That ember between you and Jack sparked when you switched to the night shift a couple of months ago. Flame caught last week when you kissed him in the park, and he kissed you back.

Since then, nothing but a whisper of smoke. He's been friendly at work —professional— to your increasing frustrations. When you meet him at the park after each shift, a recently established ritual, he's not so much as touched you.

You've begun to wonder if you damaged something irreparably by kissing him. But, god, the thought of his lips over yours has driven you crazy over the past week. The memory of his warm, dominant mouth over yours sneaks up on you in the middle of shifts, knocking you in the knees and turning you into a wobbly mess.

And, if you're being honest with yourself, your vibrator just isn't cutting it.

Movement from across the hub catches your eye, and you watch Abbot jab his index finger at his phone. A resounding buzz in your pocket shoots straight to your core, but you maintain your composure as best you can, and wait for him to stalk off to another patient.

Once he's disappeared behind a curtain, you fumble for your phone, chest heaving slowly when you see his response. Simple and clear. Classic Abbot.

7:30. Our spot across the street.

Your spot —yours and Abbot's, that you share, together— is a bench in the park across the street from the hospital. Enclosed in a copse of trees, sunrise filtering through the branches, it's been the perfect hideaway this past month of meeting him after each shift.

Not that there's been anything to hide. Deep conversation, inside jokes, and one tummy-turning kiss.

You're pacing the length of the bench when a familiar frame ambles ever closer.

Your ponytail is loose, the easy morning breeze catching it as Jack reaches you. His camoflauge-printed backpack is slung over one shoulder, his slight limp more prominent at the end of a twelve-hour shift. He looks tired, but not dragging, and you feel the same. You don't think you could folllw through with this if the shift had been particularly taxing.

"You're not anxious, are you, sunshine?" Abbot's lips twist in the side of his mouth in that fond manner he seems to save especially for you.

"Just restless," you lie, hoisting your own backpack up. You adjust the straps, wrapping your hands around them. "Thank you for walking me home, Dr. Abbot."

He laughs. You worry for a split-second that he's laughing at you. But then he extends a hand.

"How far's your place?" He asks as you tentatively slide your palm down to his. His hands are calloused, weathered like you thought they'd be, but surprisingly gentle. Skilled in keeping steady in moments like these.

You let him cradle your hand in his, trying not to focus too hard on the acrobatic flips in your tummy. "It's about a twenty minute walk," you explain, then give the address. The downward twitch of your eyes betrays your concern.

He doesn't balk, but uses his free hand to tug his phone out of the pocket of his cargo pants. "You alright with an Uber?"

You nod. "Yeah, but I can Venmo you for half—"

He squeezes your hand. "Not necessary, sunshine," he cuts you off as he leads you down the path. You have the fluttery realization that you've only ever walked separately through this park, never together.

When your lips flatten in a tight line, he squeezes your hand again. The feeling shoots up and down your nerve endings, mini strikes of lightning.

Jesus Christ. If holding this man's hand can get you all hot and bothered…

"You have trouble letting people take care of you," he observes. A statement, not a question. He doesn't even bother to look up from the Uber app on his phone.

"I— wh— excuse me?" A fizzy laugh of disbelief blusters through you. A psych evaluation wasn't exactly how you expected this morning to go.

"I do the same thing," Abbot shrugs as he leads you to the sidewalk. Conveniently, you realize, on the other side of the park as the hospital. "It's okay," he adds, unnecessarily.

You hum, rolling this thought around your head as the Uber lines up with the curb. Abbot opens the door for you, because of course he does.

The ten-minute ride to your building is dizzying, your heart beating in your ears the entire time. The forefront of your mind has gone completely impotent for small talk, settling instead for a buzzy silence.

Abbot rubs the back of your palm with his thumb in an intimate form of comfort you allow yourself to accept. You find yourself looking at everything in the car except for him, practically springing up when it rolls to a stop at your building.

Opting for the elevator in lieu of stairs to your third-floor apartment, you lead your senior attending to your door. Your backpack suddenly weighs as though it's packed with bricks. The hallway suddenly stretches miles long.

When you brave a glance over your shoulder, Jack trails after you, the corners of his mouth flicking up when his eyes meet yours. An unspoken question, volleyed telepathically from his brain to yours.

Are we actually doing this?

An uncharacteristic surge of confidence drives you to your door, digging your keys from the pocket. You turn the lock, tongue jutting out to wet your lips. Jack slides his hands along the straps of his backpack.

His eyes shoot to yours when the door creaks open.

A bubble of nervous energy pops somewhere in your chest.

"Are you a vampire?" You ask suddenly.

The question stuns him into a low, terse laugh. "What?"

"Do you need to be invited in?" The quirk of a smile betrays that you're merely teasing. You nod sideways to the open door. "Would you like to come in, Dr. Abbot?"

A visible grimace twists his expression. "You can't… you can't call me doctor right now, sunshine," he laughs good-naturedly, but the weight of the words tells you he really means it.

"Got it," you snatch your backpack and lug it inside, closing the door behind him when he follows. "Jack."

Jack's eyes scan your apartment contemplatively, and you're all too aware of the tightly compacted space. A kitchen and living room split in two by a granite island, a bedroom and en-suite just off to the side. Morning light spills in through the living room windows, illuminating the small space.

"It's a little small," you ramble. "But it's close to the hospital! And it's got a great view."

"It's very…" Jack sets his own backpack beside yours, stepping into the space. "You."

This makes you smile, a twinkle where the morning light catches your eye. "What's that supposed to mean?" You ask, feigning suspicion.

Jack doubles back, meeting you where you lean against the kitchen island. He takes your hand in his. Two sets of fingers fumble and tangle together. "I mean that it's warm," his voice drops an octave, flowing honey in your ears.

His eyes meet yours pointedly, and your gaze dips shyly. His other hand curls beneath your chin, coaxing you to look back at him. "And cozy," he adds, bridging the gap between you by pressing his lips to your cheek. His stubble tickles, and your legs wobble beneath you. "And inviting," he husks into your ear, lips moving to your jaw. "And disarming, in the best way possible."

Your hand breaks from his, white-knuckling a fist into his t-shirt, the other snaking up to finally answer a question that's been rattling in the back of your mind for months. Jack Abbot's hair is soft, just as hypothesized, curls melting against your palm like snow.

"That's nice," is the grand, quippy retort that spills out of you before you can think better of it. "You're nice."

"Don't tell anybody," Jack chuffs, pressing scratchy kisses into the underside of your jaw. Cradling your chin with one hand, the other presses your hip into the countertop, holding you in place, as if he anticipates your squirminess. Which he's right about, of course. "You'll spoil my reputation."

"I think you're doing that yourself," you tease back, craning your head up for him.

But his kisses come to a halt, a short breath puffing from his mouth, ticking your ear.

Jack rears his head back, fingers loosening their grip on your waist. "You're right," he slowly peels away. "This isn't… I'm breaking a lot of rules right now," his voice warbles.

You blink. The color has drained from his face.

"Jack?"

He doesn't step away from you, but his hands hover in the liminal space between your body and his. Caught, you think, between two opposing lines of thought.

You tug on the fabric over his torso. "Hey," you urge. "I'm breaking the rules, too," you say softly, even though the absence of his touch sends a shudder through you. "I invited you here, Jack," you remind him.

He loosens a little, scrunching his face up in some sort of internal war that you realize doesn't concern you. This isn't about you. It's his guilt, rattling inside of him like a jar of marbles.

"I'm taking advantage," he murmurs, refusing to look at you. "It isn't right."

"We're two consenting adults," you retort matter-of-factly. "It doesn't need to leave the walls of this apartment."

Jack shakes his head again. He's locked in some prison of moral dilemna, wracked with guilt and shouldering all the responsibilities. You should have expected it —this is exactly what he does with all his patients. He bends the rules and works the system to help his patients, but not at the potential cost of anyone's career but his own.

He won't put you in jeopardy, too.

"You have trouble letting people take care of you," you say finally, squaring your shoulders. His gaze snaps to you. As if in warning.

The morning sun through the window elucidates details of his face you've never been close enough to see. Silver fox truly is the best way to describe Jack Abbot, with the toasted hue of the stubble, jagged edges of his jaw, and the lines of skin branching from the corners of his eyes.

Yearning swirls around in your stomach.

"If I kiss you," you trace a finger over the lines around his mouth. He twitches at first, then relaxes into it. "Will you let me?"

Pouting old man, you think.

His Adam's apple bobs. "Yeah," he exhales, the word softened in relief.

You cup the back of his head, holding him steady so you can stand on your toes and do just that. He melts into it when you slide your lips over his, a soft, easy kiss.

It feels like everything you've never had, this kiss. Like he wants you just as much as you want him, like he doesn't have a specific end in mind, like he isn't pushing some sort of agenda. Every man in your past has betrayed you in varying degrees, but you feel oddly confident in placing your trust in Jack, in allowing him to hold the pieces of you that you shield from the rest of the world.

"You taste like cinnamon," Jack observes when the two of you finally come up for air.

You thread your fingers through his hair, humming contentedly. "I put it in my tea," you offer as explanation, though you're sure he wasn't asking.

Jack grabs you gently by the hips, and you give a little hop. Ass on the counter, legs opening to create space.

Your tongue dips into his mouth just as his fingers dig into your waist. Jack lets you, in a surprising moment of submission, groaning into your open mouth.

You tug at the hem of his shirt. He breaks away from you to pull it over his head and toss it aside. You have to pause for a second, drinking in the freckled skin and forearms lined with a tan that doesn't quite reach his elbows. Your eyes trail over his round, full pectorals next, then down to the rigidity of his torso.

He shyly looks away. You give a little shake of your head.

Wordlessly, he cradles your jaw, then surges forward to kiss you again. Warmth emanates from his skin, trapping you in a vacuum of airless heat. His tongue presses against your lips, and you grant him entrance, an uncontrollable whimper dissolving into his mouth.

Soon he's carrying you to the bedroom with an exaggerated limp you feel inclined to address. You scoot up on the bed, licking your lips breathlessly as he climbs over you. His stalwart frame over yours, a work rivaling that of Michelangelo, all grooves and angles and crooks.

"Is this okay?" Jack's propped up over you, slowing in a moment of tenderness, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear.

"Yes," you exhale, sliding your hands up and down his arms.

"B-because if it's not, I can—"

"Jack," you flatten your palms over his cheeks in a mild smack. That certainly gets his attention. The warmth of his eyes crackle, a hazel fireplace, as they look down into yours. "I'm good. I want this," you nod to emphasize your point.

And then he's kissing you again, all hungry and desperate like he needs you to breathe. All you can hear are the coalesced sounds of your breathing —yours, airy and quick, his, gravely and heavy.

"Fuck," he murmurs against you before sliding his tongue into your mouth once again. It's a homecoming as he laps into you, hands traveling under the hem of your scrub top and the t-shirt beneath. You've never felt that you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

You do now.

His fingers slide beneath the band of your sports bra, pressing firmly into the plush of your breasts. "Fuck," he says again, his thumb catching your nipple. You gasp.

His eyes snap open into yours. "Okay?"

"Perfect," you suppress your impatience. He's being responsible about it, of course he is. He's the ER cowboy, he follows the rules until the system turns out to be broken.

You slide your hand beneath the waistband of his pants. You saw the bulge straining against the seams, but you had no idea he'd feel so… solid.

His vulpine face twitches a little when your hand slides over his partial erection. "This is okay?" You ask, because you feel like you should, and he shudders a nod.

"Yes, fuck. Please, sunshine," he groans. You stroke him, a long, languid slide down his shaft, the throbbing increasing in intensity.

"Is that a crike kit in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" You joke before you can think better of it, and before you can flush with embarrassment, his thumb rolls over your nipple.

"You're ridiculous," he laughs, husky and low and warm in your ear.

Lots of kisses follow, especially when your shirt comes off. Then his pants, then your pants.

His prosthetic glints under the light of your bedroom, and you ask if needs to take it off first. He insists he's fine, thanks you for being so considerate by kissing down your stomach, to the upper plains of your thighs.

"You taste so good, sunshine," he murmurs against you. "Can't wait to be inside you."

"I can see that," you exhale, the words coming out brattier than you intend. Jack throws a wicked grin your way.

Your panties are soon tossed aside. Jack kisses the thrush of your middle before slowly extending a finger. He feels you out, opens you up. He slackens your jaw. He blurs your vision.

You whine. "Oh, my god, Jack, please."

"Let me take care of you, angel girl," he kisses your neck, then pushes his finger further in.

When you tug down his boxers a few moments later, you balk.

"I don't think—"

"It'll fit," Jack assures you with a kiss. "And if it doesn't, you tell me, okay? This is just as much for you as it is for me."

As his finger moves around inside you with skilled precision and melts every nerve ending, you beg to differ, but the words won't form.

Jack kisses your lips the same time he slides his cock into you. He swallows the moan you emit, working you slowly, carefully. When he releases your mouth from his, he asks if you're okay, again.

"Yes, yes, yes, fuck," you groan, curling your hands around his bicep. Your thighs tense and tighten around him. "Please, Jack, please. You can let go."

Jack obliges.

He carefully rolls his hips into you. Long push in, tantalizingly slow drag out. Once you're open for him, he picks up his speed, his finger working against your clit simultaneously.

"Fuck, you're taking me so well," he praises, finding exactly what you need after a moment's work.

His cock fills you, his free hand holding your hip in place because god, you're squirmy. "Stay still, angel," he pleads, kissing your nose.

His hips snap and he ruts into you, quickly, so fast. Then it's all pressure and heat and salt from tears stinging at your eyes.

Tightness clenches throughout your middle as you screw your eyes shut. "Oh my god," you cry, because it's never felt like this before. "Oh, my god, Jack, I'm gonna—"

"Go ahead, angel," Jack groans into you. "You can let go."

When you finally do, pins prick all over your arms and legs. There's this drawn-out moment of ethereal bliss that coats over you like the tail of a shooting star. A sharp moan.

Warmth. Lightning. Peace and release.

Jack's not too far behind, his face tightening in a paralleled moment as he spills into you. "Fuck," he grumbles as he does, red flooding over the freckles of his cheeks. "Fuck, angel, I'm so sorry, I—"

"It's okay," you pant, still clenched around him as his thrusts turn into slow, descending rolls. "It's okay, Jack. I'm on birth control."

He nods, lowering his forehead so it's anchored against yours. "I thought maybe I'd last longer than that, though," he chuckles, clearly sheepish about it. "It's… it's been a while."

"That's okay," is all you're able to say, apparently, as you slide your fingers against his stubble. "It was good, Jack. It was good."

The breathy, lighthearted smile on your face makes Jack inclined to believe you.

He slowly pulls out, the weight of his forehead still pressed to yours.

Your jaw drops as his cock leaves you feeling cold and ghosted. He kisses down your nose, your cheeks, your chin, then ends on your lips.

"You were so perfect," he breathes into you between kisses. "So perfect, sunshine."

"Maybe it's just been a while," your laugh is airy and deflective. Jack lands on his back beside you. His shoulders bump against yours, crammed comfortably like sardines on your queen-sized mattress.

He grabs you by the arm, lifting the inside of your wrist to his lips. His kisses are feathery light and quick, as though he's expecting you to dissolve like sand between his fingers.