summary: What starts as you “borrowing” Jack’s hoodie turns into heated confessions, desperate kisses, and him fucking you on the counter like he’s been waiting all this time to claim you.
wk: 3.1k
tags: Smut (18+ • MDNI), rough/dominant sex, choking/breath play, possessive dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink, semi-public sex (risk of getting caught, strong language, nicknames like: babygirl, good girl, beautiful and mine
notes: this is my first time writing smut, soo i tried. don't flame me. thank you. have fun <3
The Nightshift in the ER is cold. Not because the temperature drops, but because exhaustion sinks into your bones and makes everything feel sharper, even lonelier. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like static in your skull. Somewhere around midnight the department grows quiet for a moment, and that’s when the cold really creeps in.
Under your scrubs, behind your eyes, into the spaces between heartbeats.
Maybe it's the exhaustion.
Maybe it's the lack of sunlight.
Maybe it's just this place.
You’re halfway through triaging a sprained wrist when Jack brushes past you, close enough that his arm grazes your shoulder. He muttered an apology and carried on with a chart tucked under one arm.
"Room four needs labs” he says, still moving towards the bay.
"You say good evening to all your coworkers like that?"
Jack glances over his shoulder, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes.
"You've been here six months and still think this is evening?"
"It's called optimism”
"It's called concerning"
"Concerning? Naaaahh”
“I see, you're in denial. Now, that's concerning” he laughs before sorting his clipboard into the stack of more.
You grin despite the tiredness and watch him take off into the opposite direction, catching a glimpse at the way the corners of his lips turn upwards.
That's become normal lately.
The little almost-smiles.
The lingering eye contact.
The strange awareness you've developed of where Jack is at all times.
You try not to think too hard about it. It means nothing and everything all at once.
There's a lull around eleven-thirty that the veteran nurses call the false peace.
You've learned not to trust it.
You spend it charting at the nurses' station, stealing sips of lukewarm coffee, half-watching Jack across the department as he talks to a family in the hallway outside room seven. He keeps his voice low, controlled but you can read the conversation in his posture. The slight drop of his shoulders. The way he turns his body toward them like a shield.
Bad news. Fuck.
He's good at delivering it. Better than most people you've worked with. He doesn't rush through the words or hide behind clinical language, he's honest while people fall apart.
It shouldn't surprise you by now but it does. A little.
He looks up and catches you watching. As always. You just really can't help yourself.
You drop your eyes back to your chart immediately. There has always been this tension between the two of you, but neither ever tried to go after it. Whether it was out of fear, judgement or simply because neither of you knew if the other one felt the same.
When you look back up, he's already gone. The family left behind in the room he just left, collecting the pieces of their kid's life. Or whatever is left of it.
The shift gets worse around one in the morning. Just when you thought of grabbing a coffee, a multi car accident floods every single bed in the ER. Everything is filled with noise, blood and adrenaline, no one is staying still.
Nurses are shouting vitals, yelling for crash carts and a doctor to assess the case
And by the time the chaos finally slows down, your scrubs cling uncomfortably to your skin and your head throbs behind your eyes. The familiar aching pain that spreads through your head would stop eventually, at the latest when your head hit the pillow in the morning.
You make your way toward the break room like a ghost.
The room is blessedly empty, a single hoodie catching your attention.
Gray. Oversized. Familiar.
Jack's.
You recognize it because he wears it constantly during overnight shifts, usually sometime around four a.m. when exhaustion starts winning.
Your fingers brush over the sleeve before you can stop yourself.
It looks warm. Of course it is, why else would he wear it?
You can't help but take it into your hands, smiling and eventually slipping it over your head. The warmth of the fabric hits you immediately.
Oh, I'm so stealing this one.
If he didn't want someone stealing it, maybe he shouldn't leave it lying around in a hospital full of sleep-deprived thieves.
It even smells like him.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
He'd drop some comments about that hoodie later, or not at all. You decided you're willing to take the risk before making your way over to the coffee pot.
Halfway through pouring coffee, the break room door swings open.
Of course it does. And who else could it be, but him?
Jack stops dead.
His gaze lands on the hoodie first, then slowly lifts to your face.
"You rob people often" he says finally, voice rough with exhaustion "or am I special?"
"You left it unattended." you shrug your shoulders and continue to pour.
"That's your legal defense?"
"You work in emergency medicine. Surely you support survival-based decision making."
Jack shuts the door behind him, still staring at you in his hoodie.
It does something unfortunate to your heartbeat.
"You know” he says slowly "most criminals at least try to be subtle."
You hold your arms out dramatically. "It was cold."
"It's seventy-two degrees in here."
"Emotionally, Jack. Keep up."
That finally earns a laugh from him.
A real one.
Low and tired and warm enough that your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.
Jack moves farther into the room, grabbing himself a mug from beside the microwave.
His words made you painfully aware of the fact that you're wearing his clothes.
And worse, he keeps looking at you in them.
Not annoyed. Distracted.
Like he's trying very hard not to think about something.
"You're staring," you say, trying to hide your smile behind the hood you slipped over your head before pouring your coffee.
"You're wearing my hoodie."
"You noticed?"
"Hard to miss."
“I tactically acquired it”
“Tha- Jeez, that's not how that works” he chuckles.
“Thats exactly how that works and besides, you left it unattended,” you say. “So, I’d say that’s basically consent.”
“That’s not how theft works.”
“You’re a doctor, not a cop.”
“Still pretty sure this is a felony.”
You take a sip of coffee to hide your smile since the hoodie wasn't doing enough.
"Well now I'm definitely keeping it."
"That hoodie cost me forty dollars."
"You're a doctor.” you remind him again, now finally turning towards him. “You make trauma surgeon money, you'll survive
"That's exactly why I can't afford it." he huffed while grabbing the pot right next to you, pouring it and taking a sip of it before setting down the mug.
Jack leans against the counter across from you, shoulders visibly sagging now that the rush has died down. Up close, he looks exhausted in a way that settles deep beneath your ribs.
His hair's slightly messy from running his hands through it all night and there's dried blood near the cuff of his sleeve he probably hasn't noticed.
He catches you looking and tilts his head.
“What?”
“You doing okay?” you bite your lower lip, giving him a faint smile.
"Yeah, hanging in there"
"You look terrible."
"Wow."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
You roll your eyes. "You look tired."
"So do you."
"That's different."
"How?"
"I'm charming when I'm sleep deprived."
Jack's mouth twitches again "That confidence is concerning."
"That family tonight," you say without responding to his previous tease "The one you were talking to before the accidents came in."
Jack looks at you.
"You were good with them."
A beat of silence.
"You were watching."
"Hard not to. Seeing someone's life fall apart is not for the weak. You did well"
“Oh thank you for the praise, I thrive on that” he jokes, trying to lighten up the mood but immediately looking down to his hands.
Something in his expression shifts into something quieter, more unguarded than he usually allows in the department.
"It was their kid," he says finally. "he was twelve."
You don't say anything. There isn't anything to say.
Jack nods, almost to himself. Then takes a sip of coffee and looks back up at you, and the wall slides back into place, softer now, somehow. More deliberate.
"Do you wear everybody's clothes” he asks casually, "or should I feel honored?"
You smile into your cup. "Jealous?"
"Of who?"
"Imaginary hoodie competitors."
Jack huffs out another laugh, shaking his head, but then, quieter: "You look good in it."
Your breath catches a little.
There's no teasing in his voice this time.
No sarcasm to hide behind.
Just honesty.
The sudden tension in the room feels almost tangible.
You try to laugh it off anyway. "It's literally three sizes too big."
"Didn't say it fit."
The way he says it makes heat crawl up your neck.
Jack notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before flicking back up again.
Something shifts then.
Something that's probably been shifting for months now.
Every late-night coffee together.
Every lingering glance across trauma rooms.
Every time he checked if you'd eaten.
Every moment that felt just slightly too intimate for coworkers.
You look at him - really look at him - and it hits you all at once, quiet and devastating, like something you should have noticed a long time ago. Did he…like you back? Did he notice all those little things as well or did you just imagine the closeness that you so desperately wanted?
Jack raises an eyebrow. Waiting for you to say something. Reading your face as if it's all he's ever known to do.
"Nothing," you say. "Never mind."
But something must show on your face anyway, because his expression shifts too. Recognition, maybe. Like he's watching you catch up to something he already knew.
"You're very confident for a man who hasn't made a move," you say instead, and your voice only wavers slightly.
It catches him off guard, a little confused but he clearly knew what you were talking about. He sighed.
"I didn't think you wanted me to."
The honesty in that almost knocks the air out of you.
And suddenly, the break room felt unbearably warm and small.
You set your coffee down carefully before you spill it everywhere.
Jack's eyes flick to the movement, then back to you again.
"Well..i-i.. i didn't know if you.. fuck “ you run your hand through your hair before continuing. “I wasn't sure if I was just imagining things. All the little glances and- I'm sorry. I don't mean to make this complicated, Jack.” you take a step back before he comes around the counter, grabbing your wrist to prevent you from moving away.
“Nah-uh. You stay right here”
“But-”
“Nope” he answers, taking another step closer, coming to a stop only inches away from you. “You didn't imagine things, i just didn't know if you..”
You swallow hard when his hand came up to your face, cupping your cheek in his right hand.
“If you wanted me” he whispered, his face close, the tip of your nose touching his.
“I've wanted you since the day I walked in here, six months ago” you whispered back, your hands shooting up to the hem of his scrubs.
“I am right here, beautiful”
“I know.. i want you so fucking bad, Jack” you wisper against his face and he cant help himself but smile.
“Oh yeah?” his smile turns into a grin, his hand coming up to your throat, pressing his index finger into your pulse point. “You want me, huh? The pretty girl that's been eye fucking me the entire time, every single time i walk through that door?”
He earns a whine from you, practically begging him to squeeze your neck a little more. He follows your wish instantly, making you wet before touching you where you really wanted him.
“You want this?” he rasps against your lips, taking your lower lip between his teeth to nibble down on it, breathing hard. “Right here, right now?”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Jack. I really need you”
“Oh, babygirl, I won’t be gentle.” His voice is low and rough against your ear as he begins kissing and sucking down the column of your neck, marking you with slow, deliberate bites that make you shiver.
Jack walks you backward until your hips hit the counter, then lifts you onto it with ease. His mouth never leaves your skin.
One hand stays wrapped around your throat - possessive, steady pressure that makes your pulse throb against his palm - while the other slides under the oversized hoodie to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles.
He takes his time, even as his breathing grows ragged. He kisses you deeply, tongue sliding against yours while his fingers work your scrubs down your legs.
When you’re bare from the waist down, he steps between your thighs and finally frees himself. His cock is thick and heavy, flushed dark, the head already glistening.
“Look at me,” he commands softly, tilting your chin up with the hand still around your throat. His eyes are dark with lust but warm with something deeper. “You’re mine tonight. Understand?”
You nod, whimpering as he rubs the head of his cock slowly up and down your soaked folds, teasing your clit until your hips jerk.
“Words, baby.”
“I’m yours, Jack. Please, i-”
He pushes in, slow, relentless, stretching you open inch by inch. A low groan escapes him as your walls flutter around his thickness.
“Fuck… so tight. So perfect for me.” He keeps one hand collared around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as he bottoms out, holding himself deep so you can feel every inch.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust while he kisses you sweetly, murmuring praise against your lips. “That’s it… taking me so well. Such a good girl.”
Then he starts moving - deep, powerful thrusts that rock the counter. Every stroke is controlled but rough, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. His hand tightens around your throat again, just enough to make everything sharper.
You can barely breathe, but the way he watches your face - hungry, attentive, making sure you’re still with him - makes it feel like safety wrapped in possession.
“Eyes on me,” he growls when your lids flutter. “I want to watch you fall apart on my cock.”
He moves his hips deeper, harder, snapping forward with urgency, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the small break room. One hand slides between you to circle your clit with practiced precision while the other keeps its commanding grip on your throat. The dual sensation pushes you right to the edge.
“Come for me, babygirl. Let me feel you.”
Your orgasm crashes over you violently. Your walls squeeze around him, pulsing, but Jack doesn’t stop - he fucks you through it, deep and steady, murmuring filthy praise. “That’s my girl… squeezing me so fucking tight. Good girl, just like that.”
Even as you shake and cry out, he keeps thrusting, drawing out every wave until you’re in tears, legs shaking from the sensation.
When you finally start to come down, he slows but doesn’t pull out. His hand loosens on your throat, thumb stroking the marks he left as he kisses you tenderly.
“Where do you want me to come, beautiful?” he rasps, voice strained with the effort of holding back. His hips still rock shallowly into you, cock throbbing inside your sensitive heat.
You wrap your legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper.
“Inside,” you beg, voice hoarse, begging him to finally release himself. “Please, Jack - come inside me. I need it. Fill me up.”
A possessive groan tears from his chest. “Fuck… yeah? You want me to breed this pretty pussy?"
“Yes - please, Jack. I’m yours.”
He slams back in, losing the last threads of control. A few brutal, deep thrusts later he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural moan, pulsing hot and thick inside you. He keeps rocking through it, pushing his release deeper, claiming you completely while he kisses you slow and sweet, whispering your name like a prayer.
When he finally stills, he rests his forehead against yours, still buried deep, hand gently stroking your throat and cheek.
“Mine,” he breathes, soft and certain. “All fucking mine.”
You stay like that for a long moment - his cock still twitching inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hoodie bunched up around your chest - both of you catching your breath in the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights.
Then reality slowly trickles back in.
Jack pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes widening a fraction as the same thought seems to hit you both at the same time.
“We just fucked in the break room,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-horrified.
“Anyone could’ve walked in,” he finishes, voice low and rough. His gaze darts toward the door, then back to you, a slow, wicked smirk tugging at his lips even as a flicker of concern crosses his face. “Fuck… I didn’t even think about locking it.”
You bite your lip, heat rushing back to your cheeks as you realize just how exposed you still are - his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock, your scrubs discarded on the floor, his hoodie the only thing barely covering you.
Jack lets out a breathless chuckle and presses one last possessive kiss to your lips.
“Worth it, but lets get you cleaned up” he murmurs against your mouth, thumb brushing tenderly over the marks he left on your throat. “and then we should probably get dressed before someone actually does walk in and sees exactly how unprofessional we just were.
He stays inside you for a few more seconds, reluctant to pull out, before finally easing back with a low groan. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time - still dark, still hungry, still sweet.
“Later,” he promises quietly as he helps you down from the counter, steadying you on shaky legs. “My place after shift. No interruptions. No risk of anyone walking in.”
You smile up at him, heart still racing. “Deal.”
He presses soft, almost reverent kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your temple, his hands gentling as he strokes your back and thighs.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse but tender, making sure he didn't go too far fucking his attending to tears in the break room.
You nod with blushed cheeks. “Yes. But you're right, we should get dressed.”
His mouth curves slightly. "Then put your clothes back on before I decide whether to report you for theft."
You laugh under your breath while collecting your clothes off the floor. "Still stuck on the hoodie thing?"
"What can i say, you look amazing and comfortable in stolen property."
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I think that’s just because she likes me more than you
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Finally Mara and Robby arrive - and somehow add an entirely new layer of chaos to an already chaotic pre-birthday celebration.
A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)
Previous chapter: One day I'll die
--- --- ---
By June 30th the house had fully entered pre-birthday chaos.
The kind of chaos where folding chairs mysteriously multiplied in the backyard, your mother had already cried twice about her grandkid turning one and people kept appearing at the house carrying casseroles and salads nobody asked for.
Jack had been handling it surprisingly well. Much better than you had expected. Mostly thanks to your relatives. Your mom had started calling him “our Jack”. Your aunts fed him constantly. (Which led to nightly shots of Gaviscon because the heartburn was killing him.) Your uncles had already liked him before but loved him after yesterday, especially after the prosthetic-leg incident which had somehow turned into a family legend overnight.
He still smiled like an idiot when your mom introduced him as your fiance. And whenever someone called Lizzie his girl.
He was overwhelmed - but happy.
Shortly before noon Lizzie had finally gone down for a nap upstairs. Jack was somewhere outside helping your uncles move tables. You were halfway through your second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.
You frowned because nobody rang the bell here. People usually just walked in.
Your mom looked up immediately. “Maybe Latter-day-Saints again” she said with a shrug. “Don’t let them come in, okay?”
You started to laugh. “Mom, you don’t have to tell me that” you said while walking into the hallway. When you opened the door - you froze.
Mara stood there holding an iced coffee, handbag slung over her shoulder, sunglasses pushed into her hair. Robby stood beside her, also holding a cup of coffee and looking slightly exhausted.
You tilted your head. Because yeah - you had known that Robby would come. And Mara. But you hadn’t known they were apparently arriving together.
“Hi!” Mara hugged you tightly, pressing a kiss onto your cheek. “You look good. The smalltown vibe is clearly suiting you.”
Robby snorted before giving a little wave. “Hey.”
You looked from one to the other, still deeply suspicious. “Why are you together?”
They glanced at each other for a moment like they had a full conversation just with one look.
Mara recovered first. “We had the same flight.”
“And the same rental car” Robby added.
“And before you freak out on me” Mara said, taking another sip of coffee. “It was his idea.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
“He also picked the hotel.”
“Traitor” Robby mumbled under his breath.
Now you turned fully toward him. “You picked her hotel?”
He looked entirely unashamed. “Yeah. There was only one reasonable option.”
“And you just let him do all… this?” you asked confused, looking back at Mara.
She snorted. “It’s not like I had a vote.”
You closed your eyes for a second. “Oh my god.”
“Don’t have a stroke” Mara said quickly. “We’re staying in separate rooms and we’re not - and I repeat NOT - sleeping together.”
Robby's mouth fell open.
Mara noticed immediately. “What now, Robert?”
“Robert?” you echoed, deeply confused.
“You don’t have to say it like that!” Robby said.
“I absolutely have to say it like that.”
Before you could say another word your mother appeared behind you.
“Oh, they’re here!” She clapped her hands together, looking absolutely delighted before turning toward Mara. “You must be Mara!”
She blinked. “Um, yes, hi, Mrs-”
“Oh honey, you are gorgeous!” your mother exclaimed, pulling her directly into a hug. “You look like someone straight out of a movie.”
“Um, thank you?” she replied, giving you a confused look over your mom’s shoulder.
You started grinning.
Your mother let go of her, then turned her attention toward Robby, who straightened immediately. “And you must be Michael!”
He nodded quickly. “That’s me. But everyone calls me-”
“You’re Lizzie’s godfather!” your mother went on without even listening to anything he just said.
He was caught off guard for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“So, you’re basically family!” Your mom hugged him with astonishing determination - which looked hilarious because she only reached his chest. Mara took the coffee out of his hand, so he could hug her back. Which he did.
“It feels like I already know you” your mom said, already teary eyed again. “My daughter told me so much about you.”
Robby shot you a look. “Only good things, I hope?”
You tilted your head. “Wouldn’t you like to know, huh?”
Your mother laughed. “Only good things of course. But she didn’t mention you being so handsome.”
You narrowed your eyes, making a throwing-up-gesture with your hand behind your mothers back. Mara stifled a laugh. Badly.
“You two must be starving” your mom carried on. “All this airport food is real rubbish, you know? You need some proper home cooked meals, huh? And probably some pie first? I’ve got apple pie and cherry pie - but if you want something else I can just make one.”
She paused for a moment, then looked back at Robby. “What’s your favorite pie, Michael?”
He was thrown off guard by that question. “Cherry pie sounds lovely” he said quickly, already smiling again.
“I like him” she cooed towards you.
Mara looked at you slightly horrified. Robby meanwhile looked deeply smug. He shot you a told-you-so-look and it cost you everything to not just flip him off.
“So, come on in you two!” your mother said, already ushering them inside.
“Why are so many people here?” Mara whispered to you, glancing at all the people standing in the kitchen and gathered outside in the garden.
“You’re kind of the main attraction now” you whispered back, grinning. “Everyone wants to have a look at you.”
She crossed herself, mock-seriously, then stood next to Robby, leaning against the counter.
“What can I bring you? Water, lemonade, iced tea, coffee - beer?” your mother asked toward Robby, giving him a wink.
You stared at her. If you wouldn’t know better you would suspect your mom was flirting with Robby.
He gave a perfect smile. “Iced tea is perfect” he replied. “If I drink before noon I get cranky.”
Your mom laughed as if that was the funniest thing she heard in her entire life. “I can’t believe you can get cranky, dear. Not with a handsome face like that.”
Mara cleared her throat. “I’d love one too. Thanks.”
“Sure, honey” your mom cooed, already on her way to the fridge.
From the backyard Jack’s voice drifted through the open screen door. “I’ll be damned - if that’s not the world’s tallest pain in my ass straight from Pittsburgh.”
Robby started laughing. “He’s here - what? Four days and already sounding like he grew up here.” He rolled his eyes, then added louder: “Couldn’t bear to be apart from you for so long, sweetheart.”
Your mother turned, half-confused, half-horrified. You clocked this immediately, waving your hands. “He’s just joking, mom.”
She blinked, then turned back to the fridge, not completely convinced.
Jack appeared in the kitchen doorway, sweating profusely from the heavy lifting he had just done, holding a drink. He stopped dead when he noticed Mara standing next to Robby.
He blinked.
Looked at Robby. Then back at Mara. Then at you.
“Did they arrive together?”
The backyard had finally settled into something softer. The loud part of the day had burned itself out a little. Dinner was still hours away and most of your remaining relatives had spread out into loose little groups across the yard with drinks in hand.
The air smelled like cut grass, barbecue smoke and sunscreen. The smell you had known - and loved - since your childhood. For the first time since you’d arrived things actually felt calm.
You sat curled sideways in one of the lawn chairs, drink balanced in your hand, watching your mom across the yard fuss over her grandchild.
Lizzie, naturally, was thriving under the attention, sitting happily on a picnic blanket with an adorable hat on her head while your mom narrated every movement she made to anyone willing to listen.
“She waved!” your mom announced dramatically.
Your aunt turned around, gasping. “She did! Perfectly!”
“She’s a natural” your mom claimed, looking like she just won first prize at the national waving championship.
You laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. But you also felt a gratitude you couldn’t quite name.
Jack sat beside you, stretched out lower in his chair, beer resting loosely in one hand. He looked tired in that soft, worn-down way he only ever let himself look around people he trusted. His hair was messier now, he had his glasses on and his sleeves were pushed up.
Every once in a while, without really seeming to notice he was doing it, his hand drifted over to touch your knee or brush your arm.
Across from you Robby had somehow made himself entirely at home. Which honestly shouldn’t have surprised you.
Your mom had already adopted him, fed him twice and told at least three relatives he was “Lizzie’s godfather and basically part of the family”.
She was also weirdly keen on touching him - if it was a soft pat on his back, when she walked by or just a gentle stroke across his cheek when she was talking to him.
You thought he would hate this. Instead he seemed perfectly comfortable with the arrangement.
One ankle crossed over the opposite knee, one arm slung lazily across the back of his chair, drink in hand, sunglasses hanging from his collar - he looked completely at peace with his surroundings.
Beside him sat Mara, looking infuriatingly polished. She wore loose linen pants, white sneakers - and looked casual and put-together in a way that you never could have pulled off.
She held a glass of wine between her fingers and watched your family with the expression of someone who still wasn’t entirely convinced any of this was real.
“You know your mom is deeply offended you didn’t ask us to stay here” she said eventually, taking a sip of wine.
You tilted your head. “What? Did she really say that?”
Mara nodded, already grinning now. “She said we could’ve had the guest bedroom.”
“But there’s only one bed inside” you said, your brows furrowed, before your eyes widened. “OH!”
Mara started laughing. “Yeah.”
Jack and Robby looked at each other.
“What’s so funny about that?” Jack asked.
You rolled your eyes. “Mom obviously thinks that these two are like a thing.”
Robby choked on his drink.
Mara was laughing harder now. “I had to explain to her that we’re only friends.”
“Since when are you two friends?” Jack asked, narrowing his eyes.
Robby flipped him off without really looking at him. Instead he looked at Mara with a hard-to-read expression on his face.
“She also asked if we wanted to stay longer.”
Jack looked over his beer. “She didn’t ask me that.”
Robby shrugged. “Don’t be jealous, Jack. I think that’s just because she likes me more than you.”
“Oh, fuck off, Michael.”
“No wonder she doesn’t like you if you’re using words like that.” Robby clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“No worries. I’ve got plenty more where that came from” Jack shot back.
“Did you hear that?” Robby asked with a long suffering sigh. “So, so jealous.”
“Keep talking and I’ll Mara about the time you cried over that stupid lego movie.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You cried for forty-five minutes straight.”
“You had teary eyes too!”
Before Jack could defend himself, a familiar voice drifted closer. “Who had teary eyes?”
Adam appeared carrying a beer. Peter followed a step behind, looking vaguely annoyed being here, which seemed to be his default state lately.
The smile on your face vanished instantly. Jack reached for you, took your hand in his and squeezed it once.
“Mind if we join?” Adam asked.
“You were going to anyway” you replied, not as sharp as you were aiming for.
“Well, that’s correct.”
He dragged over two empty lawn chairs and dropped into one. “I’m Adam” he said, giving a wave to Robby and Mara. “I’m her cousin.”
They said hello.
Peter grabbed the other chair, before his eyes moved across the group. First to Jack, whom he gave the tiniest nod. Then he looked at you - or rather, didn’t because his gaze slid right past you like you weren’t even there.
You rolled your eyes.
Message received, asshat.
Then his attention shifted toward Robby. There was the briefest pause, because Robby, to strangers, was intimidating. Tall. Broad shoulders. Beard. Quiet confidence. A little scruffy maybe, but with that kind of natural authority that made people instinctively straighten a little around him.
Robby stood and offered a hand. “Michael, but everyone calls me Robby.”
“Peter.”
They shook hands and made brief eye contact. A quick silent exchange of mutual assessment that men somehow completed without actually speaking. Or, as Mara called it: comparing their dicks.
You shot her an amused look and noticed she could barely hide her smile behind her wine glass. You looked away before you laughed out loud.
Then Peter turned toward Mara - and stopped. Entirely. Like he’d forgotten how to function for a second. Not dramatically but just enough that you noticed it. So did Jack.
“Well” he muttered, amused.
Mara smiled at him. “Hi.” She held out her hand. “I’m Mara. Her best friend.”
Peter shook it eventually, slightly slower than normal. “Peter.”
He also smiled, which was a rare sight these days. The kind of smile people accidentally gave when they liked what they saw.
But unfortunately for Peter - Robby noticed and immediately sat straighter. He broadened his shoulders. He was suddenly much more alert than before like some deeply hidden instant had quietly activated.
“Mind if I sit here?” Peter said, nodding to the chair Adam had put next to her.
“Nope” she replied.
“Perfect.” He dropped into the chair beside her. “So, you’re from Pittsburgh too?” he asked after the tiniest pause.
“Yeah.”
“We both are” Robby chimed in, taking a sip of his beer.
Peter gave him a brief nod, then turned his attention back to Mara. “What do you do there?”
Mara swirled her wine. “I’m a principal.”
Peter blinked. “Like a school principal?”
“That’s usually what people mean when they say principal."
That earned a little laugh out of him. “No seriously.”
“What?”
“You don’t look like a principal.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What exactly does a principal look like for you?”
Peter immediately realized he’d stepped into a trap. “Uh.”
“No, go on. I wanna hear that.”
“I don’t know” he said slowly. “Older?”
Mara seemed amused. “And?”
“Stricter?”
She laughed. “Wow.”
Robby raised an eyebrow. “She can be very strict, you know?” he mumbled under his breath.
Mara smacked his arm. “Shut up, Robert.”
“Robert?” Jack echoed, giving you a confused look.
You shook your head before shrugging. “No clue” you muttered.
Robby waved his hand. “Ignore her. She’s stupid and I hate her.”
Peter looked from him to Mara and back. He was obviously trying to figure out the dynamic between them - and failed tremendously.
Mara eventually took pity on him. “I’m a principal at an elementary school. And for the record - I’m very strict.”
“Good to know.” Peter smirked. “How many kids?”
“About two hundred fifty.”
He nearly choked on his beer. “That’s a lot of kids.”
“Mhm.”
“And you’re in charge?”
“Yes.”
“God, you must be terrifying.”
She let out a genuine laugh. “Thank you.” Then she turned toward Robby. “See? That’s finally a guy who understands how to compliment me.”
Robby shifted slightly, waving his hand dismissively. “Whatever.”
“What grade?” Peter asked, trying to steer the conversation back.
“All of them.”
“Oh my God.”
“Exactly.” Again she looked at Robby with a knowing smile.
He let out a sigh. “Don’t encourage her please.”
Peter blinked.
Meanwhile Adam had turned toward Jack. “So, did she tell you about the horse she wanted to buy?”
Jack’s eyes lit up. “No.”
You groaned. “Adam.”
“No, seriously, that’s a good story.”
“I was fourteen.”
“I KNOW!” he exhaled excited. “She even had picked out names. For a horse she didn’t even have yet.”
“Oh my God” you muttered. “Seriously?”
“Mister Buttercup must have been my favorite” Adam added.
You groaned while Jack was already laughing, glancing at you affectionately. “That’s adorable.”
“And she wasn’t even looking at horses she could actually afford” he went on. “She was looking at expensive race horses. Horses with a bloodline.”
“I was fourteen” you repeated embarrassed. “I had no clue.”
Robby should have been listening because this was the kind of information he normally collected and weaponized for years.
Instead he sat next to Mara, fuming, beginning to hate Peter.
“So, what made you become a principal?” Peter asked.
She shrugged. “I was a teacher first. And then it was the next logical step.”
“That’s pretty cool” he said with a small smile.
Robby’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” Mara shrugged. “You know I spend most of my time dealing with dictators.”
“You mean children?”
“I mean their parents.”
Peter barked a laugh. “Fair.”
Meanwhile Adam was still going. “And while she was doing shitty babysitter jobs for five dollars per hour so she could buy that stupid race horse one day she spent hours writing stories about her future horse.”
“You wrote fanfiction about Mister Buttercup?” Jack asked you, grinning.
You groaned into your hands. “I hate everything about this conversation.”
“You should” Adam said with a shrug. “And that’s not even the best part.”
“Please, tell me the best part” Jack said, reaching out and grabbing your hand. “Fuck I’m loving this” he muttered under his breath.
“Adam.” Your voice was a warning.
And yet your cousin decided that you weren’t actually threatening - and kept going. “She didn’t even know how to ride a damn horse. She never took riding lessons. She just wanted to buy a damn race horse to put it into her mothers yard.”
Jack burst out laughing.
You looked mildly offended. “I WAS FOURTEEN YOU DIPSHIT!”
“Language!” your mother yelled from the yawn, giving you a pointed look. “Your daughter is present.”
You rolled your eyes - deliberately not looking at your mom while doing so - then sighed. “Sorry mom!” you shouted back, then added more quietly toward Adam: “I’m going to end you, you little piece of trash. Wait until I tell them about the time you wanted to try frenchkissing and couldn’t find a girl to practise with you so you paid Peter five bucks and he went with it.”
For one glorious second complete silence followed.
Adam froze.
Peter froze.
Mara froze.
Just Robby looked like Christmas had come early.
Jack lowered his beer. “What?”
Adam looked horrified. “YOU PROMISED YOU’D NEVER TELL ANYONE.”
You shrugged. “You started this, you know?”
“I WAS FIFTEEN!”
“And? You paid another fifteen year old boy five dollars to make out with you.”
“I DID NOT MAKE OUT WITH HIM.”
Peter finally found his voice again. “We didn’t. It was one kiss.”
The entire group turned toward him - and he immediately regretted speaking.
“Oh my god, so this is true?” Mara wheezed.
Adam dropped his face into both hands.
Robby beamed and turned toward Peter. “So, you kissed Adam for five dollars?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Five dollars are five dollars, right?”
Mara was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. When she finally caught her breath again, she had to wipe tears from her face.
“So Peter” she said with a slightly shaky voice. “I didn’t ask you what you were working but I guess - sex worker?”
The whole group lost it again.
Even Peter gave a small smile. “Haha.”
She reached over and grabbed his forearm for a moment.
“Sorry” she said between laughs. “But this whole town is insane.”
“You have no idea” you replied, laughing too.
“No seriously.” She pointed between Adam and Peter, shoulders still shaking. “What kind of friendship is that?”
“Honestly?” Peter glanced at Adam. “A profitable one.”
Adam looked like he wanted to die.
Robby instead looked like he’d just been handed the greatest gift of his entire life. He leaned back into his chair.
“So let me get this straight” he began.
“I think that’s the only thing being straight in this story” Jack cut in, chuckling.
That got a couple of laughs.
“So Adam, you looked at Peter and thought - yes, this seems like a worthwhile investment.”
The group lost it again.
Adam groaned into his hands. “I miss five minutes ago when we were making fun of Mister Buttercup.”
“Who’s Mister Buttercup?” Mara asked, confused.
“No” Robby replied immediately. “Don’t distract him. We’re never moving forward from this.”
Adam sighed. “It was twenty years ago. It wasn’t a big deal. And it was pretty bad honestly.”
“Ouch!” Peter exhaled, suddenly looking offended.
Adam blinked. “It wasn’t a big thing, dude.”
“You just insulted my kissing technique.”
“YOU WERE FIFTEEN AND YOU KISSED AWFUL!”
“AND YOU STILL PAID FOR IT!” Peter gave back.
You were laughing so hard at this point your stomach hurt.
Even Peter looked amused now - and unfortunately for Robby, Mara’s hand landed on Peter’s forearm again while she tried to stop laughing. It lasted maybe two seconds but it was enough so Robby’s smile disappeared instantly.
Jack noticed it too. “Hey, Robby” he asked quietly, leaning over.
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You seem tense.”
“I’m not.”
“Your eye is twitching.”
“Jack.”
“Hm?”
“Mind your fucking business.”
Jack barked out a laugh.
“So anyway” Adam said, recovering slightly, then pointing at you. “Thank you for revealing the most embarrassing story of my life.”
You smiled sweetly. “Oh, it’s not the most embarrassing story of your life, Adam.”
He looked genuinely horrified now. “What do you mean?”
You tilted your head and raised your drink. “Wait and see.”
Adam gulped, then turned toward Jack. “I’m afraid you’re marrying a psychopath.”
Jack grinned, then looked at you with a fond smile. He squeezed your hand. “Yeah, but she’s my psychopath, you know?”
The bonfire crackled softly in the gathering darkness. Somebody had brought out more chairs. Somebody else had produced another cooler full of beer. Children ran through the yard in chaotic packs while half the adults slowly settled into comfortable after-dinner conversations.
Jack sat beside Robby in a pair of lawn chairs, a beer balanced on his stomach.
Robby was not paying attention to the bonfire - or the beer - or the conversation. Not even to Lizzie, who was cradled against his chest, eyes already half-closed. Her tiny fist was clutched into his shirt and she sucked sleepily on her thumb.
Instead he stared into the yard with narrowed eyes. Jack followed his line of sight.
Mara stood near the grill with Peter - and she laughed. Which somehow made Robby’s jaw tighten.
Jack took a sip of his beer slowly. “You’re doing it again.”
“Hm?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m NOT staring” Robby said, already sounding offended.
Jack rolled his eyes. “You know she’s allowed to talk to other men, right?”
Robby scoffed. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what’s the point, Michael?”
Robby pointed with his free hand. “Look at this asshole.”
Jack looked. Peter was currently laughing about something Mara said. “Okay…?”
“Look at him.”
“I am looking.”
“He’s hovering.”
Jack frowned - then started laughing. “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me.”
Robby stared at him like he wanted to murder him on the spot. “What?”
Jack laughed harder, then wiped a hand over his face. “Michael.”
“What?”
“That man is not flirting with Mara.”
Robby stared. “Yes, he is.”
“No.”
“He is, Jack. I’ve got eyes in my head, you know?” Robby replied seriously.
You stepped out of the house onto the porch. For a moment you just stood there, looking around before walking over to your mom.
Peter was still listening to Mara. Mostly. Every now and then though his eyes found you across the yard before returning to the conversation.
“Who is he looking at, buddy?” Jack asked him.
Robby squinted, then paused. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh!”
Jack shrugged. “Exactly.” He nodded toward Peter. “That guy isn’t interested in Mara.”
“Wait a minute.” Robby's eyes widened. “Wait wait wait. Why aren’t you more jealous then?!”
Jack barked out a laugh. “Because.”
“Because what?”
“I’m just not.”
“But why?” Robby pressed, clearly still confused.
Jack shrugged again. “She’s marrying me, you know?”
Robby stared, then let out a long breath. “You changed, brother.”
“Thank you.”
“I hate it.”
Jack laughed out loud again, then flipped him off.
Robby stared mock-offended at him, briefly covering Lizzie's closed eyes with his hands. “You’re doing that in front of your daughter?”
Jack smiled into his beer.
Across the yard Peter was still staring at you while Mara told him something.
Robby glanced over. “You’re really not bothered?”
Jack thought about it for a moment. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
Jack took his time to answer.
He looked over at you. You were smiling, your arm draped around your moms shoulder. You seemed relaxed - and happy. His heart gave a small jump.
“No.” He paused for a brief moment, then added - “I think he’s the one with the problem here.”
Robby narrowed his eyes, then nodded slowly. “Yeah okay, I get it. But still.”
“What is it?”
“I still want to kill him.”
Jack blinked. “Excuse me, what now?”
Robby shrugged like this was answer enough.
Jack started laughing. “Feel free, but please wait until she’s in bed, okay? I want the arrest happening after bedtime.”
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)
summary: jack meets a little girl wandering the ED one night and falls in love with her mom. follow along as they grow closer and their relationship flourishes.
tags: single mom, classic romance, toxic ex,
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
little miracle asks: askbox requests, headcannons, and general statements
Sleepyhead: the first, second, and third meet.
Cupid's Chokehold: the breakfast date.
Blue: miracle is sick, jack babysits
Upside Down: jack, robby, and miracle go to the zoo.
Good Habits (and Bad): day shift jailbreak by miracle
Youth: [viewer discretion] your ex returns, hurt you, and Miracle. jack comes to the rescue.
Cannock Chase: your recovery, moving in with jack and him beating up your ex
Under Pressure: calm cool and collected jack abbot is nervous to propose.
Ritual Union: the wedding ceremony went off without a hitch, kinda...
My Love Mine All Mine: you are in labor and miracle spends another day in the ER. (end of series)
SUMMARY: When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination.
WARNINGS: some flirting, mentions of alcohol use, swearing, sexual themes when discussing readers new book, kissing, dry humping and male masturbation LOL promise to give you real smut soon <3
A/N: this part took me longer to write than expected, probs bc i finally finished outlining the rest of the series and i was eager to write other scenes as i was drafting them but it's here!! This series can now also be found on Wattpad as well as Ao3 :)
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 7.8k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Jack doesn’t call you.
Not the following morning. Or the morning after that. In fact, for the first three days after the kiss, you’re met with nothing but radio silence.
There’s no frantic run-ins in the lobby, or accidental indecent exposures in the ED. For those initial three days, you stewed on every interaction you shared that night. Talking on the balcony, sneaking him beer, the kiss at the door that you swear still lingers on your lips now.
But more than that, your mind has burrowed a deep and dark hole under the pretense of it being a mistake. That despite him kissing you, despite him reassuring you that Bella is not who he’s interested in, he’s actually come to the realization that neither are you.
You festered on the thought for three days straight. Torn over the idea of calling or texting him yourself. But you’ve never chased a man before and you refused to start now.
In hindsight, it was one of your better decisions not to go off the handles about it. Because on the third night, Jack had texted you a flurry of apologies. There were no excuses for his silence, just a simple explanation that the ED is swamped under new temporary management and he’s only been home for a few hours at a time to nap or shower or feed his cat.
Which was a revelation in itself. Jack has a cat named Sally.
Originally, you had explained that you understood, that it was okay and he had a very important job he had responsibilities for. But Jack had seen that as an easy cop out he refused to take. Promised you that he was not avoiding you, that he did not regret a single second of that night and more convincingly, that he very much wants to do it again.
And for the past week, Jack’s been nothing but present and attentive. Not physically, the ED has still had him entirely swamped of time. But any free moment he gets, he’s texting you, or a quick call to ask about your day, to ask about Phoebe.
He sends photos of random things. A pretty sunrise when he manages to steal a moment to catch it from the ambulance bay. Drawings that children have given him that he’s cared for. And quite a few of someone you’ve learned to be John Shen who likes iced coffee more than you do.
You’ve offered him the same. Photos of your breakfast or coffee when he asks what you’re having. Snapshots of Phoebe when he checks how she’s doing. Pictures of a messy kitchen island when you admit you’re struggling with outlines for your new book.
And on the odd night, when it’s late enough for you to barely keep your eyes open and it’s calm enough for Jack to steal a moment alone, he’ll call to say goodnight. You tell him about your day with Phoebe, he tells you about his craziest patients.
Over the last week it’s become somewhat of a routine. Calls, texts, captures of one another's life if fleeting moments. It’s been nice. Exciting. You find yourself reaching for your phone more often than before, feeling butterflies twist in your stomach every time his name lights up on your screen.
So when the week passes and you wake up at 6 a.m. on the dot, your screen already has a message from Jack waiting for you, buried beneath the emails and texts and social media notifications under your pen name accounts.
You ignore them all in favor of Jack.
Happy release day, sweetheart ❤️
The nickname he’s taken upon himself to give you sets your skin molten. The first time he casually called you that was over the phone one night, and the gentle form of endearment had almost burned you from the inside out.
It’s with sleep-crusted eyes that you unlock your phone and re-read the text over and over again before sending off your reply with a grin.
Good morning and thank you!! How is your shift going?
Despite his text being sent over four hours ago—likely during a rare lull on the night shift—typing bubbles form at the bottom of the texting thread, like he’s been waiting for you to rise from your slumber.
Long. Gotta stay a couple more hours, huge collision pile up on the interstate. Stay away from Parkway West if you can help it.
What are your plans to celebrate?
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, bottom lip caught between your teeth. Still blinking through the groginess, you roll your back, arms bent to hold your phone above your face.
Will do! And just lunch with my parents this afternoon. Phoebe is at Tom’s tonight so probs wine, takeout and drafting for the next instalment.
You wait a few moments for a reply. Which turns into a few minutes. In true fashion, Jack’s likely been pulled away, so you force yourself to get up and start your day.
A very quick shower, a big cup of coffee and then you’re gently waking Phoebe with a tender hand to her back. Her eyes blink open with an immediate frown and she reaches to pull the covers over her head before you can stop her.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” you laugh gently. “Time to get up for school.”
“I don’t wanna,” Phoebe grumbles, shifting until her back is to you.
You stand with a sigh, let your hands rest on your hips. “Okay, guess I’ll just have banana pancakes and listen to Phil Collins on my own then.”
Her head whips round to you at that, peeking from under the covers. She holds nothing but a stony expression and you can’t help the raise of your brows at the sight.
“You wouldn’t.” She accuses with a squint.
You shrug a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. The second you take a step away from her bed, she’s throwing the covers off her in a fit of annoyance and clambering to her feet. Her hair is a matted mess, pyjama top twisted and pant legs scrunched up to her knees.
She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer you anything more than an unimpressed look before walking past you and making her way to the kitchen. You watch with quiet amusement as she climbs the stool to sit at the island, takes a long gulp of the cup of water you already made her.
And when you turn to begin making the pancakes, you hear her demand Alexa to play Easy Lover with more attitude than any four-year-old should possess.
It’s when you’re sitting together and singing with mouthfuls of banana pancakes that your phone chimes with a text from Jack.
In that case, how would you feel about some company?
The music becomes a dull noise beneath the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears. You stop chewing as you read the text over and over, lungs seizing on a breath you haven’t fully expelled. You haven’t seen Jack since that night. Texting and calling has been exciting, has become a norm. But finally seeing him again?
The thought is just as thrilling as it is terrifying.
You’re not working tonight?
His response is immediate again.
Not at the hospital. But I’m more than happy to put some hours in as a ghost writer. In fact, I insist.
The grin that spreads across your face is almost maniacal. It stretches so wide that your eyes crinkle and your body buzzes. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to how smoothly he flirts, how easily your body reacts to a fucking text message from him. Your fingers move across the screen quickly.
Well, I can’t say no to that.
The bubbles appear again for no more than a few seconds before they're replaced with another text.
There we go. It’s a date. I’ll see you at 7
You choke on a noise that sounds similar to a squeal and you can’t tear your eyes away from the screen. You don’t trust yourself to type a reply, so you react to his message with a heart instead.
“Who are you texting?” Phoebe’s tone is accusational and a very sobering sound that snaps you from your little bubble.
You flinch, unintentionally and quickly place your phone screen down on the island, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
“No one!”
She watches you with a conspiratorial look, and for a moment you forget that she’s the kid and you’re the parent. Her suspicion morphs into a shit-eating grin.
“Is it Jack?”
You squint at her. “Shut up and eat your breakfast before we’re late.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Dana’s been watching Jack like a hawk for the past thirty minutes.
A lightness in his expression that increases every time he checks his phone. An ease to his movements, a fluidity in his steps despite how long he’s been on his feet.
She keeps a curious eye on him as he strides from trauma room to trauma room, notices the upward tilt that’s been pinching at his mouth since her shift started an hour ago.
She’s not the only one.
Shen stands beside her, slurping at the very last remnants of his vanilla frappe. The sound grates on the charge nurse’s ears but she lets it slide in favor of gossip.
“What’s he so chipper about?” She mutters to John, eyes still tracking Abbot’s movements.
He uncurls his lips from the straw, observes his fellow attending for only a moment before shrugging and bringing the straw back to his mouth. “Maybe he finally got laid.”
Dana smirks to herself at that, shakes her head in something like amusement and fondness. It’s ten minutes later when Jack approaches the central hub and drums his palms on the desk like he’s waiting to find something else to do.
“Your shift ended an hour ago, Diva.” Dana doesn’t lift her gaze from the tablet in her hand as she speaks, but she doesn’t need to for her to know the way Jack’s looking at her.
He huffs out a grumble, but it sounds more fond than annoyed. “Not you, too.”
She shrugs, finally lets her eyes land on him. “What can I say? It suits you.”
There’s a playful roll of his eyes when she grins.
And Dana just can’t help herself. She juts her chin to him just slightly, holds the tablet to her chest as she crosses her arms around it. “What are you so smiley about, anyway? Mania kicked in already?”
Jack considers her for a moment, a subtle tick in his cheek, an involuntary clench in his jaw. With a sigh, he leans his forearms on the high part of the desk, chews on his lower lip.
“I have a date tonight.” He keeps his voice low enough, the words only meant for a dear friend's ears. But the walls listen in PTMC. When people brush past, the breeze carries the whispers of secrets not meant to be shared.
It’s Joy that this secret reaches first. Before Dana can even react.
She stops still beside the desk, brows raising above the rim of her glasses. “Old people still date?”
Jack’s slightly too offended to consider that his quiet admittance will now become floor gossip. “I’m not that old.”
It’s Santos it reaches next.
Eyes wide, jaw slack. And a shriek of astonishment and accusation. “Oh my God! Is it your neighbor? It’s totally the pelvic chick, right?”
His head whirls to the foghorn of her voice, brows pinched tight. Partly at her volume, the other part at the mention of you—of how she refers to you.
“The pelvic chick?” He screws his face up, less than pleased.
Joy shivers at the memory of it, the slip of tongue her attending gave still haunts her at random moments.
“I’m sorry, how do you even know about that?” A familiar presence brushes past his arm, the scent of jasmine and linen.
“People talk.” Al-Hashimi murmurs the words softly, amusement dripping at the edges of it but she doesn’t outright poke fun at him.
It takes Jack a moment to comprehend her mutter, to cast his mind back to the night you came into the ER, the night he accidentally got an eyeful of you in the one way he never imagined he would.
Joy isn’t the type to gossip. Ogilvie won’t want anyone to know about his scolding. So that only leaves…
Fucking McKay.
“Hey,” Dana calls him softly, “I think it’s great. About time you got back on the horse. Robby thinks so, too.”
Jack cocks a brow as the others disperse to their patients. “You talked to him?”
Dana hums, leans closer to keep the conversation private. “Yeah, he called me the other night. He sounds… not like he’s on the verge of a breakdown.”
Jack laughs but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, well. You know Robby. The novelty of things wears off pretty fast for him.”
She listens, of course. And as much as Dana loves and respects Robby, there’s only so much talk of him that she can handle before she’s considering sabbatical for herself. So she turns to lean against the desk, angles her body to face Jack’s.
There’s an easy smile on her face. One that’s more than a smirk but less than a grin. A softness to her eyes, a genuine curiosity.
“What’s she like?”
He knows who she’s talking about immediately.
Jack lets out a sigh, one that’s a little shaky, struggles to fight the curl in his mouth. If Jack’s honest, he could sit for hours and talk about you. Your interests, your personality… but a selfish part of him what’s to keep that to himself. “She’s…gorgeous, obviously. Smart, kind, very funny. Comfortable, you know? Hard not to like.”
Dana nods, catches the fondness in his tone, the reverent look that seems to clear his eyes. She knows there’s more he wants to say, knows he’s also already shared more than he’s truly willing to.
“And her daughter?” The question is asked softly, carefully.
Jack doesn’t tear his gaze from her. Defensive, in a way. But he knows there’s no need to be. There’s no threat or judgement in Dana’s tone, no warning. Just quiet curiosity. A silent question that seeps into what she speaks.
“I know what I’m signing myself up for.”
Her smile stretches just a little bit wider at his answer. And with one hand wrapped around the tablet, she reaches to pat Jack on his shoulder as she walks past him. “I’m rooting for you, Abbot.”
He exhales slowly when she leaves.
“Yeah, me too.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Outlining scenes and dialogue is usually your favorite part of drafting.
Little moments that make no sense without context, but integral to the story nonetheless. Usually, you’re riddled with moments and conversations; ideas that come to you during the most mundane of tasks.
Showering, eating, cleaning, dreaming.
But for the past week, your thoughts have been far too occupied with something else. Someone else. Jack seems to hide in every crevice of your mind. His texts, his calls, the taste of his lips on yours. You don’t remember the last time you felt so wrapped up in another person, and now, it’s starting to affect your work.
The blank screen stares blankly at you, barely a few incoherent bullet points at the top of the document. When your inspiration dries up like this, it makes you feel like a fraud.
You should be taking every free moment you have to get your plan sorted, to understand the trajectory of the final instalment to the trilogy. Instead, you’re clasping at straws and trying not to freak out when your phone chimes with a text.
It’s almost seven and it’s not Jack, so the relief is instant that he isn’t cancelling at the last minute.
Your moms contact lights up the screen. A simple two sentence text.
Hope the date goes well! Told Tom you’re busy and to text me if Phoebe needs to go home ;)
The innuendo of her text has a blush forming at the apples of your cheeks. She was like this at lunch, too. Suggestive smirks when you finally admitted you and Jack have been texting, a fat grin when you very quickly muttered out that he kissed you.
Your dad, on the other hand… not so excited about the revelation.
For the entire lunch, he had made his viewpoint clear. That he likes Jack, thinks he’s a nice and noble man. That he respects what he does and has done, but that his age is a factor that you need to consider.
Your mom had scolded him for it, but you understood his reasoning. The insecurities he held himself for his age that he doesn’t verbalize outloud. All you could do was remind him of two simple things. You’re a big girl and it’s only a date. Not marriage.
You shoot off a quick reply of: Stop winking at me, it’s weird (but thank you), and drop your phone to the marble counter with a thud at the same time your doorbell rings.
Forcing yourself to gulp down a breath, your hands involuntarily smooth your hips as you stand. Your mind is racing, heart pounding in your chest at the thought of Jack standing on the other side of the door.
The reminder that you’ve texted and called and FaceTime’d more times than you can count over the past week does nothing to quell the nerves. Because seeing him in person is a lot different than through a screen.
When you open the door, your breath becomes lodged in your lungs and Jack drinks you in with an intensity you’ve never quite seen before.
His eyes linger on yours, fall down to your lips where they hover, before tracing the outline of your body. Cataloguing the brown halterneck top, the long frilly skirt, your bare feet and painted toenails.
You do the same. Drink in the salt and pepper curls, the tick in the corner of his mouth, the white knitted shirt with the two top buttons undone. You catch sight of his silver chain as you go down, the dark wash jeans and boots tucked beneath.
His hands, still ringless. One holds a bottle of white wine, the other holds a beautiful bouquet of summer blooms that oddly match the color pallet of your latest book.
You tilt your head at him, purse your lips in a futile attempt to hide your smile. Jack doesn’t offer the same restrains and grins, catches his bottom lip between his teeth before it can spread too wide.
“Wine and flowers, huh?” You tease in greeting.
He glances down at them both before returning that molten gaze back to you. “The wine—and dinner—are to congratulate, the flowers are to apologize, again, for my radio silence.”
You huff a laugh at that, open the door wider and step aside to allow him into your apartment. “I told you already, it’s fine.”
Jack moves close, lets you close the door and when you turn, he’s almost chest to chest with you. Your breathing stutters at the unexpected proximity, but he grins down at you, the wine and flowers the only thing separating your bodies.
“Not fine. Don’t argue with me on it.” His tone is light when he leans closer, words drifting into a sweet whisper.
Jack dips his head lower, lets his lips brush against yours. Your eyes flutter closed, bracing yourself for the touch of his mouth meeting yours. But it doesn’t. Your breaths mingle until he moves, stubble tickling gentle at the corner of your lips until he kisses your cheek.
He doesn't pull away at first, like he’s considering giving in to temptation, but his self restraint is stronger than you’d like it to be. When he finally moves, it’s not far. Still remains close like he’s missed your presence more than he’s let on.
“Pheebs at her dads?” he asks quietly, eyes still on you.
You’re a little mesmerized, nodding blankly. His words register, just barely. It feels like his eyes are sucking you into a warm abyss that you’ll never be able to claw your way out from.
The idea doesn’t sound just metaphorical, either.
You swallow around a dry throat. “Uh, yeah. Until she decides she wants to come home. But, my mom told him to call her.”
Jack hums, a small smile kissing the edges of his mouth. There’s a slight movement between you, the paper wrapping the flowers crinkly as he shakes them slightly.
“Do you have a vase for these?”
Your tongue wets your lips and you nod, guiding him into the kitchen and it’s completely innocent how your hips sway a little more than they usually would.
Jack watches, of course. He’s only a man. But he’s gentlemanly enough to avert his gaze when you bend over to look inside a cabinet. Busies himself with gently tearing the paper around the bouquet.
“I asked the florist to cut the stems, they’re good to just go in some water.”
It almost makes you pause.
The florist.
As in, he went inside a flower shop and asked for flowers. Not some cheap, premade bunch from a supermarket. You don’t think anyone but your parents has ever gotten you flowers from a florist.
You fill the vase with water, thankful your back is to him to hide your grin, give yourself some time to get your stupid butterflies and ovulation under control.
When you turn back to him, Jack’s already approaching you, gently handling the delicate flora by the stems and he eases them into the narrow neck of the glass. Watches you admire them for a moment, bring them to your nose to smell the freshness of them.
The heat on your cheeks makes him nervous. Makes him feel young again.
His wife was the last person he dated. Hasn’t cared about anyone enough to want to pursue something more than the odd one night stand. But you. You make his heart rate pick up just enough for him to notice a change, make his palms a little sweaty when he makes a joke in case you don’t laugh.
But you’re grinning at the flowers like it’s the most precious gift you’ve ever received. And while it’s an incredibly beautiful sight, it’s also slightly painful.
Are you not used to receiving flowers from guys you’re dating?
No, you’re not. No one's ever really cared enough to do the small things.
“They’re beautiful, Jack. Thank you.”
His smile is warm when you look at him a little sheepishly and Jack realizes that you’re just as nervous about this as he is. He knows he hasn’t dated since his wife, but he wonders if you’ve dated since Tom. If you've cared enough about anyone else since you lost your fiance.
The answer is a resounding no.
He doesn’t tell you that you’re the first woman he’s brought flowers for since his wife. Instead, he keeps the smile on his face and averts his gaze to the mess covering the kitchen island. His brows raise. Books everywhere, notepads and highlighters, a half empty glass of wine and a laptop screen with an almost blank document.
Amusement shines in his eyes. “Hows it going?”
A groan escapes you immediately and the nerves begin to dwindle. You reach for a glass, take the bottle from Jack’s hands mindlessly and pour him a drink as you sit on the stool.
“It’s like I’m back in writing school and can’t think of a better word for ‘said’.”
He chuckles at that, takes the glass and sits himself on the stool beside you. His eyes skim the laptop screen.
Kade and mary
cheese
Lost keys???????
“You into grave diggers, baby?”
Someone has to put their finger in the dogs ass
“Necromancer? Aint that someone who fucks corpses?”
– “no thats a necrophiliac”
Dez rimjob scene (at circus)
Lubed up chorizo slap scene
Marys mom is a cougar
Asshole character UNNAMED with toms personality
Ground beef in the trifle
Strip club or orgie scene — undecided
Jack’s eyes blink profusely as he reads over the bullet point outline for your third book. It causes a tightness in his jeans at the thought of you imagining and writing some of these scenes. Reminded of the fact that you’ve told him about your very vivid imagination.
“This how you outline all your books?” he asks with a rough voice.
It's then that your eyes widen with realisation at what he's read. You laugh nervously, scratching at the nape of your neck as you sit beside him.
“It normally goes something like this. Not usually as brief, though. I’ve hit a bit of a block.”
Jack hums, takes a sip of his wine before pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “Well, what if we order some food? See if a bit of energy gets that pretty head of yours conjuring something up, hm?”
You don’t know how he does it—makes his flirting seem more playful than blatant. It’s enough to make your cheeks burn, to form a curl at your lips that you have no control over. So you nod, tell him what Chinese food you like and pretend to busy yourself looking at your paper notes while he raises the phone to his ear and smoothly lists off the order.
As excitable and nervous as you are, Jack’s presence is also strangely…comforting. He makes your home feel warmer, safer. His strong stance relaxing in your space, not taking it up.
For the forty minutes you’re waiting for dinner, you get through a bottle of wine between you. You try to ask Jack about work, which is something he’s very quick to brush off.
“That hospital is the reason I haven’t seen you. Believe me when I tell you it's the last thing I want to talk about tonight. I want to hear about you, and Pheebs.”
He makes your head spin, how open and genuine he is with the statement. You tell him all the mundane things you’ve gotten up to over the past week. And even though he already knows from the brief phone calls or facetime’s, Jack listens all the same.
Intently, carefully. Like every word you speak is sacred. Like he genuinely cares.
He laughs when you tell him some of the things Phoebe has said, his posture stiffens when you recall the two times Tom let her down in the past seven days, and he stares at you in pure wonder when you admit your book is already viral within the first 24 hours of release.
When the food comes, Jack pays in cash; gives you a look that suggests he’d be incredibly offended if you even offered to pay half, so you don’t.
You’re both well on your way to tipsy when you get half way through the second bottle of wine, haphazardly shoving your notebooks to the side to make room for dinner.
Your stools are closer together now, takeout boxes littering the kitchen island, your laptop screen still blinking an almost blank page. There are no first-date etiquettes as you both eat. Hunger and comfortability ruling over the nerves and self-conscious need to eat slowly and politely.
Maybe it’s the wine that has you swiping soy sauce from the corner of Jack’s mouth. Maybe that’s what loosens his inhibitions enough to hand feed you a dumpling you admit you’ve never tried before.
And perhaps it’s the sheer familiarity in one another’s souls that has you snorting loudly into your glass of wine. That has Jack gripping onto the edge of the kitchen island to save him from falling backward off the stool.
Your home is used to the sounds of laughter. It’s used to shrills and shrieks bouncing off the walls. But Jack's hearty chuckles don’t do that. His laughter curls into the crevices of the apartment. They don’t linger there, they make home. Seep into the wood and brick and metal until it’s wedged into the very foundations of the building.
It takes you both an hour to finish your meals. Too caught up in laughter and side-tracked conversations that take your attention away from the task. It’s cold when you finish the last bite, and you push the container away in favor of your half-full glass instead.
Jack mirrors your movement, shuffles his stool closer to yours. But instead of reaching for his beer, he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a pair of glasses instead.
“Alright, got my readers. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Your lashes flutter at the endearing term he’s given them, at the way he gently opens the arm and hooks them over his ears. Your attraction to him grows tenfold at such a simple act, the smallest of adjustments.
Yet you can’t help the ache that forms between your thighs, can’t stop your teeth from pinching your bottom lip. There’s something far too enticing about the black frames that sit on the slope of his nose. The stubbled jaw that clenches, the bob of his throat when he swallows.
And those fucking dangeous lips that twitch when he notices you staring.
For hours, there’s a tightness to both of you as you struggle to write and Jack struggles to help. He was right about the food for energy but right now, Jack’s presence is nothing but a massive fucking hindarance to your writing abilities.
Not your imagination, no. Your overactive mind is doing well with conjuring up explicit scenarios in your head of him fucking you raw and hungry with those fucking glasses on. Thoughts of your ankles resting on his broad shoulders, his beefy arms wrapping around your body, that short stubble burning your inner thighs.
Jack can feel your eyes on the side of his face as he reads over the next page on the doc. He’s had years of training to observe from his peripheral and not lose focus on a task, and yet, he’s not really taking in a single word he’s reading.
That is until he skims over a paragraph that does capture his attention.
Kade’s breath is hot against Mary’s inner thigh, and despite the warmth, it awakens goosebumps across her flush skin. His hand reaches for her first, allows himself to touch her silkiness, to inch closer to her cunt. With his other hand, Kade brings the vibrator between her legs, teases the pulsing toy against her inner thigh—right where his touch started.
Jack swallows thickly, hips shifting briefly in his seat on the stool. The movement breaks you from your little trance and your eyes flick quickly to the screen, realizing the passage he’s stumbled across.
When your eyes flick back to Jack, he’s turning to you slowly with a playful squint, sinful mouth kicking up in a lopsided smirk.
The look does something carnal to you. You can’t tear your eyes away from his lips, can’t calm the hammering of your heart against your ribs. If you look away from his mouth for a moment, you’ll notice when his flicks down to yours. How they linger for far too long.
Your mouth parts just enough for your tongue to wet your bottom lip, and the movement is enough to make Jack give in. The small distance between you is closed when he takes his readers off with one hand and caresses your jaw with the other.
Jack’s lips are on yours in an instant, soft and sweet and careful. So careful that he’s allowing you to lead the pace and tempo of it.
You feel your body relax into the taste of him, your shoulders drooping as he swallows a sigh that slips from you. A small noise follows, one of need and contempt. Jack's hand reaches between your parted thighs, his fingers hooking beneath the seat of the stool. He pulls you toward him, the scrape of metal legs on hardwood echoing but you pay no attention.
Your knees bump as you adjust them to fit between his widely parted thighs. Your hands find his face, sneaking to the back of his neck to snake your fingers through his curls. Jack kisses you harder, his tongue massaging at your bottom lip in a silent request for access.
Something that you give him quickly, swirling your own against his.
He tastes like wine, food and the promise of something you’re not allowing yourself to think too much into. Jack’s hands remain on your face, fingers hidden beneath your hair, palms cupping at your jaw. He lets out soft pants of breath, quiet moans that feed the slick that’s forming between your thighs.
It’s intoxicating, how Jack kisses. Like every emotion he doesn’t verbalize is poured into it. His hands begin to roam in a respectfully needy way. One moves to tangle into your hair, the other slides down the warm skin of your neck, to the bare flesh on your back.
His palm splays against the skin, tender in every aspect you can imagine. Neither of you come up for air, neither of you want to pull away.
You’re shifting to the edge of your stool when Jack’s hands abandon their previous positions to land on your waist. The feverishness of his touch makes your head spin. Makes you slip from your stool so you’re standing between his parted thighs. Makes you tug at his curls as he tips his head up to meet your kiss.
When you nibble on his lower lip, Jack loses his restraint. His hands slide back to your waist, down to your hips until they’re cupping the backs of your thighs, encouraging you to climb into his lap. You don’t know how he makes the movement so fluid, how you don’t tumble into him, how he doesn’t lose his balance.
Your lips stay connected in a searing kiss throughout the movements, only breaking when Jack begins to migrate his lips to your jaw, licking and biting and kissing. Further down, until he’s at your neck and your hips are moving down on his crotch on their own accord.
Your blood burns, so does his. And Jack has never felt so young and alive. So electric and feverish for another touch.
Your head lulls back, eyes fluttering closed as your chest heaves with every breath. His salt and pepper stubble scratches deliciously at your skin. You can’t help but grind harder into him, the thought of that sensation further down almost enough to make your brain short circuit.
You feel the wetness of his tongue as Jack licks a stripe up the column of your throat. One hand leaves your hips to rest on the back of your head, to tangle in your hair and angle your face back to his as his lips take yours with even more need and hunger.
Your head is spinning. Your hips are erratic. If you don’t stop now, you won’t stop at all.
“Jack.” Your voice is nothing more than a whimper into his mouth, but you don’t stop kissing him.
Jack hums, grunts, moans—it’s a noise you can’t place but one you can’t get enough of. You whimper his name again, breathless and shaky as you detach your mouth and rest your forehead against his.
He’s panting, eyes closed, jaw clenched.
“I don’t—” you swallow in a heavy breath. “I don’t want to rush this.”
He nods, doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for more. Jack’s hands caress your jaw, his thumbs stroking calming patterns across your cheeks as he catches his breath, reins himself in.
“I know.” His voice is guttural enough that you almost consider fucking off your previous statement. “I don’t want to rush this either.”
For a few moments, you remain in the same position. Eyes closed and foreheads pressed. Jack's hands keep their hold on your face, his thumbs continuing their soothing ministries across your plump skin.
He’s the one to pull away first. Moving his head back just enough so that when he opens his eyes, he can look at you. Big, heavy eyes. Swollen lips. Flushed skin.
His jaw clenches at the sight, a heavy breath audible through his nose. But Jack looks no better. His curls are mussed from your fingers tangling into them, his lips are plumper and a slight smear of your lipgloss tints them pinker.
And his eyes. It sends a shudder through you at the sight of them. Pupils almost blown, hooded and focused on yours.
His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he’s moving closer again to brush his nose against yours. Your breath mingles, lips ghosting. It’s like he’s at war with himself. That if he rewards himself with even one more taste of you, he won’t be able to stop.
“I should go.” It’s with pure agony that Jack utters the words.
His voice is both rough and whiny. Like it’s the last thing he really wants to do. But you want to take it slow, so does he. You’re both well aware that if Jack stays for a moment longer, the night will end the way you want it to. Just not in the way either of you need it.
Not like this. Not on the first date. Not with Phoebe in the picture. Not with his beloved wife’s memory to consider.
You nod, clearing your throat as your forehead bumps against his.
“Yeah, okay.” You’re breathless when you agree, voice slightly pained at the notion. But you both know it’s for the best.
You half expect him to kiss you, at least once more. But he doesn’t.
Jack pulls away to avert his gaze, silently helps you clean up the takeout boxes. You don’t tell him he doesn’t need to, don’t tell him you know he’s trying to prolong actually leaving.
You bask in the final few moments together before walking him to the door. He hovers over the threshold, stopping short in the hall. Turns to you as you lean against the doorframe and it’s a mirror image of the night a week ago. At Phoebe's birthday. When he kissed you. Then went silent for three days.
Jack seems to share the same sentiment on the memory because a breathless chuckle escapes him as he moves closer like he did before, as he presses his lips against yours slowly. Savoring the taste of you, the feel of your plump lips against his.
“I’ll call you tomorrow?”
You can’t help the sarcastic look on your face as he utters those same words. His grin morphs into something wider, eyes rolling at your silent tease.
“I promise. No more radio silence after a kiss from me ever again.”
You hum with playfully squinted eyes. Jack mirrors your expression, leans in to kiss you again and you melt into him. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of it. Of him.
“Okay. I believe you.”
He hums against your lips at your words until he finally tears himself away from you. Jack licks across his bottom lip, tugs it between his teeth. The sight almost cripples you.
“Get some sleep.”
You nod once, fighting off your grin. “Goodnight, Jack.”
His eyes soften, smirk dwindles into a soft, secret smile. Until he winks at you, leans in to steal yet another kiss that rips a laugh from your throat.
When he pulls away again, Jack’s got a boyish beam across his face. “Night, gorgeous.”
You’re left breathless once again as Jack retreats down the hall. You don’t watch him go, don’t trust that you won’t chase after him and drag him back into your apartment. So you close the door, back pressed against it as you squeeze your eyes shut in pure excitement, gnawing painfully on your bottom lip, but it’s no use hiding your grin.
You carry the smile through your bedtime routine. You miss a few steps, too caught up in your head; replaying every word and kiss and look. Thirty minutes later, when you finally get into bed, your phone is still lighting up with notifications from fans.
And in between them, lies a message from Jack.
You don’t mean for the somersaults in your stomach to start kicking. But you do mean to ignore every notification but his as you unlock your phone.
Jack: Not sure on the dating etiquette these days when it comes to waiting to ask you to go out with me again… but are you free to get breakfast tomorrow morning?
You: miss me already dr. abbot?
Jack: Yes.
Jack: Breakfast tomorrow morning? My treat.
You: dinner was your treat, isn’t the next one meant to be my turn?
Jack: I don’t know what guys you’ve dated in the past. But, fuck no.
Jack: I’m asking you out. I’m paying.
You: hmm
You: i’ll go to breakfast with you. on one condition
Jack: What’s your condition, sweetheart?
You: a pic of sally
Jack: [sent an attachment]
Your grin drops at the photo. A fucking selfie. Jack lays in bed, propped up against his pillow with a gray t-shirt clinging to his skin. Sally lays curled beside him, but she’s the least of your concern right now.
You stare at his arms, the thick muscle and bulging veins as he angles the camera up above him. Crisp white sheets, his other arm curled around the cat with his hand buried into her fur.
You swallow, let your eyes move along to the expanse of his throat and you find yourself regretting not kissing him there like he kissed you. Further up, his mouth quirked at the side in a smile, salt and pepper stubble somehow catching the light.
But it’s when you look at his eyes that you forget how to breathe for a moment. He’s got his fucking readers on, his eyes squinting playfully at the camera through the lenses. Even through a fucking screen his stare is intense. Bores through to your soul and winds it around his fingers.
You feel warmer when you take a moment to realize just how intimate the photo really is. How vulnerable and honest.
Maybe that’s what makes you send a photo back.
You: [sent an attachment]
Jack opens the message and freezes.
A photo. Of you. In your bed.
You’re almost mirroring the one he sent you. But there’s no cat and you aren’t wearing any readers.
No, you’re laying instead of sitting up. Your hair is an unruly mess across the pillows. Your eyes are tired but glistening with mirth. Your smile is crooked, almost shy, and your cheeks are flushed. Jack’s blood roars in his veins.
He lets his eyes dip further down the photo. You’re also not wearing a gray t-shirt like him.
Instead, you’re wearing something tight but flimsy. Spaghetti straps slipping off your pretty little shoulders. The swell of your breasts is far too prominent when you’re lying on your back, and Jack swallows thickly when he notices the pebbling of your nipples.
Jack: You are so beautiful.
You ‘heart’ reacted to a message!
You: goodnight jack, see u in the morning <3
Jack: Goodnight, gorgeous x
He watches the little read receipt appear beneath his message, but no bubbles form at the bottom of the screen. Jack’s eyes flicker back to the photo, finding his thumb clicking on the screen to enlarge the sight of you.
His checkered pyjama pants feel tight against his crotch. He’s not stupid. He feels the blood rush south, feels the discomfort and ache of a neglected erection. Jack sighs shakily, stares at his screen again. He should not be looking. It’s not what you sent him the fucking photo for.
But despite how much he tries, he can’t tear his gaze away. Your soft skin, your supple breasts, your pouty lips.
Sally moves from her position curled against him, blinks beady eyes in his direction before padding her way to the foot of the bed and jumping off to leave the room.
Jack swallows, closes his eyes and practices those military breathing techniques for exactly thirty-four seconds before his eyes are peeling open again.
A soft groan sounds at the back of his throat. It’s an inner battle with his mind. A fight of what he wants and that he shouldn’t.
But he grows harder and more frustrated as the seconds pass and he doesn't have a hand around himself. His eyes squeeze shut, head tilts back against the headboard. Like a silent prayer, a beg for forgiveness.
Then, he’s giving in. Reaching into his nightstand drawer for a bottle of lotion. Squeezes a pump into his hand, drops the phone on his stomach and reaches into the hem of his pyjama pants.
Jack shifts on top of the mattress, lifts his hips to pull the pants down mid-thigh and releases himself with a sigh. One hand reaches for the phone, the other cupping the lotion. He brings his fingertips close to his wrist, skillfully warming the cream until his entire palm is covered with it.
It’s hesitant when he wraps his fist around his cock, a whimper slipping from his lips as he stares at the photo of you on his screen. Your neck, your tits, your lips…
“Oh, fuck.” The whimper escapes him breathlessly.
One pump. Two. Twisting his wrist and tightening his grip. Jack’s chest is heaving with barely contained restraint, eyes locked on the pebbled nubs beneath your shirt.
He lets his mind wander as his pace quickens, lets him imagine himself in bed with you. How he would kiss and lick up your neck again, how your tongue would taste on his.
How Jack wound tug your shirt down for your tits to spill out. How he’d wrap his lips around your nipples, bite them gently, suck them.
“Fuck, baby. So good.” His voice is wrecked, nothing but a guttural whine as he moans.
Jack thinks of how soft they’d be. How he’d knead your breasts in his palms, pinch your left nipple while he sucks on your right. Thinks about how your fingers would tug on his curls, how your hips would buck.
A broken, desperate sound escapes him when he thinks about dipping his hand down your shorts. The slick he’d find, the heat.
The thought of sinking two fingers deep into your pretty little cunt has Jack’s hips spluttering. His fist grows tighter, moves faster. His lungs are struggling to swallow down a real breath.
And he’s coming, embarrassingly fast and needy. Hot white ribbons of arousal that spurt from him desperately, coating his hand.
“Ah, fuck. Baby, oh fuck!”
Jack’s head is thrown back against the headboard, lips parted and eyes squeezed shut as his release hits him like a freight train.
Thoughts of burying his face between your thighs. The taste of you staining his tongue for days.
And when he finally comes down from his high with a sticky hand and burning lungs, Jack can’t help but fucking laugh at himself.
He’s so, so fucked.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
OKAY I ALMOST FORGOT TO POST LOL BUT HERE IT IS, i know jack's lil scene was brief but i promise i have so many smut plans to make up for it!!!! also i wanted the focus to be on the date rather than him jerking it off for 1k words LOL next chapter shit hits the fan and we get into some real juicy stuff HAHAHA
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Fandom: Southland
Pairing: Sammy Bryant x F!Reader
Summary: After meeting with the DA for a witness interview regarding a complaint, Officer Sammy Bryant is stuck in an elevator with you, a paralegal, that cannot stand his guts.
WC: 5K
Warnings: Enemies to lovers basically, stuck in an elevator trope, S4!Sammy aka douchey, Sammy isn’t a single dad in this just divorced au, minimal reader descriptions, no use of y/n, reader has anxiety/panic attack/claustrophobia, ACAB mentality, flirting, brief foot rub and getting handsy, plus some fluff.
a/n: if you can hear me curly-haired officer sammy bryant pls save me
The irony wasn’t lost on you to be a helping hand in the District Attorney’s office and equal parts disinterested in being buddy-buddy with the LAPD. It was a paycheck and you erred on the side of hoping to be one of the good guys for someone who needed it. That didn’t mean you didn’t occasionally see things slip under the radar or go unchecked. Overall, the DA had a good head on his shoulders.
In your time as a paralegal, you came across a slew of police officers that made your skin crawl and the hairs on the back of your neck stand tall.
Sammy Bryant was one of them.
Coming across the DA’s desk, and yours, were complaints against one Officer Sammy Bryant. He got too handsy with one guy recently—borderline assault—and yelled a few unsavory insults and comments resulting in complaints. Nothing technically worth charging Bryant for, but enough to make you think less of him.
Oftentimes, you only handled his paperwork and didn’t actually get to see or meet him. This time around, the DA insisted you join in the interview since you told him about pursuing becoming a lawyer. As much as you knew plenty of ins and outs, he wanted to be sure you were confident and succinct about your new career path.
When Sammy waltzed in, he lacked the bravado you would have originally expected as everyone stood to shake hands. You wish you felt less about the tight cuffs of his uniform bracing his vascular biceps, his muscles forearms a sight to see. You smoothed a hand down the front of your polyester blouse, brushing over the dangling piece of fabric that was knotted into a bow at your throat. Dark eyes glanced over you and your bare arms.
Either you were ovulating or badly needed to get laid. It had clearly been far too long since you went on a date or had a man touch you. Work was your priority. You were lucky you had time for a meal or catching up on your favorite dramedy TV show when you could.
When he shook your hand, he was gentle and hazel eyes met yours with a warmth that didn’t match the stories or paper trail. You had to believe there was some truth to it instead of taking his side just because he had a nice crooked smile and kind eyes.
Everyone was sitting down soon enough and you focused on getting your notes together along with your notepad though you felt a heavy gaze on the opposite side boring into you. You focused on Mr. Rosales' complaint toward Bryant, raising your eyes to stare the man down. Not that you wanted to intimidate him per se, but plenty of men tended to think they could sweet talk or belittle you into submission.
“Your reputation is weighing heavily against you, on paper,” you began.
“I try to be a good cop, but it’s hard sometimes. On the street,” Sammy shifted, rolling his shoulders back. “People try you. Try to punk you.”
“Is that so? I wasn’t finished,” you tilted your head and flipped a page. “Mr. Rosales stated that you ‘yanked the shit out of’ his arm behind his back without properly detaining or arresting him. He says he was ‘pressed into a wall’ and ‘left with scratches…along his face from the brick’. Mm, Officer Bryant, what do you make of this?”
“You’ve never seen one of your best friends die on the street.” He said gruffly. Sammy drummed his fingertips against the metal table, openly perturbed.
“Please answer my question, Officer Bryant.”
“He ran away,” Sammy dismissed.
“Was he running away or was he walking and not listening to you?”
“Running,” Sammy’s voice was laden in acid.
“Let’s move on to the order of events.” Said the DA.
You squared your jaw as Sammy sat back, his arms crossing over his chest—all broad shoulders and wide gait. His boot bumped into your foot, forcing you to draw your legs back.
“Will do,” you agreed.
You were gathering your things, wishing you had the sense to bring a bag for the assortment, and breaking for lunch. You tucked your things under your arm and stepped into the hall with purposeful steps. A deli turkey sandwich was on your mind and a painfully empty stomach after two cups of coffee. The squeaking of boots moved behind you, quick in their steps, trying to catch up.
Sammy’s hand was at your elbow, loose as he tried to get you to stop in your tracks.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Sammy barked.
The last thing you wanted or enjoyed was being touched unprompted by a man. You squinted at Sammy, your expected assailant, and stopped midway in the hall. You stepped back toward the nearby wall to move out of the walkway. He stepped forward, not to crowd you, but because he kept his voice low.
“Maybe don’t,” you snapped.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re just…” his brows came together. “You’re busting my balls. A lot. I thought the DA’s office was meant to be on our side or something close to that. Did I do or say something to you to hate me?”
He peered down his nose at you. The obvious frustration melded into something else entirely; an open vulnerability played on his features that you believed most cops were incapable of. You wrinkled your nose at him as you took in his audaciousness. Why did it matter what you truly thought or felt?
“I have a job to do. The problem is when cops like you think it’s okay to treat people however, depending on your mood for the day.”
“It’s not like that—look, it’s a high stress shit job that the average person wouldn’t be able to stand doing if they tried. I don’t think you understand what we deal with. Besides that, I try to be good. I do.” Sammy hung his hands loosely on his utility belt. Naturally bowed legs caused his stance to widen, unintentionally pinning you to the wall.
“It doesn’t actually matter what I think. It’s about the facts. Besides, I’m only a paralegal. You don’t have to kiss my ass,” you rolled your eyes, beginning to brush past Sammy.
“It’s not total ass-kissing. I recognize you, you know,” he said matter-of-factly. “You were at the annual cop ball with some schmuck I didn’t recognize. Your face is a lot more memorable.”
“That’s great,” you muttered.
You didn’t recall seeing Sammy. It was possible while the flow of free drinks and dancing overtook you that night. Dating a cop was something you never planned on chancing ever again. Another sour notch in your belt. Something bubbled in a nook of your mind, intrigued that Sammy would have been looking at all. He likely would have been alongside his then-wife. As much as you could assume.
He took heed not to grab you again, but he barely provided much space between you as you walked down the hall to the elevators. You were reminded of a gnat that just wouldn’t go away. Sammy pressed the down button for the pair of you, his eyes lingering on the side of your face.
“I’m not trying to kiss your ass,” he shrugged. “I’m trying to help remove the stick from it, at the very least.”
“Typical.” You laughed dryly.
“What kind of paralegal gets to ask a bunch of questions like that?” Sammy continued on.
He crossed his arms over his chest, angling his body toward you while you faced the scratched metallic doors.
“Is any of it really your business?” You ground your teeth. A spot just behind your eye was beginning to ache the less food you found in your stomach and the more his voice grated your nerves.
“Guess not,” his brow quirked in quiet dismissal.
There was silence at last.
Then, you weren’t sure that you liked it at all. Sammy was a talker when he didn’t feel he was entirely under attack. You learned that quickly. But now, when he was quiet and contemplating, you didn’t know what he was thinking. The bell to the elevator dinged at last, heavy doors cranking open. You hated the thing. It was rickety and you were sure the slip of paper inside of it suggesting an inspection had been done was likely falsified.
You grimaced as the elevator dipped with your weight, a slight gasp leaving you. Sammy spared you a look, but you didn’t want to have to address him until absolutely necessary—meaning the rest of the interview post-lunch.
Sammy kept up his position as self-appointed elevator operator by pressing the button to the ground floor. You stood near the doors as always, reasoning that you could be in and out the fastest. Sammy stood back in the corner, lax though he was watching you.
You were starting to think you were in fact too hard on him. Everything else about Sammy seemed okay. You knew he was newly divorced, and oddly enough, not another statistic of an asshole that was normally associated with his career field. More or less. He clearly had weak moments, causing him to be susceptible to corruption.
The elevator cranked, at first sliding smoothly down one floor, then two until it slowed to an uneven and grinding stop. You looked up toward the ceiling of the enclosed space. You stepped forward to jam your fingers into the button, visibly panicking as the seconds ticked by and deemed you stuck in the elevator during lunch with Sammy Bryant.
“This cannot be happening,” you scrubbed a hand across your forehead, your skin beginning to prickle with sweat.
You were just claustrophobic enough that it felt like your heart would burst from worry.
“It is. Of-fucking-course it is,” Sammy sighed.
He quickly became aware of your increasing agitation, what training he had to calm the other person and general humanity bringing him closer to you. Sammy started to take your things from you and you let him, watching with blurred tunnel vision.
Your throat felt full of cotton, having a hard time hearing what Sammy was saying. Warm palms came to your cheeks, drawing your eyes up as he took in a breath and exhaled gradually. Sammy was guiding you to breathe in and out while the fog took time to clear from you.
Your eyes began to sting with brimming tears as embarrassment filled your chest and belly. Sammy remained unjudgmental, waiting for you to come down and for your heart rate to slow. He said something about how he imagined phobias and panic attacks didn’t magically erase the irrational fear, but he needed you to reel it in and suck it up while help was called.
“Better?” Sammy finally asked.
However many minutes passed, he could see how the cloudiness left your eyes. You forced yourself to climb out of the hole that was your anxiety, Sammy’s warm palms leaving your skin to the chill of what bit of cool air would be left. Nodding, you gave him a tight look as the paneling of the elevator grabbed your attention again.
You tried the buttons, jamming your thumb into the call button that gave no sign of a response. Sammy shrugged at you and stood back to lean into the railing.
“Told you,” he said lightly. “We’re gonna have to wait it out in order to escape this shitbox.”
You ground your teeth together for the sake of not snapping at Sammy again as you had, but you owed him some grace after he brought you back down to reality. You stood back in defeat, backing into the opposite corner and lowering to the dirty floor.
“So much for lunch.” You said weakly, rubbing at your irritated eyes.
Sammy was shuffling around, digging into his pocket and held out one of those nutty health bars that could temporarily do the trick. Despite everything, he appeared sympathetic about the whole thing. You looked down at the snack and quietly thanked him, fingertips brushing over his hand. Sammy nodded stiffly and lowered himself to the floor in finality as well.
“How long do you think it’ll be?” You fiddled with the wrapper, crossing your legs at the ankle.
“The way this city functions and by the lack of maintenance on this thing, I couldn’t tell you. But… Look, before… It’s not a big deal, alright? Shit happens. Things like this can be scary.” Sammy humored you.
You didn’t know if his words actually made you feel any better. The effort alone to make you feel less like a weak and terrified little thing was the reassuring part.
“Bright side?” You snorted, taking a bite of the bar. Peering up at fluorescent and flickering lights, you counted eight dead bugs within the fixtures.
“Bright side: it’s already getting hot as shit. You sure you want me to keep talking now?” Sammy gave a sideways smirk. He started to undo the buttons of his uniform shirt, eventually revealing a vest which he also removed. Both were tossed toward the unopened doors. He had a point. You could feel it—the mugginess was seeping into the metal container, a dampness coating any surface of skin it could reach.
Sammy leaned back against the wall and let his head rest on the temporarily cool metal. His rolling shoulders drew your eyes down to his impeccably broad chest clothed by white cotton, and again, you wondered when was the last time you checked your calendar to date when you last had a man catering to your needs.
Men like Sammy always caught your eye at first. Sweet, gentle, trying at first, and soon enough nothing more than an intense crash and burn to follow. When your eyes came back up, Sammy met your gaze with the slightest rise of his lips as he caught you leering.
“I would rather you remind me I’m not in this literal death trap,” your eyes dropped to your strewn paperwork and folders. “I’ve always sorta had this fear, you know? It’s my cousin’s fault. I was the littlest of them and they thought it would be funny to lock me in this shed… Shitty things kids do not knowing they’ll scar you for the rest of your life.”
“That’s pretty messed up. Kids are little assholes,” Sammy clasped his hands together in his lap. “I meant it when I said I recognized you.”
“I figured that much,” you said around a mouthful, staring at the useless panel across from you.
“I spoke to you, but I think you were having too good of a time. Drinking, I mean.” Sammy alluded.
You wanted to laugh because Sammy Bryant was admitting to hitting on you once upon a time that felt so long ago.
“I think I was trying to drink away my problems with that guy,” you admitted slowly, crumpling up the now-empty wrapper. “We were on and off for nine months. Nine long months of time wasted. I got so wasted I didn’t see you were hitting on me.”
“You might have. Something along the lines of how pretty my curly hair was and how the stubble I had that night suited me.”
“God,” you groaned, wincing and easily looking away for anything else to possibly hold your attention. “No wonder you couldn’t take me seriously in there.”
“No, it wasn’t that, of all things. I’ve just had enough of letting perps get by thinking they can skirt the law,” Sammy said indifferently.
You should have warned him to be mindful of what he was saying, but you weren’t sure you cared enough to give him the legal spiel about incriminating himself.
“I get where you’re coming from, but someday, you could hurt the wrong person. The wrong guy or kid…” You pursed your lips.
“Yeah. Doubt it though,” Sammy brought his hands behind his head and gave you a smile.
You hated him for flirting because there was something charming about the underlying cockiness and general weaselly attitude he held. You narrowed your eyes at him and decided you needed to stand up in spite of your fear of the entire human crate falling a couple floors.
Pacing helped clear your mind and that was much needed as the seconds turned to half an hour and even closer to an hour. After the first five minutes, Sammy checked his phone to find there was no signal. No bother in checking your own phone after he proved to be right about the panel in the first place.
“You’re making me anxious,” Sammy said after another five minutes of you pacing. He bounded up onto his feet, swinging his arms as if he needed to stretch his limbs.
“I didn’t think I could make things any worse than when I had a full blown panic attack,” you rubbed the back of your neck. To oblige him, you leaned into the wall for some reprieve after sweeping up a thick folder to fan yourself.
“I didn’t mind it. Being that close to you,” he elaborated gently. “It’s the only time today you looked at me without me feeling like you were imagining making me explode with your eyes.”
“I’m not a fan of cops and especially not the LAPD. The history alone makes me cringe.”
“What about me? Do I specifically bother you?” Sammy was testing again.
He began to inch toward you, metered and careful steps across the extremely short distance. His boots were mere inches from your pointed shoes that were beginning to make your feet ache. Your fanning slowed as he came closer and you know you should have told him to back off. The heat must have been getting to you both or else you would knock some sense into him with a thwap from the folder.
Yet, you withheld.
“Most divorced men and professions start with cops, firefighters, military…” You explained with an air of professionalism that drifted off.
Sammy was done hiding his interest—not that he was doing very well in the first place. His eyes drooped, staring too long and adoringly at your lips while you were speaking. There was a second of self-consciousness and you quickly stepped around Sammy, returning to your pacing. This time he had to put up with you making circles instead of the straight back and forth you had created on what you deemed your side of the elevator.
“I didn’t plan on adding you to that statistic any time soon,” Sammy scoffed out a laugh, turning to follow you around the cramped space by spinning on his heel.
“It’s the fact you already are one. Right? I think for such a statistic to exist that women are the primary for filing says something. So, what did you do, huh?”
“Oh, please,” Sammy wrinkled his nose at you, reaching for you again a second time that day. “You’re making me dizzy—look. I didn’t do shit. My ex cheated on me and I was left trying to figure out what life looked like without the woman I had been with since high school. My only failure was not divorcing her sooner. She was mean before she and the new guy had a kid.”
The confession made you pause before you could register Sammy’s affliction for wanting to touch you by grabbing ahold. Your eyes drifted down to where his fingers dented into your flesh, but there was nothing painful about it. He started to look apologetic again, assuming you were gearing up to give him another earful.
You didn’t.
You wanted to say something sweet and reassuring to the effect of appreciation. You could have popped in your earbuds some time ago and completely shut him out. Sammy could have done the same, but here you both were trying to find level footing that would make your lives easier for however much longer you were stuck.
“Then, I guess I was wrong about you. In some respect,” was all you could muster.
Sammy held an unsure expression as he released your arm. You wanted to touch him back, to feel and have a reason to do it. The more rational part of your brain knew there was business to be taken care of outside of the elevator once help came. Sammy’s interview would conclude and you would go back to separate lives that felt like separate worlds entirely.
After another hour passed, you gave on checking your phone and concluded every single employee in the building was fucking useless. You and Sammy resulted to lying on the floor, side by side. What else was there to do? A game of tic-tac-toe had already been played, two truths and a lie, and even playing a game of guessing what number or color the person was thinking of.
The less you spoke about your careers, the more human he felt.
His genuine personality crept through more than the tough guy cop act he put on since his partner died. Sammy personally admitted aloud to you it was a defense mechanism he was working on, but slow to truly deal with. By working on, he meant he knew his ever-growing God Complex was becoming a problem.
“There’s nothing you can say to me about the job that shocks me. I know the type,” you had said.
You were kicking off your heels at last, groaning as your feet were able to fully stretch against skin-colored pantyhose.
“My feet are killing me. Modern day torture devices exist in all sorts of women’s clothing and accessories.”
“I believe you. How can you let your toes be scrunched up like that?” Sammy lifted his head to spy your feet.
He gave himself a double chin doing so, a soft snorted scoff sound leaving you. He was the sort of face that managed to look handsome from any angle while you regularly felt trollop-y.
“I should start a petition,” you smiled, playing with the idea.
“I’ll be the first to sign it.”
There was a beat of silence not unlike the spells that had played on and off since then, but this one was heavier. Sammy’s eyes were on you just after you stopped watching him. You felt it because there weren’t many other places to look in actuality. You stopped fantasizing about food for your own sanity and disregarded Sammy’s idea to climb through the hatch above, so staring at the walls and each other had to do.
He was warm at your side, heat radiating off of him somehow more than you. That heat drew closer, your body knowing before you as his knuckles brushed yours. Was he wearing you down or were your walls inching lower? You didn’t know if your rejection of him was really because of him. You could lay down the law (no pun intended) that you truly weren’t interested, wanted something casual, or you weren’t interested because he wanted something casual.
Sammy was a man enjoying his newfound freedom after a long-term relationship, and that usually meant getting feelings for someone who was in no position to requite them.
“Do you still like my curly hair?” Sammy’s voice dropped lower with his query.
“Yes,” you answered softly.
His touch grew bolder, rubbing in gentle circles, and pausing to interlock fingers. You felt, refusing to look still, as Sammy dragged your hands to his taut torso to rest against him.
“Am I ugly without the stubble?”
You almost laughed and that won Sammy the attention he craved.
“No, not at all,” you rolled your eyes.
Sammy’s crow’s feet deepened, impressed with himself, but ultimately knowing he was getting somewhere with you.
“What’re you doing tonight then?” Sammy asked delicately.
“Probably catching up on what I couldn’t get done today,” you knew it sounded like a cop out (another pun not intended). “I think you’re nice. This is nice. How you’ve kept my mind from wandering to thinking about being stuck in here is…great. But, I told myself no more police officers. Aren’t there women who have things specifically for cops?”
“I would be bored with a badge bunny,” Sammy groaned.
“So, you’re saying you’ve tried it?” You pressed your tongue into your cheek.
You sat up, though not out of upset. Hard metal and your back were disagreeing loudly with a twinge on top of the ache in your feet. Sammy was noticeably disappointed to not be holding your hand any longer, his eyes following you. You moved to lean into the wall again, your feet pointed toward Sammy now.
“Would that make you jealous to know women are dying to sleep with me because of what I do?”
Sammy pushed up off the floor without the use of his hands. Your brows came together in concern for yourself and your far weaker core, then your mind conjured up mock-ups of what you thought his abdomen might look like. However long you had been quiet, you prayed it was deemed contemplation rather than fawning.
“Mm, can’t say that would be the case,” you dismissed the suggestion.
The answer was yes, but he didn’t need to know that.
You were reaching for your discarded phone as Sammy pulled one of your legs into his lap. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing until he pressed a firm thumb up the length of the bottom of your foot. You welcomed it with a groan that sounded nearly pornographic. When was the last time a man rubbed your feet unprompted?
The care and touch filled your lower belly and pelvis with a swirling heat that had been kept at bay for some time. You forgot all about your phone and the time while Sammy took pride in making you feel good, watching for reactions or sounds of displeasure. He switched to the other foot for the sake of showing attention to both.
You knew you were entering murky territory, and when Sammy lifted your foot to press a kiss to your ankle, you shuddered with anticipation. You were tired and bored, and that was somehow enough to warrant whatever connection you built with Sammy to lead to this. You didn’t want him to stop and he watched your every move as he pulled you forward, strong hands gathering you into his lap where a bulge was forming.
You wanted him and you wanted to close your fingers in those curly locks that kept taunting you. Sammy pressed his head back into your touch, his lips parting on a soft moan as you braced your legs on either side of him and bore down.
“What about tomorrow night? Can we do this?” Sammy asked breathily.
He hadn’t kissed you yet, but he was so sure where you were afraid of letting someone in. You made good and decent money that would be jeopardized by being intimate with Sammy before finishing the interview or informing HR. One of the two was slightly difficult to get away with.
“I’m not that easy, Officer Sammy Bryant,” you tutted as if he should know better by now.
He should have.
“I believe it,” Sammy was staring at your lips now, waiting. “I don’t want easy. The same way you want different. You crave it. I can see it. I’ll give you that… Trust me, I’ll give it to you good.” He smirked.
The cheesiness of him was beginning to work and that’s how you knew you needed to get out of that elevator. You pressed your forehead to his, curiosity killing the cat as you rolled your hips and caused a gasping moan to escape him.
“I think they’ll have to bring in another paralegal to finish your interview,” you finally ceded.
“Jeez, why didn’t I think of that two hours ago?” Sammy said sarcastically.
To shut him up and that stupidly attractive curve of his mouth, you caved, and kissed him. He melted into you as if he weren’t just jokingly insulting you and instead waiting all this time—all his life—to kiss you. He was unhurried in his passion, strong palms holding your waist as if he were afraid of you taking off. The tip of his tongue was just daring enough to flick against yours, and you gave him that too.
The elevator jolted, metal pressing on metal as the elevator whirred back to life and began lowering. You broke apart first though Sammy would have been fine to be found that way.
“Saved by the bell,” Sammy grunted.
You felt your face grow hot as you pulled back to look at him, a small acknowledgement to the conclusion the both of you had come to. Sammy didn’t want to let you go, but he didn’t fight you on it. He had things of his own to toss back on.You gathered what little composure you had, tucking your blouse back into your dress pants and stepping into your heels again.
Once you were put together again, papers stacked neatly, and your cellphone on top, you stood facing the doors. Sammy joined alongside you this time, his head tipping to look down at you with a smirk. He had the worst poker face you had ever seen.
“How do you feel about homemade tacos?” Sammy’s hands were propped along his utility belt.
You watched the floors pass by with appropriate dings, a countdown of sorts. Sammy watched you a little longer while he could.
“And he cooks?” You bit your bottom lip to hide the growing smile.
“I can always show you better than I can tell you. Just wait,” Sammy flirted, facing forward once more.
The elevator bottomed out and landed with an easy thud. Outside waited the assumed elevator tech and a handful of firefighters. The supposed building manager stood off to the side and was now shuffling forward.
“We’re sorry about that, folks,” the building manager said apologetically in a ‘don’t-sue-me-or-the-city’ kind of way.
You couldn’t find it in yourself to be angry. Sammy surely wasn’t.
summary: the day of your wedding and Miracle goes missing (again!) and more goes wrong but you and jack try to have a beautiful day.
tags: what's in the box? oh more fluff!
little miracle masterlist
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
"What if we just ran away and got married at the courthouse?" You bite your finger nails as you pace your bedroom. Jack sits on his computer with his readers on.
"We can do that, but wasn't it your idea for a ceremony too?" He purses his lips.
"I know but now it just seems like alot. The invitations, a venue, a caterer, an open bar, a photographer, the flowers, the dress, hair and make up a dress for miracle. A cake! I forgot about a cake!" You flop onto the bed and groan.
"Okay, then let's simplify."
"Well, we need invitations so that won't be so bad. We can do with a small venue because it's less then fifty. We need a caterer so people can eat so they can drink. Nobody wants to take time off work to spend money on a cash bar so we need the open bar. I don't really need to be holding any flowers and my dress can be a simple one, and Miracle can pick what she wants."
"Okay, I can sense a bit of a pattern there." He closes his laptop, "Do this for yourself. It's a small wedding sure but that doesn't mean you shouldn't do all the things you want for it. Money is not an issue. We've got time to plan it. Come here." He pulls you up to the pillows.
"It'll be okay?" You pout.
"It will be a beautiful day. You will be beautiful. And Miracle will be beautiful." He kisses you after every sentence.
-
On the day of your wedding, you tried to think positively. It was raining. It had stormed all week and the outdoor space you had booked was unusable. It was muddy and you're sure a few of your guests slipped walking inside.
The venue you had chosen was just an hour or so from Pittsburgh. It was a historical victorian mansion with a large property. The photos were gorgeous and you imagined how lovely it would look to take your vows on the property.
What was supposed to a beautiful garden style wedding was forced inside a small glass atrium. It was still visually appealing and could fit everyone but it was so humid so everyone stripped their outerwear including shawls and suit jackets.
You were nervous all through hair and make up. The photographer kept having to remind you to smile at times because she was taking pictures. Nana, one of your bridesmaids, comes up beside you. "You look so beautiful. This day is going to be perfect. We promise." She rubs yours shoulders.
"How's Miracle?" You ask.
"Good! She is putting on her shoes in the hall right now." Nana turns on her heels and walks out the door. Therese runs up to her.
"Any sign of her?"
"I feel like I searched for her every where! Where could that little girl go in here?"
"We are so screwed if we don't find her."
Nana rushes to the men's dressing room and knocks on the door rapidly. "Hey, where's the fire?" Robby opens the door.
"We lost Miracle," She whispers, "Please, please tell me you've seen her."
"I can't say I have." He shakes his head. "Let me help." He heads into the hall to join the search.
Having heard everything, Jack takes a deep breath. He grabs the door to join the search as well when he notices in the mirror in the corner of the room, Miracle peeking from under the bed.
"Miracle, come on out, please." Jack sits on the bed beside where the little girl was underneath.
"No." She whines.
"Why not, Princess?"
"I don't feel good," She murmurs.
"Can Daddy do a check up?"
"No."
"Princess, I want to help."
"I don't want to mess up the wedding." She pouts.
"That's not possible." He says, "Your mommy will understand. I think she'd be okay if we cancelled—"
"No! I want you to get married." Her demeanor changes to frustration for a split second.
"Miracle. Your mommy will not marry me if you are not at the ceremony." He holds out his hand for her. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"
"I don't know what's wrong."
"Is it your head? Your chest? Your tummy?"
"My tummy."
"Was it something you ate, maybe?"
"No it doesn't hurt."
"Oh I see," He lowers himself to the floor, "You've got butterflies in your tummy."
"Butterflies?"
"Is it like you're not scared but you've got a scary feeling like you are?"
"Yeah." She peeks her head out.
"It's because you're nervous. It's kinda like being scared and excited. People get it sometimes when something really special is going to happen." He looks at her.
"I want you and Mommy to get married but I'm sad too." She pouts
"Like a happy-sad. That's okay too. I'm feeling that too. I am just so happy I could cry."
"Me too." She says.
"It'll be okay. Nobody will be upset that you're crying."
"Not Mommy."
"Not—"
There is a rapid knock on the door. Jack gets back on his feet and opens the door. You barge into the room, "Miracle is lost. I can't believe it. One thing I'm going to do is lose my daughter…"
"Wow, you look—"
"This is not how I wanted first looks to go. My mind is on Miracle right now…"
While you are preoccupied by your panic, Miracle slinks back under the bed. "Honey…" Jack tries to interrupt.
"What if she is in one of the hundred closets in this place? Or outside in the rain? Getting sick?! We'll have to go look for her…"
"Baby…"
"I knew the rain was a bad omen. I'm going to go to the guests and just call the whole thing off. I can't believe I lost her on my wedding day—"
"Baby!" He grabs your shoulders, "She's not lost. She's under the bed."
"Under…the…bed?" You walk over to the bed and squat down. You peer under the bed and catch sight of Miracle. She gives you a small wave.
"Hi, Mommy." She says softly.
"Oh thank god." You let go of the breath you're holding, "Hi, My Little Miracle. Why are you hiding?"
"Miracle was just telling me it was because she was nervous and didn't want to cry and ruin the wedding."
"Oh My Love, you would never ruin this day. Never ever ever." You smile, "I can't imagine this day without you."
"What if I cry?"
"If you cry, what do think I'll be feeling like?" You pretend to sob hysterically, wailing loudly to make her laugh.
"We'll all be crying together." Jack says, "There will be people in the crowd crying."
"Yeah?"
"Oh yeah, I'm pretty sure Robby will be crying the hardest."
"That's silly." She giggles.
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't believe it." He assures.
"Are you feeling better now?" You ask.
"Can we stay here together a bit longer?"
"Just a bit." You reach under the bed and she holds your hand.
Jack gets back on the floor and gazes at you as you comfort your little girl. He drinks it all in. You look radiant in your dress. Your make up accentuated your features well. He couldn't look away. He's trying not to get emotional now as he looks at you. "You look beautiful." He whispers.
You look back at him and smile. With your other hand you rake your hand through the side of his hair, "You do too."
A few minutes pass, when Robby throws open the door, "Oh thank god. We thought we lost you too. We are still looking—"
"She's under the bed." You sigh.
"Hi Uncle Robby." Her little hand waves at the door.
"Hi Panda." He claps his hands together, "Great that is everyone accounted for now. Are we ready to get this show on the road?"
"What do we think, Miracle?" You ask.
She crawls out from under the bed, "Yes."
You help Jack up and he takes Miracle into the hall.
"Ready?" Robby sticks out his elbow and you place your hand in the crease.
"As I'll ever be." You beam.
The ceremony begins, Jack holds Miracle's hand as they walk down the aisle together. She stands beside him at the altar. Then the bridal march begins. Robby walks you down the aisle.
Jack feels his throat tighten as he watches you smile walking down the aisle. Miracle takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. Tears are flowing from her eyes. When you arrive at the altar, Jack lifts your veil. "So beautiful." He whispers, "I love you."
"I love you too." You whisper back.
Although the ceremony was delayed and nothing went your way initially, the ceremony was lovely. After you exchange your vows and kiss passionately. You and Jack are then led to a grand office to sign your marriage license. "Oh, your wedding gift is in here too."
"What?" He blinks in surprise.
"It's more papers to sign if that's okay." The officiant pulls out the papers for you.
You hold them out to Jack. "What are these?" He takes them and scans over the words.
"Adoption papers. Making you legally Miracle's guardian."
Jack looks at the papers with a smile. He flips through the pages and signs all the marked spaces and fills out his information. Then he gets to the final page. It was a different document; a legal decree changing Miracle's last name to Abbot.
"Now you've got a Mrs. Abbot and a Little Miss Abbot all in one day!" You grin.
"I can't believe you did this." He holds your waist and kisses you intensely, "I couldn't ask for a better wedding gift."
"Great, now let's go I am starving." You take his hand and lead him back to the reception.
You have a live band playing at the reception for your first dance. As you and Jack sway to the music, you rest your head on his shoulder, "This feels all surreal." You mutter.
"It does." He holds the small of your back as you move across the small dance floor.
"Like I'll wake up because it's a dream." You raise your head and look at him.
"You look like a dream." He kisses you gently. You smile bashfully and caress his face. He then moves down and kisses your neck.
"Keep it PG, Dr. Abbot." You warn.
"Of course, Mrs. Abbot. I'll save it for later." He whispers in your ear.
"Mm, I like the way that sounds, 'Mrs. Abbot.'" You bite your lip, "Save that for later too."
The night continues on, Miracle and Jack share a dance before the dance floor opens to everyone. You, Jack, and Miracle sneak away as everyone enjoys the music.
Back in the atrium, you sit in some chairs with Miracle in Jack's lap. "Did you have fun, Princess?" Jack rubs her back. She nods as she fights sleep. It was way past her bedtime now.
"Remember how I told you, Daddy and I are going on vacation. That starts tomorrow."
"Okay? Where will I be staying?"
"Well, Uncle Robby is house sitting for us so… Do you want to stay at home with him?"
"Yes!" She smiles.
"He'll drop you off at school, and you might spend some time at the hospital again."
"In the ER?!"
"Maybe?!" You pinch her cheeks, "That is up to Robby."
"Alright, we love you little Miracle." Jack kisses her head
"I love you too." She hugs him in return. Miracle then goes home with Nana to spend the night at her house with her kids.
It was still raining at the end of the night. Your send-off had to be inside the foyer instead of outside. Before you walk through the crowd, Jack whispers to you, "I have a wedding gift for you."
"You do?" You cock an eyebrow, "What is it?"
"It's outside." He pulls you through the crowd as they throw petals into the air for you. More people are outside with their umbrellas cheering for you. And in front of you is a brand new hatch back.
"Jack… No! You didn't!"
"I know yours was in pounded and it smelled like B.O. and liquor so what was the point of getting it back. So here is your something new." He smiles
You jump in his arms and squeal, "I can't believe you! This is— Wow! I am speechless!"
"I still think the gift you gave me is better." He kisses you lovingly. He helps you into the passenger seat and he runs over to the drivers side.
"With this, Dr. Abbot, I'll have to show my gratitude." You kiss him more intensely.
"Then we better get going." He starts the car and you drive off into the night, all the way home.
♡ synopsis: now happily married to the kind of woman sammy could only dream of before, he's a very satisfied man. but... something seems to be bothering you tonight. once you're finally in bed together, you divulge the reason for your quiet disposition this evening. afterward, you prove to him yet again just how smart he was for wedding you.
♡ content: misogyny & internalized misogyny, anti-tammi, reader is a pregnant housewife, blowjob
Sammy often calls you his guardian angel. Because coming home to you is blissful heaven. There's no shouting matches, unhinged hysterics to deal with because you did something ridiculous while he was at work earning a paycheck and putting his ass on the line to provide for you, or a wreck of a house to clean up when he walks through the door.
No, just peace and quiet and calm.
Vacuumed carpet, mopped hardwood floors, polished countertops, laundered uniforms, a fresh assortment of fruits and vegetables in the kitchen, and faintly flickering candles on the coffee table which is complete with tidily organized stacks of magazines for your own respective interests.
And there's always toilet paper under the bathroom sink.
After his mess of a divorce, he was lonely, sure, but also very reluctant to ever get involved with someone ever again. After all, what if the new woman he chose turned out to be just as unstable as the last one—if not more so—and took him for all he was worth yet again, simply because he was trying to do the right thing by being a hardworking man?
Going on a reluctant search was never necessary to begin with, though, because there you were all along... From the very beginning, ahead of his filing for legal separation.
Before Sammy made you a happy little housewife, you'd been a waitress at a local diner, which he soon began to frequent after every shift, in an attempt to unwind and decompress before going home to a wife he resented.
You were a balm to his ragged nerves. Always sweet and sociable, and willing to lend an ear to listen to his woes when he actually had the energy to speak.
It gutted him that you were working ten hour shifts—and on sneakers that were being held together with naught more than duct tape, at that (he always felt guilty anytime he left you less than a $30 tip, even if all he ordered that evening was a glass of ice water). Meanwhile, Tammi was at home getting high with a damn teenager who stole something he stretched himself so fucking thin over to provide her with in the first place.
He should've known photography was going to be another whim just because she was bored.
At that, instead of being thankful, she instead reminded him of how he wasn't enough—or doing enough—when she harped on and on over the phone about wanting to move into a house he could never dream of affording while he was just trying to do his goddamn job.
Pushing it all down, his anger manifested in other ways before long.
It made him seethe watching other men put their hands on you when you came by to refill their coffee, or bring them their ordered meals because they somehow felt entitled to you.
When he started pulling his badge to get them to back the fuck off, or leave altogether, is when he knew that he was absolutely whipped.
Whenever Sammy would try to flirt, though, your eyes would always drift to that bothersome gold band that he desperately wanted to flush down the toilet and forget about entirely.
He was fucking terrified of losing you.
So, he filed and risked half of everything—his savings, pension, personal property, and financial assets—just for a chance at having something better by your side before the day finally came where you either disappeared from the diner's outdated interior in search of more favorable prospects elsewhere, or you slipped through his fingers altogether while another man put a wedding ring on one of yours.
No more does Sammy come through the front door and toe off his black rubber boots before you suddenly appear before him. Pressing yourself affectionately to his chest, you wind your arms tightly around his neck and grant him a soft peck on the lips.
"Welcome home," you whisper. Running your fingers through his soft auburn curls, you rest your forehead gently against his. "How was your day?"
Snaking his arms around your waist, your husband gives you a careful squeeze while a contented smile crawls its way across his lips and feeling of uncontainable warmth fills his heart. "Better now."
Sliding a heavy palm over your swollen belly, the corner of Sammy's lips twitches when your little one kicks excitedly.
"He missed his daddy as much as I did," you murmur.
Falling back a step, you tug Sammy past your two's cozily decorated living room. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. Dinner's just about ready."
He smooths a hand down the back of your head. "Did you—"
"Grocery list is all checked off," you remark with a confident nod. "And the gentleman at the auto store even changed my wiper's for me."
He frowns slightly. "I could've done that, baby."
You pad into the kitchen. "Think it's just something they do," you state with a shrug. "One less thing for you to worry about."
Squeezing your backside, you squeak quietly while Sammy chuckles and heads back to the bathroom to wash up.
It's always the little things that she would've never even dreamed of considering which repeatedly confirms that he made such a great fucking choice in his second spouse. Like a carefully folded pile of clothes waiting on the edge of the bed for him to change into after bathing.
Happy wife, happy life indeed.
While Sammy is all too happy to be chowing down on a heaping plate of steaming hot wings, and sipping from a cold bottle of beer in-between hearty bites after suffering through a grueling day amongst the crime-riddled streets of LA, he's acutely aware of how quiet you are tonight.
Maybe the grocery shopping should've waited until he could make a trip out this weekend instead. You already do so much. What, with cooking and cleaning and growing his baby in your womb...
Tacking on a trip to Sam's Club was a task that should've been placed on his calendar, he thinks, not on yours that's already so full.
When it came to Tammi, what he wanted mattered little, if at all. But he fears with you—since you never tell him no—that you somehow feel obligated to meet his every demand because he's the breadwinner in the relationship.
You even went so far as to encourage him to sign a prenup incase he "decided he made a huge mistake" and "wanted to undo it with no financial fallout."
Sammy refused to allow papers to be put between you, though. Not a single one.
No way in hell, because he was sure this time.
He just hopes that you don't feel...trapped.
Are you happy? Do you feel safe, loved, protected, and appreciated? Worshipped?
He nudges your socked foot beneath the round wooden dining table you're both seated at, and smiles when you look at him. "You okay, baby?"
You nod and nibble on a piece of chopped celery that's drenched in ranch. "Just tired."
Sam's well of worry deepens.
"Alright," Sammy groans while dragging you into his lap now that you're both in bed. "You gonna finally tell me what's been on your mind all evening?"
Your eyes flit to his and he immediately takes note of the look of hesitation he finds within.
Curling your fingers against the warm, freckled skin of his bare chest, you worry your lower lip between your teeth.
"Is it...somethin' I did?" he questions warily. "Are you—"
"No," you state softly while cupping his stubbled cheek tenderly in your hand. "It was something that happened at the store. I planned to tell you. I just... Wanted you to be fully settled in for the night before I did."
Gripping either of your hips, he leans back against the fluffed pillow behind him. "I'm all ears, angel."
"So..." you begin while resting a hand over his shoulder. "I was done shopping and went into the baby aisle to browse for a bit before I checked out. And..." you sigh exhaustedly. "Tammi was there."
He sits up the least bit straighter.
"Nothing happened, though," you swiftly reassure. "Apart from a verbal confrontation."
"Tell me," he insists.
"I felt like I was being stared at. Turned out I was right when I looked over my shoulder. There was a moment of recognition, which she commented on: Good, you know who I am," you relay in a snide voice meant to mimic her own. "I told her that I've seen photos. When she saw that I was pregnant, she sort of flew off the handle. Started screaming that I was a whore who stole her husband from her and destroyed her life. That I was a homewrecker, a slut..."
You shake your head while blinking back unbidden tears.
"Thankfully, an employee was nearby. He broke it up and threatened to call security on her if she didn't leave. Her being forced out of the store when she wasn't done shopping only set her off further. She was yelling the whole way out the door."
He squeezes his eyes shut to force down a broiling torrent of pent-up rage. "I'm so sorry, honey." Opening his eyes again, Sammy cups your shoulder—adjusting the strap of your nightgown where it's slipped down your arm. "Why didn't you call me?"
"I had food to get home and put away. If I did, I knew you would've come running." You chew your cheek. "Or you would've made things worse by having it out with her in the parking lot."
"This bitch..." he murmurs. "Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'll never be rid of her."
"I wanted to tell her that it wasn't what she thought. That you and I never had an affair, but—"
"Not entirely true," he interrupts. "No, we never screwed before my marriage was dissolved, but there was definitely emotions being exchanged."
You rest a hand atop your belly. You've tried to give her grace; understanding in her numerous issues. But you think you've finally reached the end of your rope with it all.
No wonder he was so eager to have you instead after all the bull she put him through. She nearly made a monster out of a good man, but you've done your wifely duty and healed his troubled heart.
"Cunt," you whisper.
Sammy barks a laugh and leans forward. "I'm sorry, did my perfect little do-gooder wife just say what I think she did?" he inquires with an amused, toothy grin.
You study him from beneath hooded lids while smirking salaciously. "She never deserved you," you continue. "I'm the better woman."
Now it all comes out, he thinks with satisfaction.
"Yes you are," he rumbles while cupping your ass cheeks in both his hands and kneading the plump skin. "In every way."
"Mhm," you hum while slowly nodding. "Actually know how to keep house," you add. "I have dinner on the table every night, and I spend your hard-earned money wisely. Except for when you spoil me," you murmur with a shrug while grinding down against his semi-erect cock. "I do whatever you tell me to like a good girl."
"Shit," Sammy rasps while throwing his head back.
"I'm thankful for the home you've provided, and all the nice things you give me," you continue while leaning forward and trailing soft kisses along his chin. "I'm so lucky to have such a good man who gave me his last name. Who put his baby inside me where it belongs."
His cock stirs against your thinly-clothed pussy.
"Let me help you relax after such a long, hard day," you mutter while tugging off your nightgown.
Lying on your back in the middle of the bed, Sammy is resting back on his haunches while continually sliding his swollen, twitching cock between your shimmering lips.
Gripping the velvety shaft firmly in your fist, you plant a wet kiss atop the oozing mushroom tip before circling it lazily with your drooling tongue.
"Fuck, such a good girl for me," he utters.
You open wide, and Sammy eases his erection into the back of your throat. Cradling the base of your scalp in his palm, he rocks his hips and moans when you eagerly swallow what he gives you, just like always.
"You're right," he whispers while gazing down at you with unabashed adoration. "Better in every fuckin' way."
Gagging happily on his hard length, your eyes flutter closed when your husband sinks two calloused fingers between your slick, pulsing walls.
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Jack Abbot x fem!reader—in which, his late wife was someone who left him with scars, so many of them. Ones you help him heal, each wound at a time.
TW: abusive relationship (Jack and his late wife); internalized ableism by which I mean ablest thoughts directed at yourself alone (Jack to himself); negative thoughts; smut but definitely not detailed and more to bring attention to the fact that Jack's disability is not unattractive but rather a mark he survived. It's angst guys.
A/N: A lot of Jack's negative thoughts surrounding his disability are based on my own from when I was learning to deal with my physical disability so it might be a bit more emotional. And if the characters present with neurodivergence, it's just cause that's me. Sorry.
The credit for this PHENOMENAL idea belongs to @rr-after-dark
Jack has been the way he is for so long that he can’t remember being any other way. He can’t remember loving the sun, the light, the way the breeze in the daytime felt as it carried both the noise of laughter and talking and cheering and the scents of the world. He can’t remember being at peace in a room full of people that aren’t patients or doctors. He can’t remember the last time he laughed because he thought something was funny.
He can’t even remember the last time, he liked himself. The way he is in the world, the way he moves or the way he looks.
He thinks Catherine took it with her, but not when she died. And that’s the hardest part. She sucked all of that away when she was still there in front of him, saying she would love him if. She would love him if, not always. She was conditional.
And then she died and he’s the one living with the guilt where his heart used to be. Guilt that he’s relieved, that he’s happy being free, that he likes the quiet of the house, the quiet of a world gone silent, but not from terror but from a kind of peace.
He thinks that Catherine stole a piece of him when she was still alive and when that aneurysm stopped her functioning, the piece she stole died along with her.
And with them, his hope died too.
And so, he lives with the guilt in the place of his heart, the guilt that he doesn’t miss her like he should, the guilt that he can’t even say her name with any kind of love. The guilt that he feels free. The guilt which chokes him, strangling him when he pictures moving on, forming a life. The guilt that makes him put a wall up around him.
The guilt which makes the world grow dark—the guilt he tries to pretend is grief.
But playing pretend is only really a game for children.
And Catherine stole his childhood too.
“Can’t you ever just fucking do what I say?!” Catherine yells, her voice high-pitched and scratchy, grating on Jack’s last nerve. He hasn’t been back to the house in a while, his leave finally here and while the guys in his troop—his brothers—came home, to family waiting, happy smiles and tears and kisses, he came home to no one.
Just a message to his email that she was busy getting her nails done and she’d see him later at home.
“Do what you say?!” he yells back, his voice deeper, but more broken, shattered. He loves her, or thinks he does, and yet when he’s around her, he doesn’t love himself. She makes him feel like he’s useless, like he can’t do anything right.
He doesn’t like being around her, the way his skin crawls as soon as he hears her call his name. He doesn’t like the knowing that whatever she says will only hurt him more. He doesn’t like knowing that at the end of the conversation, he will not be whole, a piece of him will be gone, torn out by whatever words leave her lips.
“Yes!” she yells and she steps towards him, her eyes narrowed in anger, face drawn tight, pinched and all Jack wants to do is reach for her face, smoothing away the wrinkles and the hatred. He wants her to look at him like she did when they were kids, when she looked at him like she loved him. Or, at the very least, liked him.
When her eyes weren’t filled with hate.
It’s that thought that has Jack sighing and nodding, grinding his teeth together, jaw rigid and tense, just slightly pained as the teeth grind the wrong way on each other, the jaw locking. But he’ll endure the pain if he can get her to smile. Just smile one goddamn time for him before he ships out.
“Sure, sweetheart,” he says, his voice quiet, scarcely a whisper because he doesn’t want to fight, he doesn’t want to have the screaming matches she so loves. He just wants to change out of his uniform and curl up on the couch with his wife, watching whatever movie he missed when he was gone. “I’ll do what you say. What do you want?”
“I want you to leave,” she says, her tone flat, lips drawing into a thin line as she folds her arms over her chest. “I want you to stay somewhere else for this leave. You wake up too early for me and it disturbs me. And I don’t want that. So, find somewhere else.”
And Jack is frozen, standing there in his fatigues, bag still on his shoulder, every muscle still as if someone pressed pause on his body and he’s waiting for them to hit play again so he can live.
“You…you…” he struggles to speak, his throat growing thick and it’s hard to swallow, his chest constricting, lungs burning and head just slightly light-headed. “You want me…to-to leave?”
“That’s what I said. And you’d said you’d do it, so, bye.” And then she walks off, her dark hair swishing against her back as she walks off down the hallway and Jack turns to leave, walking out of the house and to his rental car, only crying searing tears once he’s behind the wheel, his hands gripping the faux-leather so tightly that his knuckles are white and fingers numb.
He wonders what happened to the two of them, when they went from kids in love to this. Was it when he joined the military? Was it when they got married?
Or was this the way things always were and he was just too blind to see it?
See her.
“Hey, Dr. Abbot,” he hears you call out, your voice soft and gentle, carrying through the ED like a beacon, one of kindness and hope and gentleness. A beacon that Catherine never was. And he hates himself for thinking that, for comparing you to her, for even trying to move on. For even trying to feel things for someone else when his wife is dead and gone and he should remain loyal to her.
Loyal in a way she never was.
“What’s up, Starlight?” he asks, turning from the nurse’s station, orienting himself like he always does, as if he would know wherever you are, no matter what.
“Are you busy?” you ask him, your face pinched just slightly with concern, drawn together as if you’re worried not just over whatever patient is on the iPad you’re currently clutching like a life preserver, but also worried about him.
He finds it strange, you worrying about him, about if he’s busy. He finds it odd as if no one should really worry about him because he’s just not worth it. Wasn’t that what Catherine told him once? You’re just not worth the headache that worrying would cause. So, why are you worried? You don’t even know him and maybe, he reasons, that’s why you worry. Maybe it’s something wrong with him, so fucked-up that when people get to know him, they find the problems and then he’s not worth the trouble.
If you knew him, you wouldn’t care.
“Not at the moment, Starlight,” he answers, mind half-on the here and now and the other on Catherine, on the grief that feels a lot like guilt. “What do you need?”
“I have a patient with a split leg and I believe that the proper suture method would be vertical mattress, but I’m not confident,” you tell him, hands still holding the iPad like a life preserver, like it’s the only thing that’s saving you from drowning. “So, I was hoping to get a second opinion. Although…you’re probably actually busy, so I will check with Ellis and see what they say.” You nod once as if convincing yourself of something and spin on your heel, turning, head just slightly turning as you look for Ellis, but Jack is frozen.
He is frozen because you’re trying to find someone else, just to make life easier for him. And no one’s ever done that before.
Catherine always made him do everything. She never lifted a finger and certainly never looked for anyone else. It was his job to take care of her, why make that job easier?
But you…you’re looking for someone else even when it’s his job to help you, mentor you.
“Hey, wait, Starry!” he calls out, moving across the floor, ducking behind Lena’s chair and crossing the nurse’s station to you. “I said I’m not busy. Let’s check out this split leg, alright? How’d it happen anyway?” He knows he made the right choice when you smile at him, your entire face lighting up, shining on him like a star, just like your nickname—the one he gave you when he almost called you sweetheart once.
“He was working construction and something happened with a piece of equipment—sounded like his friend accidentally drove a chisel through his calf!” Your voice is eager and excited, the ED having not fazed you for a single moment, something about you able to look at the ugliest of humanity and still find the positive. Still find a way to spin the darkness to the light.
“Well, now I really gotta see it,” he says, following you to the patient room, his hand twitching just slightly, wanting to reach to take yours and that guilt, that grief rises, its hand closing around his throat and tightening.
Just like Catherine would have wanted. She liked him loyal even when she couldn’t be. Even when she never was.
“Catherine? Cathy, you home?” Jack calls out, his voice tired and yet carrying through the still halls of the home he bought back when they got married, just five months after graduating high school. He hadn’t wanted to wait and he likes to believe she felt the same. “Cath?” No response.
And Jack thinks she’s not home, that he’s safe to get things ready for her birthday, the surprise. He worked it out with his commanding officer that his leave would land here and now on her birthday so that he could come home and celebrate it with her. So, that he could make her smile again when she hasn’t smiled at him in so long.
He just wants her happy. He loves her.
He drops his duffel at the door, darting through the house, up the stairs, the sounds of creaking echoing through the upper halls, but he thinks it’s just the stairs. He’ll have to fix those later, preferably before Cath comes home so she doesn’t yell at him about not getting everything fixed. That if he was home, he might as well do what a husband is supposed to.
It’s when he’s outside the bedroom that the cries reach his ears, his hearing not what it used to be after being exposed to gunshots, bombs and screams without hearing protection. The cries are Catherine’s, breathy and cracking, either in pain or pleasure. He doesn’t know and it’s why he opens the door—either way, he can help her. At least, if she wants him touching her now. She hasn’t for his last weeks of leave.
“Cath?” he calls out as he turns the knob, the metal cool and slippery against his palm as he pushes the old oak door, the sight of crumpled clothes beside the bed, the first thing he sees. Two pairs of jeans and two shirts.
That’s when he looks up, the sight of his wife’s bare back, her ass settled on someone else’s naked legs, a hand fisted in her long black hair, her body pushing up and sinking down as she rides someone else’s cock.
“The fuck?!” he cries and that’s when she turns, her glassy green eyes pupil-blown, yet contracting when they take him in, rolling once before she turns back to the man on the bed.
“Get out, Jack,” is all she says and he’s helpless to do anything but listen, stepping back and closing the door behind him, the sting of tears burning his eyes, vision going slightly blurry as his hands curl into his fists, his lungs burn and chest constricts, a thickness growing in his throat.
But he pushes past it. Not because soldiers don’t cry—because they do—but because Catherine would only see his tears as weakness, something to exploit. Something to delight in.
And he doesn’t want to give her that, the knowledge that her unfaithfulness bothers him. Besides, he’s gone all the time, she should have some form of peace, of release.
He’s not able to provide it, but she still needs it.
This is really his fault after all. He really should give her more attention.
He’s pushed her to this after all.
“You okay, Dr. Abbot?” Another shift, another chance to hear your voice, the calm and soothing tone, the notes of peace and tranquility, of acceptance. Something Catherine never had.
“Fine, Starlight,” he whispers, his hands still white-knuckling the metal railing of the roof, the urge to just do it, to just end it and find that silence, that peace. That never-ending void of nothing—no thoughts, no feelings, no endless refrains of Catherine and her worst moments.
“I don’t think you are,” he hears you say, your words blunt and to the point, tone flatter than he’s ever heard it. “But then again, neither am I, since it seems we had the same idea.”
“What’s that?” he calls out to you, hoping you don’t say what he thinks you’ll say, hoping you won’t say for it all to end, for the days to stop. He wants to picture you like the North Star, always shining, always guiding, sheparding and protecting. He doesn’t want to picture as a dying star, just waiting for implosion. He wants you always shining.
“The final leap, that final hurdle,” you say and your tone is sardonic and dark and not like what he’s used to hearing. It’s not the voice of Starlight, but is, perhaps, the real voice of you. The one you have when no one needs you to be that guiding star. “Eternal quiet.”
“I just like the view,” he replies, his tone matching yours, playing at a joke, something Catherine would have hated, would have told him to stop saying because it’s just so fucking dumb.
“Kinda wish I’d just shut up then,” you tell him, smiling once at him, a shy smile, one dark and yet light at the same time. Your bag is slung over your shoulder and your eyes are tired, sad and tired, dark and light.
“Nah,” he replies, turning from you, back to the view of the city that stretches out before him, houses and skyscrapers, people and cars. “I like hearing you talk.”
“Good to know someone likes my crazy rambling,” you mutter, leaning against the guardrail, your forearms pressing against the metal as you lean against them, stretching your back and sighing before looking out at the skyline. “Does it ever get easier?”
For a moment, Jack thinks you’re asking him if his grief for Catherine will ever get easier, but then he realizes you’re asking about the Pitt, the Ed and not the pain of losing the only person he’s ever been with. The only person who could ever put up with him—at least that’s what she told him.
And she was almost always right.
“No,” he whispers, his words landing hard in the silence between you. “It doesn’t. Every shift will tear your heart out all over again until you finally just feel like giving it all up, but occasionally there will be someone in the ED with a smile and crazy ramblings who makes it better. Who makes it worth it to show up every day.”
“Why, Dr. Abbot,” you whisper, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you have a crush on me.” He turns his head, turning to you, orienting to you as if you’re the North Star and in a way, since you started working in the Pitt, you’ve become that for him. The bright guiding light that reminds him that people are worth the effort.
“I don’t think you do know better,” he says and he wants to take it all back, that pain ripping through his chest as he remembers Catherine, his wife, the woman who put up with him even when he didn’t deserve it. According to her.
“You do like me?” you ask him, lips pursing into a thin line, your beautiful eyes narrowing at him as you pivot, only one arm now leaning against the guardrail, your entire body facing him rather than the skyline. “You wear a wedding ring, Dr. Abbot. That doesn’t exactly suggest that I’m wrong.”
“She died. Seven years ago,” he whispers, looking down at his hands, at the thick platinum band that he’s never removed because he’s always been more faithful than Catherine and why should that ever stop. Didn’t he vow for both life and death? Shouldn’t he uphold that even if she didn’t?
“Doesn’t mean you’re over her,” you whisper and maybe it’s because you always sound like you care, in a way Cath never did that he replies. That he says fuck it to his vows.
“Doesn’t mean I’m not either.”
Pain.
That’s the only thing he knows. Pain. Just never-ending waves of it, washing over him again and again and again, over and over and over. It’s like he’s trapped on a shore, unable to move out of the way of the ever-encroaching tide. The tide that threatens to kill him, drown him, yet never does completely.
Occasionally, it’s dulled. Occasionally, the waves only lap at his legs, not his whole body. Occasionally, he’s not in complete agony.
But even when the pain is dulled, his mind is still on fire, words echoing through his brain that he doesn’t remember ever hearing and yet cannot seem to get rid of.
“You’re lucky I married you before. No one’s gonna love you now.”
The blue or the red tie? The black or the white shirt? Does he add a suit jacket or go without?
Jack is utterly lost as he looks at his closet, only half-filled, Catherine’s stuff gotten rid of before her funeral. He told everyone he couldn’t bear to look at it and that was true, because looking at it made it seem like he was still tied to her and he’s not, yet he is.
He knows that she was shitty, that, in truth, she was abusive and he didn’t deserve the way she treated him, yet he loved her. He loved her in a way that was desperate, that feeling that he was never going to have anyone else because he wasn’t worthy of it. The thought she placed in his head before and after the amputation.
He knows that he shouldn’t feel guilt for the relief he felt when he found out, the relief that he could finally know peace and yet he does.
Because he can’t get rid of the idea that she was right. That it was him. That he was a shitty husband who drove her to do the wrong things, to say the wrong things. That he was the cause of her pain, of her actions.
He wants to just feel fine living and yet he can’t. He can’t because Catherine is still a part of him, a piece of who he is, someone who still lives inside of his mind, in his skin. He remembers the good, back when they were kids, before she became who she was as his wife, but a part of him thinks she was always like that and he was just too love-struck as a child to remember and by the time he saw it, it was too late.
He was ensnared in her web, drawn into her lies and manipulations.
But…maybe it was his fault all along.
He’s drawn out of his thoughts by a ringing, one not from his tinnitus, one that exists outside of his sensory system, the stimulation where there isn’t any. One sounding from his phone.
A call—from you.
North Star
“Hi, Starlight,” he says, putting the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he holds up one tie and then another, still debating. “What’s up?” He can hear you sigh on the other end of the line, a soul-shattering sigh that has his heart jolting, his mind rushing, wondering how long it would take to get to you if you need help.
“Blue or red?” you say into the phone and he feels his entire pause, recalibrate, turning from emergency plans to fashion advice.
“Blue or red what? Because I’m currently in the same dilemma trying to choose between ties,” he says and he can hear you snort, the sound loud and undignified and the all the more perfect. Catherine never let herself laugh like that—she always had to be pretty, even when what she was saying was ugly.
“Shirt,” you answer, tone not quite flat, but not lively. An in-between tone as if you don’t know how to react, how to answer. “What colour do I go with?”
“Mind if we switch to FaceTime so I can see the options?” he asks, a part of himself drawing in on itself, folding and tightening as he thinks of Catherine, of how he was always faithful, how he vowed that and he’s a man of his word.
But she never was.
Even if it was his fault for always being gone.
“Sure,” you tell him and he waits, not having long before your face is on his screen, a smile on it, not one that’s fake or curated for maximum attractiveness, but rather one that is real and toothy and crooked. “Hi!” It seems you like this better, waving once before switching the camera to backward facing, showing a view of your bedroom, the room exactly as he was expecting—neat, almost obsessively so and blue, decorated with…yep, stars.
“I see your room, Starlight, but no shirts,” he says and he can hear you sigh, but this one is different, it’s happy.
“Just wait, old man,” you call out and even those the name from most would be said with acid, yours is bright, teasing and affectionate. He wonders how it’s possible. How you can speak to him like that when his own wife never could.
Is it that you just don’t know him? Will you run when you see him? All of him? Is it that something inside of him is broken and breaking everything around him?
Will you run when if it gets real?
Will you be another Catherine?
“Option one,” he hears you declare, tone high and dramatic, lilting like a musical song through his room. He looks at his phone, focusing, his mouth going dry as he sees just a hint of your stomach, just a glimpse of the black lacy bra as you hold one hanger up in front of your body, a sleek blue button-up hovering over your frame. It’s beautiful and professional and he knows you would look perfect in it.
“Where’s the second shirt?” he asks and he can see you roll your eyes in your reflection; the camera being aimed now at a full-body mirror.
“Close your eyes until I say open,” you tell him and he complies, the order not spoken with malice or control, but rather just a wish. Quiet and kind—a way that Catherine never spoke.
“As the doctor orders,” he says, closing his eyes while you switch out shirts, most likely not wanting him to see more of your body than he can around the shirt.
“Okay, open,” you say and he does, taking notice of the silk red shirt you hold up, the neckline more plunging than the blue, the material most likely more clinging, more fitting. “So, which shirt?”
“The red,” he says, no hesitation as he swallows, the motion hard and just slightly uncomfortable, his mouth dry and his heart skips a beat and then another when you laugh and he can see your face crinkle in laughter, your body bending forwards with the force of the laugh. He can see the way your hair falls, your shoulders, your back, the lacy straps of your bra, the smoothness of your skin.
He feels a stirring that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. He doesn’t think Catherine ever made him feel like that and all of a sudden, the feeling is gone. Sucked away just like she sucked away so much of him, that piece that he can never get back.
Maybe that’s what he grieves—not her.
“Then wear the red tie,” you tell him and then you hang up, his house still ringing with your laughter, tinny from the phone speakers but yet still oh so beautiful.
And he does.
But not because you make him feel like he has too. No, you make him feel like everything is a choice and you’re just there to help.
You are what Catherine never was.
But how long will that last before he poisons you too?
“Can’t you fucking do anything?!” Catherine screams, her voice loud and shrill, cruel. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, only that he did something and he hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know, hates that just by existing he does something to hurt her.
“I don’t know what you want!” he cries, the feeling of being overwhelmed, overstimulated rising in him, that feeling of being unable to fix something that is broken.
And it’s him. He’s what’s broken if Catherine is to be believed. Although, his brothers, his troop, tell him it’s her, not him, but he can’t believe them.
He can’t because Catherine’s been there his whole life, telling him he’s broken and maybe she’s right.
But he can’t fix what he doesn’t how to.
“I laid out your outfit and yet here you are! I laid out a suit and yet here you are in your fucking uniform!” she screams and for a beautiful woman, she isn’t pretty when her face is mottled and twisted in rage.
“This is what I’m supposed to wear, Catherine! I’m a soldier!” he yells and he watches as she rolls her eyes and walks away from him, up the stairs, the door to their bedroom slamming closed.
“THEN GO ON YOUR OWN, YOU FUCKER!”
And he does, silent tears falling down his cheeks as he drives himself to his best friend’s wedding, making excuses for his wife that his best friend just shakes his head at.
“She wanted to come,” he says, “she just felt sick.”
“No, she didn’t, Jack. Stop making excuses for her, man. It’s helping no one.”
“Can you tell me about her?” you ask him, your fingers interlaced with his, your head on his shoulder, Pretty Woman on his TV—a movie you said he had to see. “Your wife.”
It’s been a precious month, one of hand-holding and sweet kisses and laughter. Lazy mornings and coffee on his patio, your legs on his lap, your voice lilting through his house, gradually helping to erase the echoing sound of Catherine’s angry screams. And even as precious as it was, he’s been wondering when the bubble will burst.
When the pretty idea he’s built up will shatter like Catherine always said.
He supposes it’s now.
“What do you want to know?” he whispers, pressing pause on the movie as you shift until your seated to face him on the couch, legs crossed as you look at him, your free hand coming to rest on his cheek, thumb tracing back and forth across his cheekbone.
“What was she like? How did you meet? I don’t know, I just know that she was a part of you and still is and if…if we’re gonna get serious…I should know her too,” you tell him, your nostrils flaring just slightly as your lips curve up on one side, touch grounding him in the moment.
And he finds that he doesn’t want to lie, doesn’t want to pretty up the truth for you. Most of the time, he spins Catherine so that she’s the perfect wife and he’s always the one at fault, but he wants just one person, just one to know the truth.
“She wasn’t an easy person to love,” he whispers and when you squeeze his hand, he spills everything to you, everything she ever said to him, every lie she told, every time he found her sleeping with someone else. He tells you, most of all, how it’s his fault.
He tells you that if he had been a better husband, she would have been a better wife. He tells you that the first thing he felt when she was gone was relief and then he felt so much guilt that he convinced himself it’s grief. He tells you that she stole a piece of him and he thinks that his grief is really just for that missing piece.
He tells you everything, crying when things get too hard, your hand leaving his, instead both of them resting on his cheeks, wiping away his tears, soothing him and grounding him. Holding him steady, guiding him forwards like the North Star.
And when he’s done, there is a silence that descends, but not the one of Catherine, not the one where she used it as a weapon, but rather a silence of rearranging. A silence of deciding but not of anger. Just recalibration.
“She was a bitch,” you whisper, tone soft but words blunt and matter-of-fact, cutting straight to the point in a way that makes it impossible for him not to laugh. And he laughs and cries at the same time and you are steady, simply holding him until he stops, until he falls silent, the peace he feels at you speaking what he used to think late at night before the guilt choked him into silence, submission. “You’re none of the things she said you were, Jack. You are kind and caring and perfect and wonderful and she was a horrible, abusive person. It was not you. Nothing you did caused that, that was who she was. You did nothing. You were—are—the victim, Jack. And I’m so sorry that you have been carrying this alone for all these years.”
“How are you real?” he whispers, his voice soft and shattered at the same time, his hands coming to rest over yours, lifting them from his cheeks and folding them in his own grip, settling them over his heart and holding tight to them, letting you feel the beat of his heart that he is slowly becoming convinced beats for you.
“My parents had unprotected sex and I am the product of the fusion of two gametes,” you tell him, your lips quirking up on the ends, bottom lip folding back between your teeth, top lip pursing just slightly as you bite back a laugh that he wants nothing more than to hear.
“Good to know,” he says and then he’s letting go of your hands, gripping your face gently and pulling your face to him, his lips finding yours, pressing against yours with a hunger that he’s never felt before. A hunger that is desirous and ruinous and perfect in its messiness.
A kiss that is destructive, knocking down the wall he’s built around himself with his guilt, his fucked-up grief. A kiss that is ruinous but in the best way. The perfect way.
And when you pull away, your chest heaving just slightly with breathlessness, you smile, lips kiss-swollen. “You’re a very good kisser, Jack Abbot.”
“Oh, am I?” he asks you, watching as your smile deepens and you nod, glancing down, the flick of your eyes, hinting at just a bit of embarrassment. A bashfulness that he loves. “I think you’re better.”
The crutches are strange. Not because he’s never had a broken leg before, of course he has, but simply because this are the only reason he’s moving at all. When he woke up in the hospital, finally weaned off of the morphine and brought back to the present, he found out that the bomb that had exploded, that took his best friend’s life, took his leg.
Took only his leg because his friend knocked him out of the way. Took the brunt of the blast.
It’s a scar that he will carry forever, that knowledge that his friend could have lived, could have made it for his wife, for his son—if not for him.
“Thanks man,” he whispers to his troopmate, one of the other survivors, the luckiest, if you can say that, having survived with only a deep cut across his abdomen, internal bleeding fixed up good as new in surgery, or as good as any soldier ever can be.
“You don’t have to thank me, brother,” Flynn whispers, pulling him against him in a tight embrace, the two of them clinging to each other, silent in their grief, holding onto the pain, but also embracing it. Together yet alone. “I owe you my life.”
“And I owe Jeffrey mine,” Jack says, his voice cracking just slightly as he pulls back from Flynn, pulling his key from his pocket, his weight thrown off and he stumbles just slightly unused to having no leg there to catch him if he falls, Flynn catching him and helping him unlock the door.
“You good to be alone?” Jack knows what he’s asking, but he doesn’t want to face that now. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
“I’m not alone,” he says, smiling at his friend, the saddest, fakest smile he has ever put on his face which hurts more than that ripping feeling through where his leg once was and never will be again. “I have Catherine.”
“That’s as good as being alone, brother. Probably worse.” But Flynn closes the door, shaking his head as he does so, leaving Jack in the entrance to his, most definitely not accessible house.
A house that Jeffrey has spent countless hours in. A house that Jeffery has laughed in and joked in and yelled in and cheered in. A house that Jeffrey will never again set foot in because he chose to save Jack. He chose to save his friend, to give him a second chance when he was the one with a wife so in love with him and a son who needed him. Jack doesn’t understand why Jefferey gave it all up for him. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t like it.
He doesn’t like this relentless ache in his chest, this feeling of being cracked open. He doesn’t like this feeling that no about of rubbing can get rid of, that no cough or yell or scream can dislodge, that no pain can erase and no painkiller can numb. He doesn’t like this emptiness yet present.
He doesn’t like feeling like something is missing and nothing to do with his leg and everything to do with the man who in two days will be buried. Who in two days, Jack will stand with crutches at his funeral, saluting the body of the man who saved his life.
And the feeling is why Jack crutches to the living room, sinking down upon the couch and crying, tucking his head between his knees—he was told he was lucky that his knee was able to be saved—and crying. And he doesn’t cry silently this time because as Deran, another troopmate another brother, assured him, soldiers are allowed to cry.
After all they see, they have every right to lose it when they need to.
“You’re pathetic,” Jack hears Catherine say and that just makes him cry harder. For his best friend, for his leg, for his best friend’s son and wife, for himself. For the life he could have had, had he not been so love-sick.
For the life he feels too guilty to want.
Maybe Catherine’s right. Maybe he is pathetic, but only because he stays.
Five months.
That’s today marks: five months of dating you. Of being with someone who lifts him up and doesn’t put him down. Who cares for him and his feelings and what he wants more than anything else.
Which of course, means that it’s the day his worlds collide.
“Hey, Uncle Jack!” he hears across the ED and he pauses for a moment, glancing down at the smartwatch you insisted on getting him, setting it up so that any major alerts of ill health would immediately be sent to your phone so that you could know he was okay and get him help if he wasn’t capable of it, noticing the red dot at the top. He swipes at it, noticing a text from Brett Barnes—his best friend’s son.
His nephew.
Whose here.
“What happened, Brett?” he asks, turning around, taking notice of the way he stands, the way he’s dressed, the cadet uniform and the buzzcut.
“Nothing except that I got leave to ask you something,” he replies, striding across the ED with the posture of a soldier, hands clasped behind his back, feet standing apart as he faces Jack, eyes locked on his face, those dark mahogany eyes so perfectly Jeffrey that it takes Jack by surprise, that ache solidifying in his chest, sharp pain ripping through the leg that once was but never will be again.
“You’re in training?” he asks, throat thick as he swallows, taking in the man that he’ll forever remember as the little boy clambering into his race car bed and begging for stories of his dad. The dad he never got the chance to meet.
“I’m about to graduate,” Brett says, voice barely above a whisper, still focused on Jack and Jack alone, already having Jeffrey’s singular focus. “And I got leave to ask you to come. To go with my mom and tap me out.”
“You want me to…” Jack can’t finish his sentence, his throat too thick because Brett looks just like Jeffrey did back when they were cadets, back when they had hope and hadn’t yet seen the horrors of the world.
“Yeah, Uncle Jack, I want you to tap me out. And bring your girlfriend too, I’ve heard she’s around my age, might be fun to steal her from you,” he says, lips curving up just like Jeffrey’s used to.
“Sorry,” Jack hears you call out, your voice not far behind him, your hand finding the place in between his shoulders, “but I cannot be stolen.”
“Are you sure?” Brett asks, his eyes not on you but on Jack, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face, which is so Jeffrey that sometimes Jack thinks he was just copy and pasted. “Because I probably have a lot more stamina than my ol’ uncle over there.”
“You need a few more years on you before you’re hot enough, kid,” you reply and Jack can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips despite the pain flaring through him hot and bright. “But we’ll be there to tap you out. Jackie wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
That’s another thing—you call him Jackie.
Catherine never did. She hated even saying his name at all. She said it like a curse.
You say it like it’s everything; like the whole damn universe.
“I hate you!” Catherine screams, her voice shattering on the last syllable, a screech more than real words. “I fucking wish you had died, you one-legged freak!”
Jack wants to die, right now, right here. He wants the ground to swallow him whole, to end this. To silence the voice of Catherine and the voices she’s created in his head. He hates himself the most.
Because she’s right, he is a freak. He can’t do what he used to be able to do. He has to slow down and think about what he’s doing and he has to be conscious about things in a way he never has before.
He hates himself because he’s different. Because his entire life is changed. He has a whole new reality and every day is a goddamn struggle because this is not a world meant for him. He has to deal with sidewalks that have no ramps and walking with a prosthetic, a weight he has to throw differently, overcompensate for.
He hates himself because he can’t move without help. Either from a metal and plastic limb or crutches or a wheelchair.
He hates himself because he’s weaker. He hates himself because of the pain he wakes up to everyday in the limb that was there but isn’t anymore and yet feels like it still is. He hates himself because this is fine for other people but not him.
He was never supposed to be this way. He’s supposed to be someone that everyone else can rely on, someone who can do what others can’t and yet here he is—the one who can’t do anything anymore.
He was never supposed to be like this even though he knew it could happen. It’s just that he went his whole life thinking that it wouldn’t and now here he is, living in a world that wishes he didn’t exist, living in a body that he wishes he didn’t live in because it’s just so damn hard and it’s just so damn painful.
But one thing that hasn’t changed—he doesn’t give up.
Dying would be giving up and that’s not who he is. He sticks it out even when others wouldn’t. He’s sticking out his marriage, after all.
He doesn’t give up.
He won’t give up on himself.
He can hate himself for now, but he knows like he knows the world, that he will conquer this. He will conquer it and it will be like his disability was never a problem at all.
If he can handle this, the loss of a limb, the phantom pain and the loss of his best friend, he can handle anything.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, CATHERINE!” he yells, his hand slamming into the wall, a dull slam echoing through the house and causing her to freeze. To look at him with glassy green eyes gleaming with hatred.
“You disgust me,” she hisses. “I don’t want you touching me.”
Jack loves these moments with you, the intimate ones, the ones where you kiss him with a ferocity that has him gasping against your lips, his hands finding your hips, gripping them tight, pulling you against him, your hands wandering across his body, slipping underneath his shirt, trailing across his abs, up to his pecs, touch lighting a fire in him.
“Need you,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him again, licking into his mouth, your tongue brushing against his, making him groan against you, his hands drifting from your hips to your ass, squeezing it and making you gasp against him, one finger flicking against his chest underneath his shirt as he walks you backwards to the bed.
“How do you want me?” he asks you, tone serious as your lips find his pulse point on his neck, your tongue flicking out against it, his cock throbbing painfully hard in his jeans, but a kind of pain that is good, not the kind that destroys you.
“Do I really have to say it?” you ask him, your eyes pupil blown and Jack thinks that’s his favourite way to see you looking at him—love and lust and desire all rolled into one.
“Consent, love,” he whispers and he’s delighted in the way your breath hitches, the way you lick your kiss swollen lip, eyes glassy with desire and heavy-lidded.
“I want you inside me, Jackie,” you whisper and that’s all the encouragement he needs, his hands lifting your shirt up and over your head, his cock twitching again at the sight of your lacy bra, the one he’s pretty sure you wore on the first date that he saw a peek at on the FaceTime all those months ago.
“God, pretty girl,” he groans, his hands rising up to your waist, pulling you against him as he presses a kiss to your lips again, trailing his lips from yours, down your jaw and down your neck, licking and sucking and biting and trail to your collarbone, his hands creeping up your back, unhooking your bra and helping guide it off of you while his lips never part from your skin.
He can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this, felt like this for someone. Most people would think Catherine, but he never felt this way with her, another piece of guilt that strangles him some days—that you make him feel a way that she never did. Catherine hated him even more after the loss of his leg, refused to let him touch her, said that he was a freak and he grew to believe it.
It’s why each time the two of you have had sex for the past four months, he’s kept his leg on. Even when you ask him if he wants it off, he says he doesn’t even though he really does, because he doesn’t want you to look at him like Catherine did.
He just can’t risk it.
“Jack,” you moan as he reaches your breasts, pressing kisses to them before taking your left one in his mouth, his tongue flicking against your nipple, your hands clawing at his back as he presses you down onto the bed.
But something happens today and pain shoots through him, not phantom pain but real pain through his thigh, something screwy with his prosthetic and he ends up on the bed beside you, hissing.
“Jack?! What’s wrong?! Honey, what’s wrong?!” you ask him, your tone panicked as you asses him for injuries, your hands drifting across his body, not for sex but for wounds. Your pull up his pantleg, taking in his leg, your expression growing irritated and just slightly angry. “Why the fuck does it look like you’ve had your prosthetic too tight? Or on during things it shouldn’t have been on for?”
“It’s just the st—” he doesn’t get to finish because you cut him off, tears in your eyes.
“Jack! Don’t lie to me. I love you, okay? I’m in love with you and I want you to take your leg off when it needs to come off. I haven’t pushed you because I know Catherine was fucking ableist bitch, but I don’t fucking care if you have two legs or none, Jack Abbot. I just love you. It doesn’t fucking matter if she thought you were a freak because I don’t. I think you are a gorgeous and perfect and loveable and goddamn impossible with how precious you are. Your leg is not a problem, Jackie. It is beautiful, okay? Do you know? Because you survived.
“This says, I survived hell. This says, I survived something that most people don’t! This says you are a fuckingmiracle! And it’s also hot,” you tell him, tears pouring down your face, a strangled laugh escaping from the both of you. Jack has never had someone love him so loudly, so perfectly that it hurts him.
But for once the guilt is less.
“It’s hot?” he asks you and you laugh, your head thrown back and then you nod, your hand coming to rest against his cheek as you nod.
“Yeah, because it means you came home. We all carry scars, Jackie, and they all have meaning, but this…this is a scar that says I survived. It’s a scar that means I got the chance to love you. And that’s hot, okay?” And all he can do is nod as you press the softest kiss against his lips. “Now let me take care of you, okay?” And he nods again.
And then you help him undress, pulling his clothes off and getting down on your knees before him, hands undoing his prosthetic and gently setting it beside the bed as he guides himself backwards on the bed.
“I love you, Jack Abbot,” you whisper as you press a kiss against his leg, right on the scar where they repaired it. “I love you and all your scars.” And then you press another kiss against it, murmuring “beautiful” and Jack can’t help but let the tears slip down his cheeks, tears of pain and love and surprise and most of all, healing.
Because something in your voice tells him that it really was just Catherine.
That maybe he is that miracle.
“And I love you,” he whispers as you climb up his body, to his lips, pressing a soft and lingering kiss against them.
“Do you want me?” you whisper and he can feel the surprise cross his face and you arch an eyebrow. “Consent, love.”
“Yes,” he whispers and then you shed the last of your clothing, sinking down upon his cock with a muted cry, your walls so perfect against him that he wants to cry just from that and as you begin to ride him, bouncing on him, breasts bouncing, your hand comes to his cheek, brushing a stray tear away.
“It’s okay to cry, Jackie. It’s always okay to cry.” And he does. Because this, sex with you, your words, your continued whisper of perfect, beautiful, I love you, you survived, miraculous all make him feel a way he never has before.
Loved.
And when it’s over and you lay beside him, arms around him, his around you, he tells you how much he loves you, how much he cares for you and how much he needed to hear what you told him tonight.
And your reply?
“Tell me whenever you need to hear it, Jack. I’m here for you. I love you and I’m here for it all, the good and the bad. The ugly and the beautiful. You just need to let me be there.”
And he’s starting to understand how one can do that.
He starts by letting go of the guilt.
Catherine didn’t deserve him when he was alive and she certainly doesn’t know that she’s gone.
He can live the life his best friend gave him that chance at now.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot,” the morgue attendant says, voice somber and face pulled into an expression mock sympathy, eyes conveying how bored he is.
“Thank you,” Jack says, looking down at the body of Catherine, his Catherine. She’s still and quiet in a way she never was when she was alive, but even dead, she looks pissed. Face pinched and drawn tight even though it shouldn’t.
Maybe Jack’s just seeing what he wants.
But as he walks away from the body, knowing that he has to make preparations, plans, has to buy a plot, he can’t deny the feeling of relief.
The feeling that he can finally learn to love himself, to love the way he is. To live the life he never had.
To find a love she never gave him.
And that’s when the guilt starts, the burning in his heart that he’s awful and evil and wrong.
Just like Catherine always said.
“Congratulations,” Jack whispers, throat thick, his hand in yours as he and Eve both tap Brett on the shoulders, tapping him out at his graduation ceremony. “Your dad would be so proud.” Brett looks at him with a soldier’s eyes but a little boy’s smile.
“I know,” he says and then he pulls Jack against him and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t curse Jeremy for his mistake.
Instead, he thanks him for the second chance.
And promises to always be there for his son, for his wife. To protect them along with his own.
And when he glances over at you, he wonders if maybe he will be a father. If every dream he used to have is a possibility again.
Maybe.
Epilogue
“This child is gonna be the death of me,” you whisper to Jack, your voice that familiar soothing note, that beacon of light that it has been since he met you. Since he started calling you Starlight because you’re his North Star, his guiding light.
“While, yeah,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your cheek. “He’s half you and half me. Of course he’s going to be wild.”
“Wild? You call him stealing your leg when we’re watching a movie, wild?” He can’t help but laugh, remembering when he took it and grabbed it, running off with it, leaving you to chase after him.
“In his defence,” Jack says, “he just wanted my footprint for that painting thing.”
“Still,” you say and all he can do is laugh, pulling you onto his lap as your son dances around the lawn with the dog, the rescue loving him almost more than the two of you. “I just worry.”
“I know,” he replies, kissing your cheek again, his hand pressing just slightly against your stomach where Baby Two grows, “but he’s us. He’ll be fine.”
“I just don’t want the world to beat him down. Or take away his spark.”
“We survived it didn’t we. I survived the scars she left behind and you survived the scars they left behind on you. We survived and we’ll make sure he survives.”
Summary: You were only unloading Jack’s dishwasher. That was all. You were in his kitchen, barefoot and comfortable in one of his old shirts, waiting for him to come home from tactical training. Domestic. Normal. Safe. And then Jack walked in wearing tactical gear. The vest. The boots. The radio. The duty belt. The quiet, knowing look on his face when he realized you could not stop staring. You tried to be normal about it. Jack noticed. Of course he did.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tactical gear/uniform kink, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, light restraint, orgasm denial, oral sex, rough sex, kitchen counter sex, consent-heavy dominance, aftercare, Jack being smug and quietly devastating.
Author's Note: You’re welcome, readers. Tactical gear Jack has been in my head for far too long, and today I am making that everyone’s problem. This is for everyone who looked at that vest and immediately understood the vision. the boots, the radio, the command voice, the smugness, the “leave it on” of it all.
We did this together, and honestly? I think we should all be ashamed.
But we won’t be.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.
You found the clean dishes by accident.
You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.
The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.
He had told you to let yourself in.
He always did now.
That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.
You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.
Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.
“Of course,” you muttered.
The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.
You started unloading it anyway.
Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.
You were simply a helpful person.
A generous person.
A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.
You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.
You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.
You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”
Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.
It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.
You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.
Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.
And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.
But this—
This was different.
Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.
And the vest.
God help you, the vest.
It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.
It should not have done anything to you.
It did several things.
Several immediate, humiliating things.
Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.
His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.
Heat rushed up your neck.
You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.
Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”
Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”
“You put a mug in it.”
“It’s visiting.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.
You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.
Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.
You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”
Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”
“Good.” You croaked.
“Long.”
“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”
Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed.
You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised.
Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.
You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I didn’t.” Jack replied.
You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.”
“No.”
Somehow, that was worse.
You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.
“You’re flustered.”
You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”
“Badly,” Jack murmured.
You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”
His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.
When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.
But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘oh.’”
“I did.”
You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”
He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.
Mistake.
Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.
You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”
You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yep.” Too fast.
He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.
You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.
His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?” He asked.
“Yes.” You answered quickly.
Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”
You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.
You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.
Jack caught that too. “Good job.”
Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.
That was the problem.
He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.
You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”
His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”
You glared, “You know.”
“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder.
“You absolutely do.”
A beat passed.
His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.
When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”
Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You shook your head, “I do not.”
He raised a brow, “No?”
“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.
Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.
You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”
A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”
You opened your eyes.
He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.
You swallowed.
Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.
Which was, frankly, rude.
“You’re enjoying this,” you said.
“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.
Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“No.” The single word landed low.
Your hand slipped on the counter.
Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.
More focused. “Oh, baby.”
Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”
His head tilted. “Why?”
“Because I’m already—” You stopped.
Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.
You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”
He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”
You hated him.
You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.
Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.
Not yet.
His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.
Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.
Barely. Not enough. Too much.
His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”
Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?”
His mouth curved. “The vest.”
Oh. Right. The vest.
You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.
Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.
When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.
His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”
You nodded.
He waited. Right. Words.
“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.
“Hands on the counter.”
Your breath left you. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.
Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.
“You good?”
You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.
“I’m good.”
Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.
“Then, hands on the counter.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.
The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.
You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it.
Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.
Behind you, Jack did not move.
The silence was deliberate.
You felt it travel down the line of your spine.
Your skin prickled. “Jack.”
His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.
Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.
He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.
The vest touched you first.
A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.
Your fingers curled against the counter.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”
You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.
You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.
His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”
One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.
Still, your breath went uneven.
Jack heard it.
His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”
Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”
It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.
The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.
Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.
His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.
There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.
His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.
Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.
His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint.
You started to turn your head toward him.
His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”
Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.
You faced forward again.
Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”
You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”
His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”
Your face burned. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.
Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”
Your stomach flipped. “What?”
“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder.
The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.
You went silent.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.
His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.
Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.
You caught it.
Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”
Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving.
You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.
His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”
Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”
His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.
Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.
“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”
You swallowed hard. “That was one?”
His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”
The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.
Your fingers flexed.
Jack saw. “Hands.”
You flattened them.
He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.
Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.
You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.
Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.
Not gone. Changed.
You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.
But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.
Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.
Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt.
You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.
Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
He trusted it.
His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”
The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.
You lifted your hands slowly.
The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.
Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.
The silence made your pulse beat harder.
Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.
You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.
The shirt stopped. You froze.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”
Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”
His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.
A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin.
“No?”
Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.
“Please.”
Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.
His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”
The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.
“Take it off.”
A pause.
Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way.
The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.
The air touched your bare skin.
Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two.
The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”
Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”
His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”
“You weren’t home.”
His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”
The words landed low and heavy between you.
You started to lower your arms.
Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”
You froze.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”
Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.
Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.
Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”
His fingers paused.
You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”
Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”
His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”
A shiver moved through you.
Jack felt it.
His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”
Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.
He had not told you to.
Jack noticed.
You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.
He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”
Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”
For a second, he was silent.
Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”
The praise hit harder than you expected.
Your breath shook.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.
Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”
You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders.
Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.
“Behind your back.”
Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.
Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.
Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.
His mouth curved. “There she is.”
The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.
Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.
Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.
“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.
Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”
His grip settled.
His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.
Your lips parted.
The air left the room.
Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.
You felt it everywhere.
He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.
You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.
Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.
He liked that.
You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.
Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.
You should have found that funny.
You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.
“Jack.” His name came out thin.
He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.
You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.
You were not trapped.
You were held.
There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.
His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.”
Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.
You closed your eyes.
The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.
“Touch me,” you whispered.
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.
He did not ask again.
He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.
And because he trusted you, you gave him more.
A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.
Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Your body listened before your pride could object.
A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.
You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.
“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.
Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.
Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.
He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.
Your breath broke. “Please.”
The word slipped out raw.
Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.
Not yet.
“Please what?”
You made a sound that was not quite an answer.
He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.
Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”
His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”
Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.
“Please don’t stop.”
His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him.
The knowledge made your knees weaker.
Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.
You were close enough now that the room started to slip.
The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.
All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”
You shook against him.
He felt it.
He gave you more.
Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—
Jack stopped. Completely.
For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
You were too far gone for that.
Your body tried to follow his hand.
Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”
You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you.” He murmured.
“You stopped.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”
You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”
His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”
Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating.
“And I want to hear you do it again.”
For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.
You whispered his name.
Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”
Your pulse jumped.
His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.
Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.
“Slow.”
One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.
He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.
Almost.
His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.
“There,” he said softly.
Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”
The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.
Then he bent slightly.
“Jack—”
His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.
Then he lifted you.
The counter was cold beneath you.
You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.
The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.
Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.
Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.
He caught your wrists. Fast.
Your breath stopped.
Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”
You made a soft, frustrated sound.
His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”
You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”
“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”
Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.
His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”
Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.
Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”
The word went through you with humiliating ease.
Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”
You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”
“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.
Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.
Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”
The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.
Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”
Oh.
Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.
Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”
Your face burned. “That was mean.”
“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”
The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.
Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.
His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”
Your throat worked. “I’m good.”
His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”
Your fingers curled harder around the counter.
Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.
You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.
Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked.
The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”
His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”
The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.
Soft. Patient. A beginning.
Your head tipped back against the cabinet.
Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”
“I know.” The smile was in his voice.
You hated that. You loved that.
His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.
Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”
Your grip tightened immediately.
The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.
You let out a shaking breath.
Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”
The words emptied your lungs.
Jack lowered his mouth.
The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control.
“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.
Jack paused. Barely.
You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”
You inhaled sharply.
Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.
You tried to move.
Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.
Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.
His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.
Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.
Your eyes flew open.
He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”
Your voice had vanished. You nodded.
Jack’s hands stilled.
The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved. “Tell me.”
Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”
He rewarded you immediately.
Your breath broke.
Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone.
One hand slipped. Only an inch.
Jack lifted his head. “No.”
The word was quiet. Your hand froze.
He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”
Your face burned. “On the counter.”
His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”
He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.
Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.
Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.
“Jack.”
His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now.
You used it. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”
You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”
“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”
Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.
He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.
Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.
Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.
Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”
You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.
He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.
Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing.
“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.
You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”
His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”
Your cheeks burned.
You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”
Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.
Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”
He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”
You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”
“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.
And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.
You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.
Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.
Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.
The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.
Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”
His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.
So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.
His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.
Jack noticed. His smile deepened.
You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”
“No, you don’t.”
Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.
Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.
For one second.
Only one.
Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”
The words landed low.
Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.
You stared at him.
Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.
A reminder.
The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.
Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”
Your fingers flexed in his hold.
He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”
It was not a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened.
For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.
It had not.
The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.
Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.
Your breath caught.
He noticed. “Soon,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”
His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”
Your pulse kicked. “What?”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”
The kitchen seemed to go quieter.
You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.
Your fingers curled once against his.
Then you lifted your hands.
Slowly.
Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.
The wood was cool behind your knuckles.
Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.
He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.
His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”
You nodded once. “I’m good.”
His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”
Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”
Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.
Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.
Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.
“You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.
You looked at him. Really looked.
At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.
Your chest tightened. “Yes.”
His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”
“Yes.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.
Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”
You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.
You heard the shift of his belt.
The low rasp of a zipper.
Your whole body went tight.
Jack felt it immediately.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.
Jack’s hand came back to your hip.
He looked at you. Waited.
Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.
His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.
Jack stopped. Completely.
Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.
Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”
Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.
His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”
A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.
Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”
He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.
You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”
Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”
He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him.
Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.
You were shaking again.
Already.
Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”
You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.
He held you there.
“You did that on purpose,” you managed.
“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.
That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.
Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”
You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.
Jack groaned. A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.”
Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.
The gear scraped against your skin.
His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.
“Jack.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.
“You keep saying that.”
His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”
Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.
His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”
Your eyes closed.
“Good girl.”
Your fingers tightened.
“Just like that.”
Your body answered every word.
Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.
“Stay with me.”
Your eyes opened.
He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”
“I’m—” You tried.
“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”
The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.
“Oh, fuck.”
Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”
His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.
“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”
The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.
His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.
“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”
You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.
“Jack,” you whispered again.
That was what did it.
His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”
His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.
His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.
For a long moment, there was only breathing.
Yours. His.
The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.
Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.
Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.
His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”
Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”
His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”
You nodded against him. “I’m good.”
His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.
Gentle now. Careful.
The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.
He lifted his head and looked at you.
His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.
You reached up and touched it with two fingers.
Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”
You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”
Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”
You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”
His smile softened. “Come here.”
“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh.
“Come here anyway.”
This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.
Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.
He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
“You did so good,” he said quietly.
Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.
You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
You laughed, boneless and breathless.
He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.
Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.
Your eyes opened.
“The spoon,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.
You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.
You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”
“I know.”
“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.
His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”
His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”
You ended up in Jack’s bed after.
Not right away.
There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.
Then one of his shirts.
Then water.
Then bed.
The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.
He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.
This one was warm. Settled.
His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.
Just Jack.
“Hey,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”
He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.
He didn’t.
His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”
Your brow softened. “For what?”
Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”
The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.
Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.
You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”
His jaw moved once. “I know.”
His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”
Oh.
That landed deeper than you expected.
You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.
“You don’t.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you.
Not much.
Enough.
You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”
You closed your eyes.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.
But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.
And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.
Summary: Pope knows that roses are certainly not the right choice of flowers for you.
SET AFTER:
Before You - Pope was in a dark place before he met you.
The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.
The First Job - Pope starts to develop feelings for you during that first job.
Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.
Made For You (NSFW) - Pope’s sexual encounters have always been paid for… until you.
Go - Pope doesn’t realise he has options, not until you.
The Gift - Andrew recieves an unexpected Christmas gift.
Compulsions - You realise something isn’t right in Pope’s world
The Octagon - Smurf decides to show you the real Pope Cody.
The Bathtub - After the fight at The Octagon Pope returns to the beach house to claim his prize, only to discover a change of plan.
Two Weeks - Two weeks is too long for Pope to go without you.
SET BEFORE:
The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.
The Journal - Pope accidently comes across your journal after an incident with Smurf.
Wild Boys - Pope gets a phone call he doesn’t expect in the middle of the night.
Crazy (NSFW) - Pope’s always been crazy but now he’s also a man in love.
Tomorrow - Pope’s family always fuck up the good in his life.
Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.
Everything - Pope’s family life clashes with your time together.
Positive - Pope didn’t expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.
Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.
Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.
The Gruffalo - Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.
Kill The Queen - Pope tries to come to terms with Smurf’s death.
Night Thoughts - You and Pope discuss your fears about becoming a parent.
Existential (NSFW) - You and Pope have another first in the aftermath of Smurf’s death.
Today (NSFW) - You and Pope both wake up excited for the day ahead.
Freya - There’s a reason that the wedding has to happen before the birth of your daughter.
Picture Perfect - Pope shares a quiet moment with his new daughter.
A Month In - Pope asks you to make him a promise.
In The Blood - Pope worries about his genetics.
Guilt - You return home to Pope wringing his hands and you know that something isn't right.
The Strawberry - You discuss what's next for you and Pope.
Pope doesn’t like roses.
He knows what they’re supposed to represent: love, passion, a deep ever-lasting commitment but to him they’re a lie. One that was perpetuated everytime some asshole wanted to get into his mother’s pants or good graces.
Billy with his gas station bullshit, stems bent, petals missing.
Jake wasn’t much better, his may have come from the grocery store but the stench of rot always clung to the leaves along with that thin coat of white mould at the bottom.
Just the thought of it leaves a bad taste in his mouth as stomach acid claws it’s way up the back of his throat.
“No roses.” He says, wringing his hands as he stands in a boutique florist that no fucker in his family would be seen dead in, taking to a sixty year old women called Amber-Lynn. “My…”
He has no idea what he’s supposed to call the person he’s currently in a secret relationship with. It’s his first time buying flowers and he’s not really sure what the protocol is when it comes to choosing something for the person who loves him so unconditionally.
“My girl…” He tries the term on for size, liking the way it rolls off his tongue. The wringing slows, his hands merely rubbing, one palm over the other as he thinks about you. “My girl, she enjoys the ocean, and surfing. She’s like sunshine in a bottle, always making me feel warm and safe… do you have something that says that?”
“We don’t.” Amber-Lynn tells him and he feels his stomach drop with disappointment. He’s always doing shit like this, asking for the impossible, fucking shit up. His hand rakes through his curls, tugging at them so hard his scalp prickles. “But I’m sure we can put together something special for her.”
She moves from around the worktable surveying the readymade bouquets that rest within their carefully set buckets. Pope steps back allowing her space to work as she plucks red poppies, dark blue larkspur and yarrow from her stock, gathering them into a bundle in her skilled hands. She finishes it off with a handful of white daisies, breaking up the intensity of the color before she returns to the work bench and sets them amongst the brown paper that’s rolled out across the work table.
“What do they all mean?” Pope asks as he watches her arrange them with interest. He’s never learned the language of flowers, their meanings, how to organise them, how to make something pretty for the special person in is life. Before you romance was never his thing, but he wants to change that, he wants to try to be the man that’s worthy of you.
Amber-Lynn smiles warmly at his question, her finger trailing along the stem of a poppy as she looks up at him. “When it comes to love, poppies represent a passionate devotion, the way you talk about her… I can tell that you’re committed, that she’s your entire heart. We’re using yarrow because I get the sense that she healed you in some way, that maybe you were a little bruised when you met and she helped with that.”
“What about the daisies and the blue?” He asks, the pads of his fingers brushing over the soft petals.
“Daisies bring the promise of true love.” She informs him as she begins to wrap the flowers with cream tissue and brown paper. The cream offsets the harshness of the brown, giving the bouquet a more rustic edge as she picks up a length of twine, carefully trimming it and twisting it around the bottom so the flowers stay secure. “The larkspur is true blue. It brings in that ocean theme, radiating a calm much like when you’re out on the water watching the sunset.”
Amber-Lynn holds it up for him to see and a warmth blossoms in his chest as he stares at the components of your love story, woven into a gorgeous and simple bouquet. It’s bright, it’s sunny, it’s you in all your entirety. “What do you think?”
“I think…” His words come out rough, a low gravelly rumble in his chest as he reaches for the bouquet, cradling it gently in his hands. “I think she’s going to love it.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!
Series Summary: Taking Lena under your wing leads to you developing a relationship with her Uncle Pope. You might be just the thing they've needed to feel like a real family.
Chapter Summary: You help Lena navigate one of the most challenging days of the year for an insecure middle schooler: Picture Day. As he watches Lena blossom because of your influence, it becomes harder for Pope to ignore his feelings for you.
Tags/Notes: fluff, parent!pope, girly girl reader, lena blackwell, slow burn
Content Warnings: none
Author's Note: because of everything going on in my life atm, i'm gonna be focusing on WIPs that are closer to being done or that just make me happiest for a bit so here's more of this!
Word Count: 3.1k
As the summer winds down and the school year begins, Andrew gradually becomes comfortable with having you around Lena. Soon enough, he’s reaching out to you when he has emergency repair work for his tenants so you can babysit. You get used to picking her up from the skate park to take her home or to the mall or the beach, whatever she wants. It’s nice; she’s kind of your mini-me, always looking to you for things that Pope can’t really help with. His advice for dealing with mean girls was ‘How about you tell me who their dads are and I’ll handle it?’ with his knuckles clenched white around the steering wheel, so your gentler touch is definitely needed.
All the while, you’re focused on nurturing your relationship with Lena, not your crush on Pope. Teaching her what she wants to learn and sneaking in the truths she needs to hear. He tries to do the same because he’s terrified of scaring off the one good female role model Lena has.
The dam of his attraction to you breaks slowly, tiny cracks in his resolve over time. It splinters in every moment that he watches you with Lena, always so gentle and so light, meeting her where she is. It crumbles each time he walks you into your building and then turns on your bedtime livestream on the way back home, listening to your sweet voice talking about him and Lena – who you give nicknames for privacy – and your plans and your job and whatever your followers want to hear. He just likes to hear your voice, a warm thing made of butterfly wings and cotton candy.
The third week of September, Pope can’t ignore it anymore.
SUNDAY
The three of you are at the mall on Sunday afternoon when Lena asks, “Can I get an outfit for Picture Day while I’m here, Pope?”
Tilting his head to the side as he vaguely remembers the eight Picture Days he had before dropping out for good – Smurf never bought the packets they tried to sell because he didn’t smile, anyway – he asks, sounding genuinely curious, “You need a new outfit for that?” But then you glare daggers at him and he quickly corrects, “Of course, Bean. Whatever makes you feel your best.”
“Come on,” you suggest, happy to have a new mission for the afternoon, “let’s go to that little boutique on the first floor where we bought your purple sundress. Something bright and fun like that would be perfect, don’t you think?”
“Exactly,” Lena agrees seriously. As you all take the escalator down to the other side of the mall, Lena tells you, “Maya Jenkins made fun of my picture last year, so I want to make sure I have a really nice one this time.”
“From everything you’ve told me, Maya Jenkins is a rat bitch,” you reply right away, not thinking. Pope snorts out a laugh behind you as you clear your throat and backpedal, “How about this year you show up feeling confident as hell and totally ignore her and take the prettiest picture ever for you? Not for her or anyone else. We can get a cute frame and hang it up somewhere nice. I’m sure your uncle would like to have something to remember what you were like at this age when you’re grown up.” You cut a glowing look over your shoulder. “Right, Andrew?”
“Absolutely.” He shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, which makes it obvious to you just how important it really is. “Wish I had more pictures of me and Julia from when we were kids.”
Your eyes soften as you gaze at him for a moment. Lena looks between the two of you with a satisfied, cheeky smirk.
TUESDAY
You show up at Pope’s house at 5:30 with your hair curler, makeup bag, and manicure kit in tow. You haven’t even gotten yourself ready yet, still in a pair of slouchy shorts and a tee with no bra, hair tucked in a pink silk bonnet and no makeup on your face; ensuring that Lena feels good before Picture Day is more important to you than looking good. That reality makes Pope’s stomach twist around itself. The view of your cute nipples nudging at your pajama top doesn’t hurt, either.
Lena’s on the couch in her PJs eating breakfast (peanut butter banana pancakes, eggs, sausage, strawberries, and fresh-squeezed orange juice; Andrew told you he’s very serious about making sure Lena has enough protein and vitamins). She squeals happily when she sees you and pats the spot on the couch next to her, which you occupy right away.
Before you can say anything, there’s a plate of food in your hands, Andrew silently serving it to you with a knowing look. “I watched your stream this morning; a handful of chocolate almonds isn’t breakfast.”
You roll your eyes but accept it because Pope is one of those people who make arguing completely futile – and, admittedly, you’re so fucking charmed by knowing he watches your streams to keep tabs on you when you aren’t together. “Thank you. That’s very sweet.”
Lena hums happily, “See, Pope? I told you she wouldn’t think it’s weird.”
As you giggle at him, Andrew rumbles something under his breath and returns to the kitchen to clean up from cooking.
Between bites, Lena tells you, “I’ve got my outfit and accessories and stuff all picked out now.” Then she picks up her phone and opens up Pinterest, showing you some inspiration pictures for her hair and nails, all sunshine and daisies and bouncy curls. “You think we can do something like this? I know we don’t have a ton of time.”
As Andrew joins you back in the living room, flopping onto the closest armchair with his legs spread wide like such a man, you shake your head and assure, “I did a fancy updo and a full set of French tips in an Uber on the way to my cousin’s bachelorette party; we have plenty of time.”
Pope’s eyebrows raise. “Seriously?”
“Mhmm,” you reply, all proud. “We girly girls have a set of skills you could never ever begin to comprehend.”
He chuckles under his breath and then stands, taking your and Lena’s empty plates with a quick, “Go get ready. I’m not gonna let you be late to school just because you wanted to look cute for picture day.”
You scoff, “It’s a need, Andy, not a want. But we’ll be quick.”
Andy.
Andy Andy Andy Andy.
His brain turns to ice cream and his veins fill with hot fudge because you’re so fucking sweet to him without even thinking about it. He’s rendered entirely speechless, wide-eyed and toddler-hopeful, as Lena snatches your hand and drags you into her bedroom suite. He can’t manage a single thought for five minutes straight, simply awestruck by the easy intimacy of your slow integration into his life.
Still floaty with adoration, Andrew drifts over toward the two of you after half an hour, knowing he needs to start corralling Lena for school. When he sees you finishing off Lena’s daisy-inspired makeup look with some soft highlights on her cheeks, he melts. Since losing her mom, Lena’s never had someone be so gentle with her, smiling and affirming and complimenting until she actually feels good about herself.
Once you’re happy with the makeup look, you finally allow Lena to look in the mirror, asking with bated breath, “What do you think, Lee?”
With a smile that actually makes her seem like a kid instead of a mini adult for once, Lena announces, “I look so pretty.”
When you catch Andrew’s eyes in the mirror, he’s absolutely glowing. Yes, for him that means a soft smile and crossed arms. But you can see the smile in his eyes and the innocent blush in his cheeks. He may not get this whole thing, but he’s Lena’s #1 fan, so if all this makes her feel pretty and confident, he’s going to support it with his whole chest. He touches her shoulder, knowing better than to ruffle her hair or even graze her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Bean. Really.”
Her smile grows as she once again checks herself out in the mirror.
FRIDAY
The day Lena comes home with her school pictures, you’re already in the kitchen with Andrew, working on dinner together in a comfortable rhythm with one of his crackly old records crooning through the house. Lena has Art Club on Fridays, so it’s about five when one of her friend’s moms drops her off at the bottom of the driveway. The sound of middle school girls saying enthusiastic goodbyes with talks of weekend plans makes you and Andrew smile to each other, small and intimate.
You hear Lena before you see her, skipping quickly toward the kitchen and loudly announcing, “We learned to draw in two-point perspective today, Pope! You won’t believe how cool this drawing of-” She stops and grins when she sees you there alongside her uncle, quickly tackling you into a hug. “I didn’t think you’d be here today!”
“Andrew thought it’d be fun to surprise you with your favorite dinner and I offered to pick up the groceries and help him out,” you explain with a warm laugh as she lets you go. “Now let’s see that drawing, yeah?”
While you and Andrew finish up dinner, Lena shows off the sketches she did during her club, all with mostly erased perspective lines that show the new skill she’s learning. They’re architectural, inspired by buildings in the neighborhood on the shore, and they really do show some potential. You make sure to ooh and ahh appropriately, knowing how important it is for her to be encouraged.
Once the three of you are full of Andrew’s supposedly famous fish tacos and your signature citrusy mocktail, the dishes are cleaned up, and Lena’s homework is done, Lena takes out a thick folder from her backpack and hands it unceremoniously to her uncle. “We got our pictures back today. I think they turned out good.”
Andrew sits up straight on the couch and you lean in, too. Quickly and quietly, trying not to make a thing of it, he opens up the hefty envelope of photos – he’d ordered multiples of every size they offered plus a fridge magnet, a keychain, and digital copies inexplicably still stored on a DVD.
A slow, tender smile spreads over Andrew’s lips as he takes them in. Lena’s absolutely beaming at the camera, clearly feeling herself in her cute makeup, clothes, and hair. She actually looks like herself. He pulls her into a tight hug on his lap and tells her seriously, “These are really great, Bean. We’ll go out and get some frames tomorrow; I’ve gotta put one up in my office at the park and one over the fireplace here.”
She perks up and hugs him again, burying her face in his neck. “Really?”
“Of course,” he assures; you can see the familiar pain in his eyes at the idea she’d even question that. “Hell, I’ll get it tattooed if you want me to.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “That might be too far.” Then, still perched on his knees, Lena turns to you with wide, hopeful eyes and asks, “What do you think?”
You look more closely at the largest photo and tell her, “You look so beautiful, Lee, seriously. These could be in the dictionary next to ‘pretty.’”
Her smile only grows as she averts her eyes, embarrassed but thrilled under the praise from everyone. “Thanks for doing my makeup and everything.”
“Any time,” you reply, dipping down to make eye contact so she knows it’s true, “although you’re really coming along as my makeup protege. You won’t need to have me on call soon enough.”
She shakes her head as she stands up. “You still have to teach Pope to take care of his skin.”
You give him a mean faux-glare and cross your arms over your chest. “You aren’t following the routine I built for you?”
He puts up his hands defensively. “I am, I swear.”
Lena grabs his right hand and holds it out in front of you. “His face, yes, but look at these sandpaper hands. He needs more help if he’s ever going to get a girlfriend.”
“I don’t think he’d have any trouble getting a girlfriend if he wanted one,” you reply, hoping your voice isn’t too needy with your crush.
Andrew nods tightly. “Thank you very much.”
But you still wrinkle your nose at the callus on him, taking his hand in yours and inspecting closely. As sexy as they would feel on your soft skin, his hands definitely don’t look well cared for. With a little shrug, you admit, “Actually, though, you really should let me get you a nice heavy cream for these. Repair all these cracks.”
He sighs, thinking about nothing but how good your hands feel on his skin even in this totally platonic way, “Whatever you say.”
You teasingly pat him on the cheek. “That’s what I like to hear.”
After a charged beat where you and Andrew hold eye contact a little too long, Lena interrupts with a tug to your sleeve. “Can you stay for movie night? We always watch something together on Fridays.”
Batting your lashes, you turn back to Andrew. “I’d love to – if it’s okay with Andy.”
He rolls his eyes and shifts his legs to stop himself from chubbing up at how fucking sexy you look when you’re being totally silly with him. All he can picture is how pretty you’d be looking up at him like that and begging for something very different. “Of course it’s okay. What are we watching, Bean?”
“Ten Things I Hate About You,” she says. “Kyra and Kylie’s mom has a picture of Heath Ledger up on their wall and I want to see if he’s actually cute on film.”
You nod, impressed. “Good call. And I promise he is.”
Andrew sighs, ready to strap in for yet another romcom (god, he misses when she always wanted to watch a Land Before Time feature), and orders, “Go get ready for bed first. We both know it’s 50/50 if you fall asleep and I’m not fighting with you over brushing your teeth when you’re half-conscious again.”
She pouts but concedes, “That’s fair. The evidence is there.”
Andrew snickers, “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Once Lena’s disappeared into her bedroom suite, Andrew stands up hastily, beelines to the kitchen, and rummages around in a way that makes it clear you’re supposed to follow him. First, Andrew removes last year’s school picture from his wallet and hands it to you. In it, Lena’s barely forcing a smile, her eyes full of insecurity and her lips pressed in a tight line. “She wouldn’t let me put up any of these. None from the year before, either. She said she looked ugly.”
Instinctively, you rub his back between his shoulder blades. “Nobody deserves to feel that way, especially not such a good kid.”
Placing a wallet-size of the new picture, where she’s glowing and confident, in the plastic sleeve in front of the old one, Andrew swats a tear from his cheek and whispers roughly, “This is the first school picture where she’s really smiled.” Another tear falls and this time he lets it, trying to breathe deeply and steady himself in your hand on his back. “God, she’s got the most beautiful smile, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, she does.” You slide your arm across his shoulders and squeeze him. “I’m so glad she felt good about herself.”
Then Andrew Cody does something you’d never expect from him: He hugs you. Tight. His strong arms wrap around your back and he kisses the side of your head. Without questioning the moment, you bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and breathe in his brisk cologne. In a shaky vulnerable voice, he murmurs, “That’s because of you. I can’t thank you enough.”
He pulls away abruptly because he knows he could get lost holding you. There’s more he has to do. While you stand there, still a bit breathless from his strength and his scent, Andrew opens up a high cabinet – one nobody but him could reach – and removes something you can’t quite see. “Here,” he mutters as he shoves a thick envelope into your hands, “just a thank you. For all the time you spend with Lena. And everything else. Don’t make it weird; just take it.”
You peek suspiciously inside the envelope and find two brand new bundles of hundred dollar bills, fresh from the bank. Closing it immediately, you press it to his chest and reply, “Andrew, I can’t take two thousand dollars from a single parent.”
His eyebrows pinch together and he pouts adorably. Voice gravelly and low, he insists, “I said don’t make it weird and just take it. C’mon, be good for me.”
Well, that goes right between your legs. He didn’t necessarily mean to phrase it that way, but he also definitely doesn’t miss the way you choke out a nervous breath/giggle and flick your eyes away from his. After swallowing thickly, you tell him, “Okay, fine, but I’m going to get you and Lena presents and you can’t stop me.”
Finally, he cracks that lopsided smile you’ve only gotten out of him a handful of times. “You’re not the kind of girl I could stop from doing anything you wanted to. I like that about you.”
“That I’m stubborn?”
“That you’re sure. You don’t question yourself. It’s-” you can hear how he wants to say ‘sexy’ in his tone and the way his words hitch “-an attractive quality in a woman.”
Before you can respond, Lena emerges from her bedroom with her teeth brushed, her pajamas on, and her hair braided. You squeeze Andrew’s bicep briefly, your eyes communicating more emotion than he could ever understand, and tuck the money in your purse before joining Lena back in the living room. Andrew sits in the middle and it strikes him that he could get used to this – his girls on either side of him, an easy domestic life spread out for the taking.
Within an hour, Lena’s snoring, her head on Andrew’s lap, before Heath Ledger’s even delivered his iconic serenade. You hum along to it under your breath, nudging Andrew at your favorite moments, and try not to wake Lena with your happy squeals at the best scenes. It’s no surprise to him that romcoms are your favorite. Toward the end, you give him a sleepy smile and then rest your head on his shoulder like it’s nothing. Normal. Where your cheek touches his shoulder, it feels like lightning.
That settles it.
This isn’t a crush or some fleeting attraction.
He’s falling in love with you.
Now what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?
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