mine."
he spoke gruffly, watching as you rested against the countertop.
"use your what?"
you look up at him curiously.
"my shower... i'll get you a towel and stuff."
he walks off toward the bathroom and grabs you a towel and washcloth. you also see a pair of old gym shorts and a t-shirt folded neatly next to them. you smile and thank him as you step into the bathroom. he stands there for a moment, looking at you. you are also just standing there, and you're unsure if the room was filled with tension or awkwardness at this point.
"thank you..."
you tell him again, and he seems to get the hint. but right before he can step out of the bathroom, he turns to you.
"lena... really likes having you around."
"i like being around... with both of you."
you nod slowly, and you can see the small hint of surprise on his face at your words. it was true, you'd gotten used to being around both of them all the time. it felt like more of a routine than you'd ever had before, but best of all, it felt like home. he could see the way your expressioned softened completely, feeling his cheeks heat because of how much he enjoyed the sight. you finally look up at him, breath hitching slightly when you see the dazed, wanting look in his eyes. you step closer to him and he doesn't back away. but before he allows himself to give in, pope clears his throat.
"i'll make lunch while you get cleaned up."
he doesn't miss the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, but he ultimately leaves the room anyway. you sigh, stripping out of your clothes and stepping into a nice, cool shower. once you're finished you step out of the shower and slip into his clothes he left for you. they smelled like him, which made you feel a little hotter than you cared to admit. you look at yourself in the mirror, chuckling at the way his old clothes looked on you. it didn't really matter, you weren't sweaty and gross anymore. you walk back out toward the kitchen, smiling when you see lena eating on the couch.
"come back and sit with me, please!"
she calls out to you, you nod, and continue until you're in the kitchen. pope's back was to you, but when he heard your footsteps, he turned around. he froze, not expecting you to look so... domestic... in his clothes like that. he started to imagine how you'd look in his clothes, post-shower after you two just had the most mind-blowing sex of all time. a soft smile appears on his lips as he slides your plate across the counter to you.
"you should come hang out with me and lena."
you lean against the counter as you take the plate. he just nods and follows you to the living room where lena was. you both sit on either side of her, causing her to smile while she's mid-bite into her sandwich. you glance over at pope, who's already looking at you. you feel your skin heat at the eye contact, quickly looking back at the TV. he also faces forward, leaving everyone to eat their lunch in comfortable silence. after a while, lena yawns and snuggles into pope's side. he wraps an arm around her and holds her close, watching as her breath starts to even out. you smile at the sight, quietly taking out your phone and snapping a picture when he wasn't looking.
eventually, he carries lena to her room and lays her in her bed. he shuts the door quietly before returning to the living room with you. you look over at him, eyes tracing along his strong jawline and the slope of his nose. fuck, he'd be trouble if he ever realized how beautiful he was. his dark auburn curls looked soft, and you found yourself wanting to run your hands through them. he finally looks at you, catching you right in the act of staring. his hardened hazel eyes almost seemed to soften when they landed on you, but you were sure that was just your imagination. you stand up from the couch, grabbing your plate and lena's. pope follows suit, following you out to the kitchen.
"i'll wash these."
his gruff voice sends a shiver down your spine, but you nod. you set the dishes in the sink and move out of his way.
"so i was thinking..."
you speak up, resting against the counter next to the sink. he glances up at you for a moment, freezing when he realized how close you were standing to him.
"what if we took lena out to dinner tonight? maybe somewhere on the shore or something so we can watch the sunset?"
he ponders for a moment, thinking about how beautiful you would look in the warm and bright colors of the setting sun. he's nodding almost enthusiastically now, going back to washing the dishes. you smile and watch as he goes back to work. damn those stupid yellow gloves for hiding the way his fingers were probably gripping and flexing over the dishes. you were beginning to feel like a victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time. you stand there, enjoying this somewhat intimate moment between the two of you. once he's finished, he looks over at you while sliding off the gloves. you can hardly focus as you watch the yellow rubber fall from his hands, revealing the tantalizing digits that you dreamed about quite often.
he holds one of his hands out to you, palm facing upward. you blink, unsure of what to do. he lets out an unsteady breath, reaching further until his hand wraps around your wrist ever so gently. you let him pull you toward his bedroom, your heart rate picking up the closer you get. he walks you inside, letting go of your wrists as he walks over to the closet. you stand still, afraid to move. you watch as he opens his closet, then he looks back to you.
"i wanna wear something nice. i need help finding it."
you let out a breath of relief you didn't know you were holding, walking over to the closet. you gently sift through his closet, most of his clothes being the same style and color shirt, same with the pants. however, you did manage to find a black polo that seemed to stand out. you take it out, finding the lightest pair of blue jeans he owned (which were still pretty dark) and pairing them together. you hand him the clothes and he assesses them skeptically. finally, he gives a nod of approval and lays them down on his bed. he turns back to face you, noticing the small smile on your face.
"what's funny?"
he glares at you, waiting for you to tease him about his wardrobe, or lack thereof.
"nothing's funny, i just think it's cool that you came to me for fashion advice."
he rolls his eyes at you, but he's not truly annoyed. he'd wanted to ask you for more than just fashion advice, but he wasn't feeling brave enough. a soft sigh escapes his lips as he walks toward the door.
"gonna clean the pool and work on the car some before we go."
you nod and watch him walk out without another word. you go off to the living room and find some way to pass the next couple hours.
you all were on the way to dinner, pope was driving his truck while you were in the passenger seat and lena was in the back. she was glancing out the window, watching the building on the street go by with a smile on her face.
"come on... can you please tell me where we're going?"
lena whines at you, causing you to chuckle. pope glances in the rearview, his eyes crinkling just a bit.
"we're almost there, bean. i told you it's a surprise!"
she groans in protest, flopping her head back against the car seat. but, as you promised, you shortly afterwards pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. pope got out, helping lena from her carseat. he frowns at you when he sees that you got out of the car by yourself, which makes you laugh. he grunts, watching lena take your hand as you walk toward the front door. he holds the door for you two, his hand ghosting the small of your back before he walks in behind you. you're all seated outside on the patio of the restaurant, admiring the view of the ocean from there. lena's eyes are wide with excitement as she takes in the view of the setting sun.
"best surprise ever!"
she wraps her little arms around you with a big grin. you return the embrace, running a hand over her hair. she sits back in her seat when it's time to order food. pope sits across from you and lena, meaning he could just watch you two interact for the next couple hours. you looked even more beautiful than he could imagine, the way the colors of the sunset made your skin glow. the way it all reflected in your eyes, he couldn't get enough of the view. he'd hardly even thought about the sunset when he had you right in front of him. as suspected, dinner went swimmingly and lena was already getting sleepy again.
"wanna walk on the beach for a couple minutes?"
you look over at lena, whose head is resting on your arm. she nods sleepily, little hands wrapped around your arm. you chuckle, looking over at pope who looked the most calm he ever had since you met him. he nods as well, getting up from his chair. he walks around the table to lena, gently lifting her into his arms, holding out his free hand to you. you smile and take his hand, walking down the wooden steps and into the sand. you walk closer to the shore, the view stealing the breath from your lungs. you look over at pope and lena, watching the way their expressions almost matched in awe. pope was still holding onto your hand tightly, the other firmly holding lena. these were the moments that pope thought he'd only be able to dream of, but yet here the three of you were.
lena's eventually fast asleep in his arms, head resting on his shoulder. he gently squeezed your hand, causing you to look over at him. he's closer than you remember, and before you can second guess yourself, you lean in and plant a soft kiss on his lips. he returns it almost immediately, although it was a bit haphazard. you pull away, rubbing your free hand along his bicep and resting your chin on his shoulder.
"should probably head back before sleeping beauty gets cranky."
he nods at your words, leading you all back toward the truck. he gets lena into the carseat without her waking up. this time, he doesn't let go of you, meaning he could open the passenger side door for you. you laugh at him again, climbing into the seat and buckling your seatbelt. he shuts the door gently and rounds the car to get into the driver's side. you make it back to the house and get out of the car while pope grabs lena again. you hold the door for him this time as he carries her off to her bed. you wait in the kitchen for him, sitting at one of the stools. he returns a couple minutes later, standing next to your stool. he's the one to lean in this time, kissing you with more intention than the previous time. his arms slip around your waist while your hands rest on his chest.
you sigh into the kiss, pulling him in closer by his shoulders. he leans into you, clearly not willing to pull away any time soon. you stand from the stool pressing him back against the counter as your tongue slips into his mouth. a soft groan escapes from him, but his tongue begins to tangle with yours soon after. his hands slip lower, over the curve of your ass, causing you to smirk against his lips. one of your hands slides through his soft curls, and they felt even better than you'd imagined. he sighs against you, continuing to kiss you with all of his effort. he whimpers when you pull away from him, the sound sending a tingly feeling all over your body. you walk toward his bedroom and he immediately follows behind you like a puppy.
once you're in his room, he pulls you back against him, kissing you again with a renewed sense of hunger. you moan into his mouth, reaching down and sliding his shirt over his head. your hands slide all over his muscular chest, earning yourself soft groans from his lips. he pushes you backwards until you fall back onto the bed with a small yelp. he removes your shoes for you, then climbs on top of you. he gently rests his weight onto you, pressing soft kisses along the corners of your mouth and your jawline. you gently trace your nails along the skin of his back, the sensation making his hard cock strain even more through his jeans. you feel his erection pressing against your thigh, and it only adds to the heat pooling low in your belly. you weren't sure how you and pope had even gotten to this point, but you surely weren't going to complain either.
he removes your clothes for you, followed by taking off his jeans. he starts trailing kisses lower, down your neck and over the swell of your breasts. you feel your back arch off the bed when he takes one of your sensitive nipples into his mouth and sucks lightly before rubbing it with his tongue. he moves over to the other side, groaning against you as he feels how worked up you're getting. then, he moves lower, kissing over your soft tummy. he pauses right at the hem of your panties, glancing up at you as if for approval. you sit up on your elbows, looking down at him with a lustful haze in your eyes. you nod slowly and shiver as he slides your panties down your legs. he feels his brain go fuzzy at the mere sight and smell of your arousal. not wasting a second, he leans in and licks a long stripe up your aching cunt. your fingers grip the sheets with a soft whine. your noises encourage him to do more, he starts sucking at your clit. you thought it couldn't get any better until he slipped his middle finger inside of you. you moan softly, falling back against the bed as he adds another finger. how the fuck was he so good at this? wasn't he supposed to be super inexperienced?
well- he was relatively inexperienced. but once he was for sure about wanting to be with you, he'd definitely started doing his research. his (now deleted) search history would be very incriminating, but you didn't have to know about it just yet. he continues to work at you, now whining lowly against your slick folds while his fingers worked into you gently. he could feel the way you squirmed beneath him and it filled him with pride. he would do whatever it took to make sure you were fully satisfied.
"a-andrew... i'm gonna-"
he moans loudly against you at the sound of his real name on your lips. he speeds up and changes the angle just right to have you coming hard on his tongue and fingers. he withdraws his fingers, leaning back over you to kiss you again. you feel goosebumps erupt over your skin as you taste your essence on his tongue. he pulls back just enough to suck your juices off of his fingers, a sight you'd be thinking about before bed for a *long* time. while kissing you, he nudges his boxers down just enough for his leaking cock to spring out. you gasp at the sight of it when he pulls back to grab a condom from his nightstand. you were quite sure he was packing heat, but you weren't expecting the absolute girth of his cock. he rolls the condom on before lining up with you entrance.
"you okay...?"
he asks quietly as he looks down at you. you nod and watch where your bodies are about to meet. he slides the tip in, groaning at how tight you were. his hands rest on your hips, thumbs trying to rub soothingly over the soft skin in hopes that you can relax for him a little bit. he leans over, kissing you gently enough that he finally feels you loosen up so he can push all the way in. you both moan as he bottoms out inside you. you'd never felt this full of anything in your entire life, but it was a welcomed feeling. one hand slips beneath your head while the other rests on your waist as he starts to slowly move in and out of you. the drag of his thick cock against your walls made you whine with need. he rests his forehead against yours, thrusts speeding up just enough to set a steady pace.
"feels good..."
he rasps against your skin, his fingers gently rubbing against your scalp as he held you. this intimate moment made you wonder how you ever able to stay away from him in the first place. this time, you lean up and kiss him, moving your hips to meet his thrusts. his hips stutter slightly as he already feels himself getting close. to make sure you were getting close as well, his hand slips between your bodies and rubs circles into your sensitive clit. your thighs begin to tremble around him, so he grabs onto them tightly and thrusts into you harder than before. the feeling of him so deep in you has your eyes rolling back into your head. his name echoes against the wall as you moan it continuously. he doesn't stop until you're clenching him so tightly he might be forced to slip out. you come with a ragged cry, nails digging into his shoulders. he spills inside the condom at the same time, thrusting a couple more times to help you ride out your high.
he leans down again, kissing you softly before collapsing beside you and pulling you against him. he grabs one of your thighs and drapes it over his waist, keeping you close. your breath starts to calm as you rest against him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. he stares at you, seeing the way your eyes were becoming heavy. he really wasn't interested in letting you go, so he tosses the covers over your bodies. he watches as you fall asleep in his arms, and suddenly everything felt as if it was all falling into place. at some point, even he falls asleep against you.
when you wake up the next morning, he's still next to you, but his eyes are open. he was clearly admiring you while you slept, but that didn't bother you in the slightest. you groan softly, feeling the soft ache between your legs as you move to stretch out your limbs. he runs a gentle hand over your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before sitting up and getting out of the bed.
"i'll start breakfast..."
he spoke quietly and you nodded, getting out of the bed as well. you desperately wanted a shower, so you walk into the bathroom and do so. when you emerge from the bathroom, you walk into the kitchen and see a freshly woken lena sitting at one of the stools. she gets up and hugs you tightly, asking if you'd eat outside with her. you nodded with a soft smile and helped pope carry the food out to the picnic table in the backyard. you all enjoyed your meal in a comfortable silence. lena sat between the two of you, but pope still managed to rub your back every now and again. you smiled, feeling warm inside, like you could definitely get used to this family life with pope and lena.
a/n: IT'S SO FLUFFY I'M GONNA DIE!!!! sorry if this plot was buns guys i tried my best, but it felt off. maybe i'll write something similar to this in the future when i'm feeling more inspired. but anyway, THANK YOU FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <333
this was requested by these two lovely people: @mimiviolette and @nightpitt !!! thank you so much cuties <3
Okay I am finally able to sit down and write today’s as my two dogs had a virus for the last two days. I have a good chunk of Market Garden Incident Chp 9 and into the woods chapter 2 outlined. I am so sorry for the delay. God I hate being off my schedule. OCD is a vengeful bitch.
first time she pointed out the townhouse, jack didn't think much of it. he hummed in response, holding onto her smaller hand even tighter as a biker was passing them on the sidewalk.
they were walking back from their favorite coffee shop, paper cups warming their hands against the chilly pittsburgh morning.
she'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring across the street with that dreamy look she got whenever something captured her attention.
"ugh.” she swooned. “that's my favorite house," she'd said.
jack had followed her gaze.
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 is 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 purse confusion.
"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the kitchen.
still nothing.
her mouth opened slightly.
closed.
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 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.
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Summary: You finally talked Jack into ditching the hospital for a beach getaway since every other trip you've taken together has been during colder seasons, buried under layers. Stripping down to swimwear, you're reminded of how just damn good your man looks under the Italian sun.
Warning: SMUT (MDNI 18+) established relationship, language, pet names, flashbacks to so much vacation sex (p in v sex, oral - both m&f), heavy petting/teasing, insecurity (jack's leg and prosthetic), alcohol consumption, pushy italian man not understanding you aren't interested, protective jack, lots of physical touch (dat man is obsessed with you), dirty talk, praise, semi-public smut, (jack fingers you in the ocean - hallelujah), possessiveness, casual dominance, its basically a story about vacation sex, but with plot and love okay? (y'all are both severely horny for one another), jack’s perfect (as per usual)
A/N: How are there not more vacation!jack fics? Please send them all my way. I hope people have some fun upcoming vacations planned as summer ramps up! GIF by @sammy-bryant found HERE. Dividers as always by @saradika-graphics.
Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
POSITANO, AMALFI COAST ITALY
You woke slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains of your suite at Le Sirenuse. Jack lay on his stomach beside you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other relaxed at his side. His face was turned toward you, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted. You had talked your man into ditching the hospital for a sunny getaway. Jack was utterly deserving of this rest. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in the faint scent of salt and his skin. He had been working tirelessly lately, and dating someone in such a high-stakes profession wasn’t easy, but he had recently switched to the day shift, telling you he didn’t like your opposite schedules anymore. Knowing he wanted to spend more time with you made you feel truly special.
You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.
Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.
You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.
Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.
You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.
The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.
"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.
Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."
Jack lowered himself into the sofa beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.
You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.
"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"
"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."
"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.
"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.
"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.
"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.
You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.
You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:
"I booked us that exclusive Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."
"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.
"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."
His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.
You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"
He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the sofa beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."
Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.
The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.
Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.
And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.
What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.
He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.
Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.
He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.
His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.
"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.
You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.
"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.
He deserved that.
"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.
"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.
"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.
"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."
Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at a massive institution managing over $7 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.
"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."
He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.
"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."
Jack paused. "Who?”
You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."
The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.
You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.
A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.
"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.
"A mojito, please."
"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the palms. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.
"Grazie," you said.
The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.
You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.
After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.
You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.
"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.
"You’re not from around here, are you?"
"Nope."
"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."
"Lucky them," you muttered.
"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.
"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.
He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."
"I guess."
"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."
"I’m not interested."
"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.
"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.
"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."
"Good thing I’m not yours, then."
He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.
A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.
"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"
Jack stood shirtless in swim trunks, a t-shirt twisted between his hands, the afternoon light catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.
The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his prosthetic caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.
"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"
"Look, I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued.
"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."
The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."
You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.
Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.
"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.
"Yeah. I am."
He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."
"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."
You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.
After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."
You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."
"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."
"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."
"You say that now—"
"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.
"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."
His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.
"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."
"Really?" you asked meekly.
Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.
"4 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy.
Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).
"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.
"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."
You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.
"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."
"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.
"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.
You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.
A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.
"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"
A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.
"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."
You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."
"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.
His logic was a seductive trap.
"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.
He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered, his voice a low, tender rumble. "Let me take care of you now."
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.
Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.
"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. "You’re doing so good for me."
You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.
"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."
As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his fingers moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.
Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.
"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”
His movements became more deliberate, his fingers curling slightly, searching. When he found that sweet spot inside you, your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.
"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.
"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed another soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"
He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.
A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with a filthy, knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."
He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you gasp. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a relentless counterpoint on your clit.
"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."
The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.
"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.
He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.
"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers curled, pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come again, just from my tongue."
"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.
"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."
He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you with a deep, steady rhythm that hit that perfect, devastating spot every single time.
"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"
The command in his voice, the filthy, vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.
He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.
You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.
"You did so good for me."
He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.
"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."
He turned around, and you draped limply over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.
Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger. You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.
He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.
"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.
"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.
"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."
Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.
"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.
Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.
Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.
"I love you," you murmured.
"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.
You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.
You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.
"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.
"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"
"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."
"Tempting.” His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last, playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."
You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging briefly to his torso.
"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.
"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?
He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.
"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."
You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.
"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.
"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said, her accent a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.
He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"
"Yes," you giggled.
She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.
"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."
He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.
"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.
You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.
"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."
"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.
"Thank you," you said.
As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.
Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.
Robby: She’s so out of your league.
Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.
Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.
Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.
Jack: I’m nervous as hell.
Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.
Robby then sent another quick message.
Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.
Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.
When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.
The house was quiet in the way it only got after midnight.
Not peaceful, exactly.
Just quiet.
There was a difference.
Peaceful meant Andrew's boots by the door because he had kicked them off badly. Peaceful meant the bathroom light left on because he forgot it half the time and denied it the other half. Peaceful meant his weight on his side of the bed, one hand finding your hip in his sleep like even unconscious, he needed to know where you were.
This was just quiet.
The kind that hummed.
The kind that made the fridge downstairs sound too loud and the wind outside feel like someone moving through the hallway.
You lay on your side beneath the covers, phone balanced on the pillow beside your face, one hand curved over the round of your stomach.
Andrew's old T-shirt stretched over you now. Not dramatically. Not yet. But enough that the fabric pulled slightly at the middle, enough that you had started sleeping with one of his flannels tucked against your back like a poor substitute for the man himself.
It was pathetic.
You had decided it was allowed.
The baby shifted beneath your palm.
A slow roll.
You smiled in the dark.
"Yeah," you whispered. "I know."
The phone rang at 12:17.
You grabbed it on the first ring.
The automated voice came first.
It always did.
Flat. Mechanical. Rude.
You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—
You closed your eyes.
—Andrew Cody.
You pressed one before the recording had finished telling you how.
The line clicked.
Static.
A distant clatter.
Then his voice, low and rough around the edges.
"Hey."
Your whole body softened into the mattress.
"Hey."
"You asleep?"
"No."
"You should be."
"I was waiting for you."
He went quiet.
You could hear prison noise behind him. Not much. Muted at this hour, but still there. Voices farther away. A door closing. The occasional crackle of a guard's radio.
Then Andrew said, "You shouldn't wait up."
"You always say that."
"Because you shouldn't."
"And I always do."
A pause.
Then, softer, "Yeah."
You smiled and turned your face further into the pillow.
It was ridiculous how much a single word could do. How his voice could fill the room without changing anything in it. His side of the bed was still empty. His boots were still by the door. The green paint samples were still taped to the nursery wall down the hall, three shades of almost-right, one shade of absolute soup.
But he was here.
A little.
Enough for tonight.
"You okay?" he asked.
You laughed quietly.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Your opener."
"I waited this time."
"You waited fourteen seconds."
"That's better."
"It's really not."
"You okay?" he repeated.
You rolled your eyes, but your hand smoothed over your stomach. "Yes."
"The baby?"
"Also yes."
"She moving?"
"She was a second ago."
He went quiet again.
You could picture him standing at the prison phone, head slightly bowed, eyes narrowing in concentration like he could listen hard enough to hear through you.
"She's stubborn at night," you said.
"Like you."
"Like you."
"You're the one awake."
"You called me."
"You answered."
"You see how marriage works?"
His breath moved through the line, almost a laugh.
You loved the almost laughs.
You loved the full ones too, but the almost ones felt private. Like Andrew was handing you something before he had decided whether he was allowed to.
The baby shifted again.
You sucked in a soft breath.
Andrew heard it immediately.
"What?"
"She moved."
"Yeah?"
"Mm-hmm." You pressed your palm more firmly over your belly. "I think she knows it's you."
Andrew was silent for a second too long.
Your heart pinched.
"You still there?"
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
Another pause.
Then, quiet and honest, "I like when you say that."
"That she knows it's you?"
"Yeah."
You smiled into the dark.
"She does."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because I'm her mother and I have decided I know."
"That's not science."
"She's currently kicking me in the ribs. I'm allowed to claim authority."
"She kicking hard?"
"Not hard. Just enough to be rude."
Andrew huffed softly.
You let your eyes close.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You could hear him breathing. He could probably hear yours. Between you, the line held static and distance and all the things you had learned to live around.
Then he said, "Did you get the list?"
Your eyes opened.
"What list?"
"The names."
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Of course.
You had sent him a list two days earlier. Two pages of baby girl names written in your messy handwriting, copied twice so one could be cleared for him. Some names you loved. Some you liked. Some you had added just to make him react.
He had been weird about it when you told him you were sending it.
Not bad weird.
Andrew weird.
Too quiet. Too serious. Like names were not just names but doors into the future, and he needed to make sure he did not choose one that led somewhere wrong.
"They gave it to you?" you asked.
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And you put ridiculous names on it."
You grinned. "Which ones?"
"Juniper."
"That is not ridiculous."
"It is."
"It's sweet."
"It's a tree."
"It's also a name."
"It's a tree name."
"You picked green for her room. You don't get to be anti-tree now."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Walls don't have to introduce themselves."
You laughed into the pillow.
Andrew went quiet to listen to it.
You knew he was doing it. You could almost feel the way his attention settled.
"What else?" you asked.
"Clementine."
"That one was a joke."
"No, it wasn't."
"It mostly was."
"You wrote it with a heart beside it."
"I have a whimsical side."
"You have a dangerous side."
"A baby named Clementine Cody would be adorable."
"She'd sound like fruit."
You snorted.
Andrew's voice went slightly softer. "Don't laugh like that. You'll wake yourself up."
"That is not how laughing works."
"You're supposed to be sleeping."
"And yet here we are discussing fruit names."
"Because you wrote fruit names."
"One fruit name."
"Still."
You smiled and shifted carefully, adjusting the pillow beneath your belly.
Andrew heard the rustle.
"You uncomfortable?"
"A little."
"Need to move?"
"I just did."
"Need water?"
"I have water."
"Drink some."
"Bossy."
"Drink."
You reached for the bottle on the nightstand and took a sip. "There. Happy?"
"Yeah."
"You're very easy to please tonight."
"No."
"No?"
There was a pause.
Then he said, "I liked some."
Your smile softened.
"The names?"
"Yeah."
"Which ones?"
He did not answer immediately.
This was the part you had expected.
Andrew could argue about soup-green paint and fruit names just fine. But saying he liked something? Saying he wanted something? That was different.
Want was vulnerable.
Want could be used against you.
You gave him space.
The baby rolled lazily under your hand like she was waiting too.
Finally, Andrew said, "The short ones."
"Short ones?"
"Yeah."
"You'll have to be more specific, baby. There were a lot."
He went quiet at the pet name.
You smiled faintly.
Even now, after everything, sometimes calling him that still knocked him off balance.
"Mara," he said.
Your smile softened. "I like Mara."
"It's good."
"Good?"
"Strong."
"It is."
"Not too much."
"No."
He breathed out softly. "Nora too."
"You liked Nora?"
"Yeah."
"That surprises me."
"Why?"
"I don't know. It's sweet."
"I can like sweet things."
The words landed quieter than he probably meant them to.
You stared into the dark.
"Yes," you said gently. "You can."
Andrew didn't say anything.
You let him have that silence too.
Then, after a moment, you asked, "Any others?"
"Willa."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Really?"
"You don't like it?"
"I do. I love it actually. I just didn't know if you would."
"It sounds..." He stopped.
You waited.
"Safe," he said finally.
Your throat tightened.
"Yeah," you whispered. "It does."
Willa.
Safe.
You pictured it for a second. A little girl with soft green walls and yellow ducks and a father who would pretend not to know all the words to her bedtime books before memorizing them by the second week.
Then Andrew cleared his throat.
"But maybe not."
"Why?"
"Sounds like someone else's kid."
You laughed softly. "That is such a strange but weirdly useful review."
"It does."
"Okay. Willa is someone else's kid."
"Maybe."
You shifted again and winced slightly when the baby pressed against something low and uncomfortable.
Andrew's voice sharpened. "What?"
"Nothing. She's just rearranging furniture in there."
"She hurting you?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"She needs to stop."
You smiled despite yourself. "I'll pass that along."
"Put the phone there."
"What?"
"On your stomach."
"For what?"
"I'll tell her."
You laughed, but did as he asked, moving the phone from your ear to rest gently against your belly.
"Okay," you said, voice slightly raised. "Go on. Parent her."
Andrew was quiet for half a second.
Then, low and serious, he said, "Hey. Stop kicking your mom like that."
You pressed your lips together.
"She's trying to sleep."
The baby moved directly under the phone.
You gasped, then laughed.
You brought the phone back to your ear. "She kicked you."
Andrew went silent.
"She what?"
"She kicked right where the phone was."
His breathing changed.
You smiled at the ceiling.
"She's already ignoring you. Very advanced."
"She heard me."
"I think she did."
For a second, there was only static.
Then Andrew said, "Good."
One word.
Soft enough to hurt.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat.
"She likes your voice," you said.
"You think?"
"I know."
"That science too?"
"Yes. Mother science."
He huffed quietly.
You closed your eyes again.
The room felt warmer now.
Still empty on his side of the bed, yes.
Still missing him in every corner.
But warmer.
"Did you hate any names?" you asked.
"Yes."
You laughed. "That was fast."
"Paisley."
"You hated Paisley?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It sounds like a shirt."
You burst out laughing.
"It does not."
"It does."
"Paisley is a perfectly normal name."
"It's a pattern."
"You are so opinionated for someone who claimed he didn't know anything about names."
"I know I don't like shirt names."
"Oh my God."
"Also Pearl."
You blinked. "You hate Pearl?"
"No."
"But?"
"It sounds small."
"Pearls are literally small."
"Exactly."
You smiled. "Okay. No Pearl."
"Maybe as a middle."
Your smile softened.
"A middle name?"
"Yeah."
"You've been thinking about middle names?"
"No."
"Andrew."
"A little."
You grinned into the dark.
He sounded mildly defensive, which meant he had absolutely been thinking about it.
"What kind of middle name?" you asked.
"Don't know."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You paused."
"I'm allowed to pause."
"You pause when you're hiding something."
"I pause because you ask too many questions."
"I ask charming questions."
"You ask trap questions."
You smiled harder.
The baby shifted again, slower this time, settling under your palm.
"You want something simple?" you asked.
"Maybe."
"Pretty?"
"Not too pretty."
You laughed softly. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"You absolutely do."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "Something that means something."
Your chest softened.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Not just because it sounds nice?"
"It can sound nice too."
"That helps."
He made a quiet sound.
You stared into the dark, hand resting over your daughter.
There were words you both had not said yet. Not properly. Words that had been near the conversation for weeks without either of you putting them down in the middle of the room.
Hope was one of them.
Not as a first name.
Not something you were ready to settle.
Just a word that belonged near your daughter somehow.
Near Andrew too.
Near the strange, stubborn brightness that had kept finding you in all the places it should not have been able to reach.
You didn't say it.
Neither did he.
Not yet.
Instead, Andrew asked, "What about Grace?"
You blinked.
"Grace?"
"Yeah."
"That's pretty."
"You like it?"
"I do."
"Too pretty?"
"A little," you admitted.
He huffed. "You're picky."
"You rejected Paisley because of shirts."
"It is a shirt."
"Pattern."
"Same thing."
You smiled.
"What about Mae?" you asked.
"Mae?"
"Simple. Pretty. Not too much."
He was quiet.
You could almost hear him testing it silently.
"Maybe," he said.
"That means you like it."
"It means maybe."
"You are impossible."
"You married me."
"I was clearly unwell."
His almost laugh came warm through the line.
You held onto it.
"What about Rose?" you asked.
"No."
You laughed. "Immediate."
"Too..." He stopped.
"Too what?"
"Everyone has Rose."
"Fair."
"And flowers die."
You paused.
Then made a face in the dark. "That's bleak, even for you."
"It's true."
"We are not putting that on a baby-name list."
"Good."
"What about Claire?"
"Maybe."
"You like Claire?"
"It's okay."
"That's not a ringing endorsement."
"It's not bad."
"Andrew Cody, poet of our time."
He ignored you. "What about Anna?"
Your hand stilled.
"Anna?"
"Yeah."
"That wasn't on the list."
"I know."
"You came up with that?"
"Maybe."
Your expression softened.
Anna.
Simple. Gentle. Classic.
Not the name.
But sweet.
"You like it?" you asked.
"It's okay."
"You brought it up."
"I said maybe."
"You're very committed to maybe."
"Maybe is safe."
That one landed quietly.
You looked toward the ceiling.
Maybe was safe.
Maybe did not ask too much. Maybe did not make promises. Maybe did not break your heart if the world changed again.
But maybe was also where Andrew lived most comfortably when things mattered.
Maybe meant he was thinking.
Maybe meant he was close.
Maybe meant he had not run.
"Anna is pretty," you said softly.
He was quiet.
Then, "Yeah."
"We can keep it on the list."
"Okay."
You smiled.
The call settled after that into a gentle rhythm.
Names offered.
Names rejected.
Names held for later.
Clara was "too clean," which made no sense until he explained that it sounded like someone who never spilled things, and then somehow it made perfect sense.
Sadie made him pause, but he said it sounded like someone who would steal his keys.
You liked that as an argument in its favour.
He did not.
June made both of you go quiet for a second, not because it was perfect, but because it sounded warm.
Like sunlight through curtains.
Like a baby sleeping against your chest.
Like a month when things might be softer.
You wrote it down on the notepad beside the bed.
Andrew heard the pen.
"You writing?"
"Mm-hmm."
"What?"
"The maybes."
"How many?"
"Four."
"Four?"
"We need options."
"We need one."
"Eventually."
He grunted softly.
You smiled.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You smiled."
"How do you know?"
"You breathe smug."
"I do not breathe smug."
"You do."
"I am glowing with pregnancy and wisdom."
"You are lying in bed making lists after midnight."
"Also that."
The baby gave one firm kick.
You gasped, hand flying to your stomach.
Andrew's voice sharpened immediately. "What?"
"She kicked hard."
"You okay?"
"Yes." You laughed breathlessly. "She either loves June or hates it."
"Which one?"
"I don't speak fluent baby yet."
"You should learn."
"I'll add it to tomorrow's tasks."
He went quiet in that listening way again.
"Put me on," he said.
You moved the phone to your stomach without asking what he meant.
"Okay," you whispered.
Andrew's voice softened when he spoke.
"Hey, baby girl."
Your eyes closed.
"We're trying to pick your name."
The baby moved faintly beneath the phone.
"Your mom likes too many."
You smiled.
"I'm trying to help, but she put tree names and fruit names on the list."
You mouthed, rude, into the darkness.
Andrew continued, his voice low and careful.
"We'll find it. Okay? Something good. Something that sounds like you."
Your throat tightened.
He paused.
Then softer, "You don't have to kick so hard. She needs sleep."
The baby kicked again.
You laughed, pulling the phone back up. "She did it again."
Andrew was silent.
Then, very quietly, "She's trouble."
"She's your daughter."
"Exactly."
You grinned.
The call timer beeped faintly.
Your smile dimmed.
"How long?" you asked.
"Five."
You hated that sound.
Every time.
Even when the call was soft. Especially when it was soft.
Because soft made the end worse.
You looked down at the list beside the bed.
Mara.
Nora.
Willa.
Anna.
June.
A few others crossed out with tiny notes beside them.
Fruit, according to Andrew.
Shirt, according to Andrew.
Probably steals keys, according to Andrew.
You smiled despite the ache.
"We didn't decide anything," you said.
"No."
"Good."
"Good?"
"I don't want to decide while you're tired and I'm emotional."
"You're always emotional right now."
"I am carrying your daughter. Choose your next words carefully."
"I said right now."
"Still dangerous."
He made that almost-laugh sound again.
Then he said, "I like talking about it."
Your heart softened.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Names?"
"Her."
You closed your eyes.
"Oh."
"The room. The ducks. The way she kicks. The names." His voice lowered. "All of it."
You pressed your palm over your stomach.
"Me too."
"Makes her real."
"She is real."
"I know." He paused. "More real."
You understood.
You always did with him, even when the words came out sideways.
"She's very real over here," you said. "She's currently using my ribs as personal property."
"She gets that from you."
"My ribs?"
"Taking over."
You laughed softly.
"I love you," you said.
The words came out suddenly.
Too full.
Andrew went quiet.
Then, "I love you."
You blinked hard.
"And her," he added.
Your throat closed.
"Yeah," you whispered. "She knows."
"Tell her anyway."
"I will."
The timer beeped again.
"One minute," he said.
You curled slightly around the phone, like you could keep the call from ending by making yourself smaller around it.
"You need to sleep," he said.
"I will."
"Drink water."
"I did."
"Again."
"You're so bossy."
"You like it."
"Unfortunately."
Another tiny almost laugh.
Then silence.
Neither of you wanted to spend the last seconds on jokes.
You stared at his empty side of the bed.
"Andrew?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad she's yours."
He stopped breathing.
You heard it.
The sudden quiet.
The words had slipped out before you could soften them. Before you could make them easier for him to hold.
But you didn't take them back.
You meant them.
Every part of them.
When he spoke, his voice was rough.
"Baby."
"I am," you said. "I'm glad."
The line crackled.
For a second, you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, very quietly, "Me too."
The call clicked off.
No goodbye.
No soft ending.
Just silence.
You lay there for a moment with the phone still pressed to your ear.
Then you lowered it slowly.
The bedroom settled around you again.
The fridge hummed downstairs.
The wind moved against the windows.
His side of the bed stayed empty.
But your hand was warm where it rested over your daughter.
You picked up the notepad from the nightstand and looked at the maybes.
Some pretty.
Some sweet.
Some safe.
None of them certain.
Not yet.
You added one more line at the bottom.
Not a name.
Just a note.
Something good.
Then you set the pen down, tucked the phone beneath your pillow, and curled carefully around the shape of your daughter beneath your ribs.
The baby shifted once, slow and sleepy.
You smiled into the dark.
"Don't worry," you whispered. "We'll find you."
And somewhere far away, behind concrete and wire and locked doors, Andrew Cody went back to his bunk with a list of names folded into the pocket of his prison shirt.
Mara.
Nora.
Willa.
Anna.
June.
He lay awake longer than he should have, staring at the ceiling and mouthing each one silently.
Trying to imagine a little girl answering.
Trying to imagine a future where he got to call her in from the yard, buckle her into a car seat, tell her not to climb things the way her mother did.
None of the names fit perfectly.
Not yet.
But for once, that did not scare him.
For once, maybe felt less like uncertainty.
More like time.
More like the life waiting for him outside was still saving him a place.
Andrew turned onto his side and tucked the list beneath his pillow.
Before he closed his eyes, he thought about your voice in the dark.
I'm glad she's yours.
His throat tightened.
He put one hand over the folded paper beneath his pillow.
And for the first time all night, he let himself believe his daughter's name would find them when it was ready.
━━ ⋆ . 𐙚 ̊ . jack abbot x morgue tech!reader ; after your shift, you go upstairs to the er looking for jack and you run into a few of your boyfriend's coworkers, they bring to your attention just how large jack abbot really is ━ 4.2k
field trip ⋆ . 𐙚 ̊ . to THE MORGUE
By the time you finished shift change down downstairs, the hospital had already begun its slow transition from night to morning. The morgue never changed much regardless of the hour.
The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily.
The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up.
The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted.
The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation.
You hated it.
Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount of everything put you especially at unease.
Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing.
Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand.
Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed.
This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault.
Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work.
So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around.
By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nurses’ station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.
You immediately regretted coming up here.
Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine.
You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.
Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip.
Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders.
The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.
You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation.
Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment.
His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot.
Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the word sorry from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers.
You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place.
You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice.
Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my god—"
"Morning, Morgie."
You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur.
You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."
"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye.
"Trying to," you answered honestly.
Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing.
You had known people like Trinity your entire life. Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her.
If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people.
Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion.
"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are like a thing, right?"
You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question.
Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."
You blinked at her.
You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life.
But apparently none of that really mattered.
Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."
Your brain stalled completely.
Packing? Walks like it, what? Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"
Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to.
"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."
For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long.
Concern immediately sparked in your chest. Was his leg hurting him?
"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."
"What?" she asked. "I've been catching print for the last hour. I'm curious!"
Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean, catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances.
"Catching what?" you asked.
She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked.
"Should I?"
In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."
Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion.
"I'm confus—"
"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted.
Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips.
Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered.
Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch.
Oh.
Oh.
Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline of him beneath.
It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were. Was it getting hot in here?
It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes.
You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough.
This was different. This was public.
This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick.
Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.
And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense.
Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh.
You couldn't speak.
You couldn't breath.
Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you.
"There it is."
Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory. Dear God.
Had it always been that noticeable?
You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder.
"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER.
You almost didn't answer the door.
The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear.
Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem.
The problem was you.
It was how Jack made you feel.
Jack was thoughtful and kind.
The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you.
The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole.
You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned.
The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."
The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of the sickness you had told him you'd suddenly come down with.
"Can I come in?"
You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."
"Yeah, I did," he muttered.
He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items.
The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it.
"You look better than I expected."
You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly say I knew you were lying when you said you were sick.
So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained.
"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin.
You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm.
"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."
You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed.
"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."
"Jack, thats too much."
"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."
Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people.
You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you.
"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward.
Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing.
He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere.
"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary.
"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued.
You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable.
He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. Very Jack Abbot of him and very much the bane of your existence.
You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."
"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."
The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator.
"Honey?"
"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.
"Tell me what's going on."
You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations.
Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere."
You blinked, confused, "What?"
"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered.
"I don't think—"
"Sit."
His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling.
"Oh my god."
"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation.
But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in.
"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"
You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."
You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."
"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."
"Exactly my point. It's you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."
You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable.
"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she said—"
Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."
"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That would definitely not help."
"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"
You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."
Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"
"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."
Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"
And there it was.
This was the moment. The point of no return.
You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"
The silence that followed was immediate.
"What?"
You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she said—and I quote—'he walks like it's heavy.'"
For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.
It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."
"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."
"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing.
"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.
"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"
Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"
"You don't understand."
"No. I do."
The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what if you noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."
"Jack."
"What?"
His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."
"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."
"I'm trying." He absolutely was not. The smile gave him away.
"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."
"It is terrible."
"Why?"
"You weren't there."
"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked.
You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. “I just—" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay? Obviously. But that's private."
Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."
For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind of pervert."
"Oh."
You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean oh?”
The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"
"No!"
You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."
Your mouth dropped open.
"I do not."
One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.
His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."
"Jack, that's not helping."
"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"
Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."
"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."
"Please stop talking."
"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."
Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.
The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.
"There she is."
You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.
And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.
Hey, sorry I’ve been MIA. In the last two weeks have been busy. A fibro flair—still in action BTW—my birthday, and my idiot pharmacist forgetting to fill all my meds. That was a fun pain in the ass. But I am sitting down tonight with my blanket and finishing the next chapters. ETA probably Saturday. 🤞🏻
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working nights in the morgue means you’ve gotten used to being overlooked. quiet ones always are. but dr. jack abbot notices you anyway.
he notices your careful hands, your lowered eyes, the way you fluster when he says your name. and somewhere between late-night charting, fluorescent lights, and exhausted confessions whispered in empty hallways, jack realizes he wants something he probably shouldn’t.
CHAPTER ONE — NINE ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ completed ❪ 18.9k words ❫
⊹ ࣪ ˖ act one follows the reluctant tension-filled evolution of jack abbott and a quiet, anxious morgue tech. it begins with exhaustion, mutual annoyance, and an unfortunate first impression. it ends ( temporarily ) in confessions, broken rules, and hands brushing too long by the trauma bay sink and a single earth shattering kiss. best read in descending order for understanding!
⟢ cold and predictable
⟢ cold storage
⟢ a cold shoulder
⟢ too cold to touch
⟢ cold cut
⟢ caught in the cold
⟢ cold hands
⟢ left out in the cold
⟢ let in from the cold
CHAPTER TEN — NINETEEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ongoing ❪ tbd words ❫
⊹ ࣪ ˖ act two follows post-confession. you’ve admitted too much. jack’s heard too much. and yet neither of you knows what to do with the silence that follows. you keep pretending. he keeps showing up. the hospital keeps getting hotter. best read in descending order for understanding!
⟢ heat source
morgue notes - 001
⟢ heat on contact
morgue notes - 002
⟢ after the heat
⟢ heat in your hands
⟢ the sound of heat
morgue notes - 003
⟢ held in heat
⟢ heat flash ( coming soon )
⟢ heat bitten ( coming soon )
morgue notes - 004
⟢ heated words ( coming soon )
morgue notes - 005
⟢ heat of the moment ( coming soon )
morgue notes - 006
morgue notes - 007
morgue notes - 008
˚₊‧ 𐙚 THE APPENDIX ⊹ ࣪ ˖
⊹ ࣪ ˖ NIGHT SHIFT — MORGUE NOTES
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part one
˚₊‧ 𐙚 part two
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part three
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames from jack
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames for jack
a little revamp for the ggc masterlist + a few reminders
one : the taglist is disbanded temporarily
two : the morgue notes are apart of the ggc "canon" and are best read with their corresponding chapters. the appendix morgue notes can be read in any order and probably won't be referenced in the main story line
thank you all for reading and sticking around despite my hiatus 😞
I really fucking hated how that AI-generated picture spread, so I made this quick edit of Pope and Shawn like a week ago. Use the damn Photoshop instead of using AI, guys.
Edited by me—you're welcome to use it.
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