Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: It could have been love. It could have been everything. Can Dennis change his luck again, or will it end in misery?
Warnings: smut, dumb choices, fluff, angst, heartache, sex with a drunk partner that’s more than okay with it, Dennis being Dennis
A/N: This is a sequel to It Happens. This is a revised copy of my oc fic. It is still written in 3rd person. 18+ only due to smut. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated.
It Happens Main Masterlist
Dennis had been trying to claw his way out of the rock bottom basement he inadvertently put himself in. All alone, pushing a stroller down the park path, passing so many happy families and couples, didn’t exactly make him feel like a winner.
For the past eight months, he’d been trying so hard to do better. Make better choices. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking for her everywhere he went.
He missed her.
Stopping at an empty picnic table, he got out a bottle to feed the baby. Once lil’ man was happily in a milk coma, Dennis opened his own snack of flavored water and pistachios. His mind returning to his greatest loss.
For two months, he waited each day at ‘Back to the Grind,’ but she never showed. She must have changed her coffee spot… because of him. He didn’t blame her for not wanting to see his face again. He ruined everything.
Until Y/N, all Dennis had was his ex. No friends, no family, just his wife. Taking Gina back felt easy and he thought it was what he was supposed to do. As awful as she had treated him in the past, she was familiar. As his only girlfriend, she held all his romantic firsts. Been there for all his life events. Not necessarily by his side, but in the same room.
So he agreed too quickly to her plea for another chance. He assumed it would be different the second time. They could be equals, happy. The way she touched him that night, acted like she finally saw him, actually apologized to him, felt like progress, but it was just another one of her games.
He got it so wrong. Losing what he didn't even know he had. It could have been love, it could have been everything.
Releasing a heavy sigh, he wished to see her again. His best friend. Someone that let him be himself, liked him for who he was, wanted to spend time with him. He'd beg, grovel, crawl on his belly over fiery hot coals to be near her. If only…
“Hey coffee buddy.”
Dennis looked up, startled at the familiar voice. He gaped at her, how was she here? Was he hallucinating? Did he manifest her? Could she read his mind?
Standing too quickly, he knocked over his drink. Frozen awkwardly as the water continued to run down the front of his pants.
"Oh shit," Y/N dug around her purse, pulling out a small package of tissues, she held it out to him. "Here."
Oh my goodness, she was actually talking to him. Dennis attempted to say hi, but his mouth made no sound. Finally feeling the cold, he swore under his breath. Righting the bottle and taking the tissues from her to attempt to wipe up some of the mess.
Figures his wish finally comes true and he looked like he pissed himself.
The next attempt wasn’t any better. “H... uh-i i. Di-did… did you,” face turning crimson, he lowered himself back down. Cringing at the squish of his wet clothes. Trying to move past his embarrassment, he used his hands to sweep up the discarded shells in front of him. Making a tidy pile and scooping them back into the package, then shoving that in the diaper bag to be thrown away later.
Luckily she seemed to understand his bumbling, offering a smile as she sat on the opposite bench. Giving him an appraising glance, she noticed the hair on his head and face were longer, but it suited him well. The same bright eyes shined at her through his glasses. He had a bit of a tan and his arms looked more toned then she remembered. “You look well, Dennis.”
“YOU LOOK AMAZING!”
Thanking him, her focus turned to the stroller. An odd look crossed her face as she stared at the chubby faced infant inside. “Cute baby, what’s his name?”
Dennis’ brain finally clicked back online. He realized what that look was, what she must be thinking. Unable to get the words out fast enough, he explained this was NOT his child. He was babysitting for a friend who was attending a cousin's wedding.
Y/N nodded and seemed to relax. Making idle chit-chat, mostly about work. There was a tenseness to their conversation that never existed before. The next question pushed into deeper territory.
“How's Gina?”
Dennis scoffed, “Gone.” The bitterness in his tone was palpable.
Seeing her eyebrows raise, he rushed to clarify, “Not like dead, gone. I didn't kill her or anything like that. She's just out of my life… for good this time. Over. Done. Forever.”
She nodded, her thumb slowly scratching a pattern into the table.
He didn’t blame her for doubting his words. He’d given her every reason to not believe him. Letting that bitch back into his life was the worst mistake he had ever made. And he’d made A LOT of them in his crappy excuse of an existence. He opened the door and let humiliation and abuse into his home. A home she tried to take from him.
That was the real reason she and her boytoy moved in. To steal his inherited property and anything else they could get out of him. And he almost let them. Only snapping out of it the day he came home to find all the new furniture he picked out at the curb. In a rage, he picked up his bean bag chair and stormed in. Throwing it across the room while screaming at them to get their shit and get out. Resulting in a fist fight with Lenny on his front lawn, which he surprisingly won. Even with Gina trying to stab him with a fork once she realized her schmoopsie was losing and she wasn’t going to get her way. The cops were called. He's certain it was great entertainment for his neighbors.
Thankfully it all worked out in his favor. Trips to his lawyer and doctor assured the house was securely his and he had a clean bill of health. He continued to work hard on himself, his job, and his social circle. His life was almost the way he wanted. Almost.
“I miss you.”
Y/N met his eyes, something honest and fragile passing between them. “I missed you, too… More than I should have.”
His whole body sagged in shame, “I don’t blame you. I really fucked that up.”
“Yeah,” she nodded, speaking through gritted teeth, “you did.”
Knocking her fist on the table, she leaned back, preparing to lay it out for him. “I liked you, Dennis. I really-really liked you and I thought we had something.” A self-deprecating laugh fell from her perfect lips, “It was like a cruel joke. I was falling for you and you- you were using me to win your ex back. I was pissed... I was hurt.”
“No, that's not,” pulling at his collar, Dennis swallowed around the boulder that made itself home in his throat. “I didn't know it was real.” He winced at the admission, wiping at his moist eyes. “I never meant to hurt you. If I knew… I didn't even want Gina, not really. I don’t even like her, but she was all I knew, so I made a ginormous - colossal mistake and I will never stop being sorry for it.”
His pink cheeks puffed with a long exhale, “I know I ruined everything, but I swear to you, I didn't know we were in a relationship. I never imagined that someone like you would willingly be with someone like me. I thought you were just being an incredible friend. Helping me. Teaching me how-”
“Wait! Wait,” Y/N interrupted, staring at him incredulously. “You thought I was going on dates and having sex with you as part of what, some training program?!?! I'm not THAT good of a friend. Jesus!” Another laugh slipped out at the sheer ludicrousness of it all. She covered her face with both hands, peaking out at him after a brief moment.
Dennis looked stricken, his chin falling to his chest. The sight made Y/N’s heart constrict. The urge to make him feel better and put that dopey smile back on his face overwhelmed her reasoning. “Fuck, I told myself I wasn't going to waste anymore time on you, but I just can't help myself. What do you do to me, D?”
Still focused on his own lap, a ghost of a smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. “We had something good, didn't we?” His face crumpled, “Until I destroyed it.” He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to be as small as possible. His mind provided the verbal bashing that never came.
“We did,” Y/N agreed. “I was really taken with the sweet, sexy, burger loving dork that made me laugh and could definitely dick a woman down.” Seeing the blush spread down his neck filled her with pride. It was easy to vilify him after their breakup, but he was still the same Dennis. Shy, kind, clueless at times, and impossible to resist.
“We just got our wires crossed somehow and it all blew to hell. But it was great until that point.”
Clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses, Dennis refocused on Y/N. The desperate adoration was clear on his face. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear your voice. Talk like we used to… These last few months have been rough, and you always made things better.”
“You had my number.” Her face twitched in hesitation, “I mean, I wasn't willing to at first, but after a few weeks of cooling down I would have answered, especially if you needed me.”
Dennis rubbed the back of his neck, “Umm, actually I couldn't.” He sheepishly explained how his ex stole his phone while he slept, deleted Y/N’s number along with all the pictures of her off his phone, including everything in the cloud. So he couldn't call, and was too chicken shit to show up at her apartment.
Not surprised in the slightest, Y/N shook her head, grabbed her phone and verified his number was the same.
Hearing his phone chirp in his pocket, Dennis took it out and opened it. She had texted him an upside down smiley face. She was letting him in. Feeling the flare of stupid courage that he got around her, his mouth ran ahead of him. “M-maybe we can try again. Go out for dinner and drinks, or stay in for drinks. We can grab some beers and burgers and watch Rumble in the Bronx. Whoever laughs first has to buy dessert.”
“I'm seeing someone.”
His heart deflated at her words, “Oh… um…” He unsuccessfully tried to keep the stinging in his eyes at bay, but the tears still came. “Yeah, of course you are. Of course you are. You're smart and beautiful and fun and so so nice, and someone as amazing as you, doesn't stay single. I was stupid for even thinking…” He couldn't finish his sentence.
Dennis removed his glasses to wipe the accumulated fog on his shirt, ignoring the wetness sliding down his face. He really should have expected this, having already lucked out just seeing her again and being allowed to have a conversation. It was asking the universe too much at once to be able to have her fully. He’d take what he could get though.
Seeing him cry tore painfully at her heart strings. “D,” she reached across the table to squeeze his hand, running her thumb soothingly over his knuckles.
Maybe he held on too long, hoped too hard, but she looked just as upset as him. Her glassy eyes never left his. He weighed his words carefully before speaking again. “Do you think we can be coffee buddies again?”
“Of course we can. I…” The blare of her ringtone startled them both, breaking the spell. The name J.J. flashed on the screen. She answered quickly, telling the caller she was in the middle of something and would call him back in a minute.
Dennis assumed that had to be her boyfriend. He breathed through the pain as he listened to her apologize, explaining she was running late. Rising from the bench, she walked over to his side to say goodbye. “Dont,” he pleaded.
She paused, unsure how to navigate the situation. She didn’t want to cause him any more distress.
Giving her a rueful smile, he explained, “If you don’t say it, I can pretend you're not leaving.” His eyes closed as she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He kept them shut, unable to watch her walk away from him.
When enough time had passed, ensuring she would be out of sight, Dennis sighed. No longer sure if this was a dream or a nightmare.
Checking on the sleeping babe, he thought of how lucky lil’ man is to have the world ahead of him. Hopefully he will have the courage and support to take life by the horns and make it his own. Surround himself with love and not live in regret.
Dennis rubbed at his own hand like she had, still feeling her warmth. He wasn’t asleep, this was real. Cursing himself, he got up to begin the trip home.
It really could have been everything.
---------------
Life liked to make Dennis take it on the cheek, or up the ass, depending on the day. He was used to it by now. So no one was more shocked than him when the next evening he received a text from Y/N.
Spitting out his toothpaste, he gingerly sat on the edge of the tub. Not wanting to fall in… again. His breathing increased as he read. That was her number. He memorized it this time, unwilling to chance repeating that mistake. This was really happening.
Y/N: hey coffee d 👋Howd the weeknd treat ya? What u up to?
Dennis: I’m getting ready for bed. What about you?
Y/N: under the influence. bored. Thinkin about u.
Dennis: I hope you’re safe at home. If not, I am more than happy to pick you up from wherever are.
Y/N: lol im good d. dont be such a crab apple
Y/N: speakn of 🍎s… IF i was your teacher what boyfriend grade do you think you deserve?
Dennis: I’m not sure.
Dennis: Hopefully I’m not a total failure, so a C-, I guess.
Y/N: hmmm. I think you get extra credit for your tongue game😝… so B-
Dennis: 😳 I’m not sure I deserve that.
Y/N: you do. So says me. now for my review did i earn a raise 💵💵
Dennis: You’ve been awarded an extra-large iced coffee and 2 chocolate croissants.
Y/N: fabulous 🤩🤤😎
Y/N: you wanna meet me tmrw for a hot cup of bean juice??? ☕️
Dennis: Absolutely, yes. I would love that. ❤️
Was the heart too much? Too needy. He was definitely needy as hell, but did he want to advertise it? She didn’t run the first time, so maybe it was okay. It had to be okay because her next text was the address. Dennis practically floated to bed. Setting his alarm earlier than normal so he could make sure he looked presentable.
Turns out Y/N had found a great new coffee place. Unlike the kiosk, this was indoors and had cushy seating and a larger menu. It was a relief to find out she hadn't switched to avoid him. She'd never let a guy wreck something she enjoyed (if she could help it.) However, getting a better job across town required the change.
They eased back into a comfortable friendship. Daily texting became chatting on the phone for hours. And at least twice a week, Dennis took extra time in the morning to meet her for coffee before he was forced to fight the rush hour traffic to get to his own job on time. But it was worth it. She would always be worth it.
---------------
During the next four months, Dennis came up with a plan. He was going to take matters into his own hands. Take charge of his own life and stop waiting for it to happen to him. He loved having Y/N as a friend again, but if he was truly honest with himself, it was ripping his heart out piece by piece to have her so close and yet so far. It was a big risk, but he had to take it.
It had been an entire year since he could call her his. Not that he was aware of that at the time. Foolishly thinking it was all practice. But it was real, special and meaningful, and as close to true love as anyone could get. He needed her back.
His leg bounced uncontrollably in the back seat of the Uber. The drinks he consumed to calm his nerves were failing him. The seat next to him held a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a gift basket filled with an assortment of her favorite candies and snacks. Cliché, maybe, but it was the anniversary of their first date and he wanted to leave her with something nice, even if she rejected him.
He really-really-really hoped she didn’t reject him. If she did, it was a small comfort knowing she’d let him down gently. He wouldn’t lose her again, he refused to give up this time. Consequences be damned, he was going to make Y/N his again.
Once they arrived at her apartment, Dennis thanked the driver and promptly tripped over his own feet as he exited the car. Righting himself before his face met the pavement, he exhaled and smoothed his hair back. Waving a quick goodbye as the vehicle drove away.
Dennis punched in the code and entered the building. A few steps more placed him in front of the elevator. He pressed the button, rocking on his heels in anticipation. Just as he was about to consider the stairs, the doors slid open.
After stepping inside and pressing the number of her floor, he looked down at his arms in horror. They were empty. Cursing, he realized he must have left his stuff in the Uber. Okay, it’s a hiccup for sure, but he didn't come all this way for nothing.
As the elevator climbed, Dennis swore his rapid heartbeat was so loud, it echoed off the steel walls. His bravado waning, he wiped his sweaty hands onto his pants. When the metal box stopped moving, he took one more deep breath before stepping out and walking to her door.
Knocking twice, he stood back and waited.
No response.
Dennis put his ear against the door, not hearing any movement. “Hmmm.” If he couldn’t hear her, maybe she couldn't hear him. He began rapidly pounding on the offending wood separating them.
Several moments later, the door flew open, making Dennis jump. Revealing a pissed off Y/N, wearing pajamas, staring daggers at him.
“Are you serious right now!? What the hell is wrong with you!?” She was seething from being woken up at this hour for what appeared to not be an emergency.
Her friend only blinked at her. His long dark eyelashes fluttering in a way that made her melt under normal circumstances. Taking in his appearance, her anger faded fast. It was freezing outside and Dennis did not have a coat on. This pathetic wet cat of a man really was her weakness.
With an exasperated sigh, she decided against slamming the door in his sexy face. “You're smelling a bit flammable,” she deadpanned instead.
Dennis’ arms flailed, “I'm not THAT drunk. See.” A wide swing of his arms touched each finger to his nose. “I- I had…” He squinted, attempting to count in his head, “...a few before coming here because I have to ask you something important. Umm, why don't we go get coffee. We talk so good over coffee.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, “It's two in the morning. Not a single place around here would be open.” She held the door wider, beckoning him inside. “Why don't you come in and warm up. I've got coffee in here.”
“Two??!! Ohhhh noooo,” his voice grew loud and panicked. “I screwed up again. I missed it. Please, I didn't mean to be at the bar that long. I had a-a plan. A romantic plan. This was supposed to be my do over.”
Dennis looked completely dejected, she couldn't stand it. Both arms reached for him, but he flinched, backing away.
Head swimming in doubt, his first instinct incorrectly telling him he was about to be shoved. He told himself he deserved it. This plan was stupid. He assassinated his own chance at happiness. It was too soon, too late at night, too… too Dennis.
“Don't make me go away,” he pleaded. “You’re the only good thing in my life. Please don't shut me out. I know I suck, I suck so much, but please hear me out. I- I got you gifts. I lost them in the car though, but I will get you more, I promise.”
“Stop! You don't have to do that, D.”
“I DO!” He had to make her see. Make her understand what she meant to him. How his entire world revolved around her and he wouldn't have it any other way.
“I do, because you are the only person that has ever liked me, for me. You saw me as a person, not just some garbage to kick out of your way. I know it's too late. In so many ways too late. But you have to know that being your friend, just being around you, was the best time in my entire life.”
He took a big step toward her. Close enough he could feel her warmth. Bask in her glow. "I find myself holding my breath until I'm in your presence. I can breathe around you. Only you. I miss seeing your face everyday. I miss touching you and being allowed to kiss you. I miss talking to you about ev-everything. Just everything and anything at all. You glued my broken pieces together and made me a real man. I wish I knew, I wish I knew you were mine, because I NEVER would have let you go.”
“I fell so helplessly in love with you, I realize that's probably not what you want to hear from me, but it's the truth… I know I fucked it up. I'd sooner die than hurt you.” Dennis knew he was crying, embarrassing himself, but he persisted.
“I love you so much and I want to make you happy. Cause you deserve it. And I want to give it to you… I need you, Y/N. Nothing is worth anything unless you're there with me. I'd do anything, anything for a second chance. And I mean anything. Because I want you in my life for the rest of my life.”
He couldn’t discern the expression on her face. Her eyes filled with tears that began to fall as he watched. Fuck! He didn't mean to upset her. He should have stayed home. Idiot. Idiot.
Her voice cracking, she tightly grabbed his shirt, ”Will you get the fuck in here already.”
Pulling him inside, her lips crashed into his as soon as the door closed. Both moaned into the kiss, the reconnection electric and intense. Coaxing him further into her home, feverously kissing as if she wanted to devour him. He'd let her. He dreamt of this so often.
She still tasted like cherries.
Whimpering, his mouth searched for hers when she pulled away, before feeling her teeth nip at his chin. “Heh.” That's where she went. His eyes rolled, half lidded in pleasure as she left possessive bites along his jaw. “Fuck, Y/N.” Dennis’ hands settled on her waist.
Her hot breath tickled as she nibbled his earlobe. He couldn’t be more elated at this turn of events. Craved it with every fiber of his being. A traitorous thought lingering in the back of his mind forced its way out before he could stop it. “What about your boyfriend?” He wanted to kick himself. Why the fuck was that his concern right now?
“Broke up.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, “He didn't see me like you do. He didn't make me feel the way you do.” She pressed another kiss to his awaiting lips.
Her eyebrows crinkled in concern when he shivered. His skin still carried the chill of the night air. “Why do you have to be such a dumbass, D? We have to warm you up.”
Weaving his arms around her body, he kept her flush against him before she could pull away. “You're warming me up just fine.” Bringing their mouths back together, he slipped his tongue in to swirl with hers. She eagerly reciprocated. Taking off his glasses without breaking the kiss, he blindly reached to set them on the nearest surface. The sound of them clattering onto the floor barely registering.
Dennis’ breath hitched when her hand slipped into the waistband of his pants, firmly grasping his rigid length. “I ummm… I don't have a…”
“Bedroom.” Y/N flicked her tongue on his bottom lip, eyes filled with lust and promise. Grinning, she escaped his embrace to lead the way.
His fingertips touched his tingling lips, convinced he’d died and gone to heaven. Falling a few steps behind, he trailed after her while trying to get his pants off. The shoes on his feet prevented the removal of the vexing slacks. Stumbling at the bedroom doorway, Dennis fell back, his naked ass hitting the hard floor. The sting of it barely registering through the desire coursing through his veins.
An amused Y/N was making her way back to him, having already grabbed what she needed. Shimmying out of her pajama bottoms, she mounted him right there in the hallway. Legs spread across his pale thighs where his pants still were, she ripped open the condom, rolling it onto his leaking cock. “Ask me.”
“Wha?”
Squeezing his base, she repeated, “You have to ask me. I want no confusion this time.”
Dennis understood now. He knew what she needed to hear. “Will you be my girlfriend?”
“Yes!” Y/N guided him to her entrance. “Nggh,” she softly moaned, sinking slowly down to the hilt. Placing her hands on his shoulders, they shared a wet kiss as she raised and lowered herself on his thick shaft. She repeated her actions at a leisurely pace, savoring the moment.
Overwhelmed, Dennis cried out, “Fuck, oh fuck. You feel so.. Oh fuck.” His hands slid over her gyrating hips. Gripping tighter as she increased her speed. It felt too good. He wasn't going to last.
Y/N’s eyes closed as she rocked back and forth, “Mmm, I missed your cock.” Giving a particularly lavish roll of her hips, she increased her speed. “I love your penis.”
Panting, he agreed, “I love my penis.”
He traced her bottom lip with his thumb, dipping into her mouth. She sucked on it as she continued to ride him. Licking his other thumb, he lowered it to her clit, rubbing circles as her greedy hole swallowed him.
Dennis could feel her body start to tense, her walls clenching tighter around him. She sucked harder at the digit, mewling around it. “Let go. I got you.”
Letting the thumb fall from her mouth, her wanton gasps became something between a moan and a shriek. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy. Dennis pumped up into her as she fell over the edge of pleasure.
While she pulsed around him, he held the back of her head, pulling her close until her sweaty brow crashed into his. Inhaling deeply, he let her fill his lungs. “You are so fucking gorgeous.”
It didn’t take her long to recover. Her arms wrapped around him, holding impossibly close as she began to meet his thrusts. That was all it took for Dennis’ whole body to shudder and explode.
As he twitched inside her, Y/N’s hands moved to grip his damp hair, stroking it back. With trembling breaths, he captured her lips in a soft lingering kiss.
Pulling away slightly, she looked into his big blue eyes. Her palms moved down to press his cheeks, “Please don't screw this up, D. Because you won't get another chance.”
“I won't, I promise. On my life, I promise.”
Nodding, she kissed him hard, trying to sear the words into his soul. They remained where they were, holding on to each other as their racing hearts slowed.
Oh how he loved her. And with the way she looked at him right now, scared and hopeful, her heart laid bare before him, he knew she loved him too. He’d have to wait until she felt safe enough to say it, but Dennis could see it. He had never been more sure of anything.
Y/N lovingly scratched his beard before testing her shaking legs. He placed a tender kiss to her mound as she stood, hands caressing down her legs. Looking up at her with utter devotion written on his face.
Glancing down at the front of his pants, she snorted, “We made a mess of you.”
He looked down, then up to her with an unregretful and satisfied smile. Dennis pulled off and tied the condom. Taking her offered hand, he less than gracefully got off the floor. The ripping sound of his ass unsticking made them both break out in laughter.
“Why don’t you take your clothes off so I can throw them in the washing machine. Then after you toss that in the bin and get cleaned up, you can join me in bed.”
Dennis removed his shoes first this time, before taking off the rest, “All night?”
Y/N picked up his glasses, handing them to him. Luckily they were not broken. “I’m not going to throw my boyfriend out in the cold. You can stay as long as you want to.”
Boyfriend. He was her boyfriend. Guess he wasn’t a total failure after all, he got the girl. “Forever?” He looked at her with that sweet puppy face she couldn’t resist.
“We’ll see.” She took the soiled clothing from him and walked toward the laundry closet. She called over her shoulder, “This doesn't mean I forgive you entirely.”
He nodded, still feeling on top of the world. “I know. And that’s alright because to make amends, I’m going to be living under your skirt for the next month, tongue at the ready? In fact you should stop wearing underwear entirely.”
“DENNIS!”
The End
A/N: Don’t fuck it up this time Dennis.
A/N: Thank you to everyone that has read. I appreciate you all. I’d love to know your thoughts.
Well this is me but / if you have time / Do you want the house tour? / I could take you to the first, second, third floor
My house is on pretty girl avenue / My house was especially built for you / Some say it's a place where your dreams come true / My house / Could be your house too!
Overview: You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, a tale as old as time. Just like the one where they tell you about pretty, naive, broke girls getting swept off their feet by the murdering, satanic-worshipping rich man stalking them.
Oh... Do they not tell that one?
a/n: wrote this before I watched the movie and worried he would be OOC but I just finished it and yes, he’s just as psychopathic and needy as I’d hoped
wc: 12.1K
more at: Belle’s 3K Extravaganza
All good things start with something memorable. Something that gets your blood racing and adrenaline pumping. You hadn’t thought catering an old man’s party would be so titillating, but looking down at this NDA, you have a feeling your night is about to take a strange turn.
“Just sign on the dotted line, please,” Bev tells you, pointed nail tapping boredly at the bottom of the paper. The pen hangs limply in your grip as your eyes dart from her to the form.
Bev was doing you a favor, letting you tag along with her catering company and earn some extra cash. Things had been tight lately, bad enough that you’re worried about making rent next month. Still, as desperate as you were, entering the lion’s den of the rich and anonymous with a hefty NDA under your belt seemed beyond stupid.
Your friend let out a huff, offering you a stern glare. “You’re not getting in that mansion without one.”
“What the hell are they gonna do in there? Eat us alive?”
If only you knew then what you know now.
“This is all of them?” Bev nods as she hands the richly dressed lawyer the thick stack of NDA’s. Your eyes narrow on your own, right on top with your messy signature.
Getting into the sprawling estate had been hell. The owners, some jagoffs by the name of Danforth, didn’t want the help being seen by their guests. The catering vans had to circle the mile-long driveway and backroads before Bev finally found the back entrance. And then, because of that tedious delay, you’d all had to rush the food into the mansion.
One of you accidentally dropped a tray of some French shit you couldn’t pronounce. That had cost Bev an extra half hour as the head of staff for the estate berated her. You could still see how red her cheeks had gotten while she tried not to cry.
You’ve barely been here an hour and already your hatred for the rich is deepening.
A stout woman in a classic maid’s outfit walks up and down the long line of Bev’s caterers. She holds herself with the severity and posture of a military man. You’re afraid that if a hair slips out of place, she’ll make you drop and give her twenty. She comes to a sudden stop in front of you and you instinctively straighten, spine groaning as you force it into a better posture than you’ve had in a year.
Her eyes narrow before she lets out a low huff. “Send ten out with the champagne,” she barks out an order and you hold your hand out instinctively for your tray. Bev gives the go-ahead to her assistants and they begin loading you all up with champagne worth more than your shitty apartment.
Before you can finally escape the kitchen, the older woman stops you. “Watch yourself,” she warns. Your brows furrow in confusion but she’s already walking away, tugging at another girl’s skirt until the hem sits right. That didn’t seem like a warning that meant ‘don’t get smart with the guests.’ It felt more like you should have left before you even set foot in this dreary mansion.
With no other choice, you shuffle in line with the others and follow the leader out the swinging kitchen door. The noise is immediate as you’re led into a large drawing room. Low chatter and rich laughter that makes your wallet quake. Women’s 4-carat diamond rings clink against champagne flutes, Rolexes flash as men sip their brandy. Each pass through the room makes you wish you had the skills to slip a ring or necklace off an unsuspecting socialite.
You’re forced to dismiss the thought as a man whistles, snapping his fingers and motioning you closer. Your eye twitches as you bite back something rude; instead, you force a polite smile on your face, making your way over. “Took you long enough,” he gripes, rolling his eyes.
You offer a short laugh and your smile tightens. “Did you need something, sir?” Your tray is empty, clearly tucked behind your back. Five extra seconds of patience and you would have been refilled. But you doubt anyone in this room has ever had to wait for something.
“Yes,” he stares at you as if you’d grown a second head. “Champagne,” he drawls in a tone that actively makes you wish for a gun.
You blink a few times, struggling to comprehend how someone could be so confidently stupid. “Apologies, sir, my tray’s empty. But the bar is just over there,” you point toward the bartender, who is quite literally five feet from the man.
His perfectly maintained eyebrows draw in at your audacity. “Good, you have eyes. Go get me some.”
Tomorrow, you would congratulate yourself on such phenomenal self-restraint. Tonight, however, you bite your lip hard enough to hurt and force yourself to go grab some champagne.
When you swipe the flute from the bar, it takes everything inside you not to spit in the bastard’s drink. “Here you are, sir,” you force a jovial tone to your voice. He rolls his eyes. Those thirty seconds you took must have felt like a lifetime to the poor thing.
He waves his hand in dismissal and you can’t help the astonished scoff that leaves you. Shaking your head, you’re about to turn away when you catch him fiddling with the ring on his pinky. You might as well already be gone for all the care he pays you as you linger behind him.
His ring pops open to reveal a compartment inside. You frown as he sprinkles powder from his ring into the drink. With a low sigh, he readjusts his tie and makes a beeline for the blonde in the center of the room.
The domineering presence that has commanded the party thus far. You’re quite certain she’s the one who hired Bev, with how easily she dismisses and beckons forth those around her, like an owner calling their dog to heel.
The man you’d just served sidles up to her, a smarmy grin on his face as he holds out the champagne. With a low sigh, you shake your head and rush forward. The rich might all behave like a bunch of well-dressed bottom feeders, but you’re not about to allow a woman to be roofied at her own party.
You jog up to the woman and reach out. She startles at your touch. There’s a man at her side you hadn’t noticed before. He’s on the shorter side, with salt-and-pepper curls and a tight jaw that looks like it's been itching to bite at someone all night. “You’re touching me,” she drawls and you jerk your hand back.
Her lips curl with disgust, as if you got your poor on her. Clearing your throat uncomfortably, you glance over at the man you just served. His eyes narrow, but you don’t think he even paid enough attention to you to remember your face.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not supposed to drink that.” You gesture toward the champagne and she pulls it back from you.
“Good help’s hard to find these days, isn’t it?” The man laughs, eyes narrowing at you as he tries to remember how he knows your face. Jesus, these people are inhuman.
“And why shouldn’t I drink my champagne in my home?” she demands, cutting her eyes to the man at her side. They both share a suspicious look that has you clamping up.
“Um, well-”
“Alright,” the man at her side finally steps forward, hands outstretched like he’s about to escort you out. You’d really rather not find out how these people dispose of ‘bad’ help.
“He put something in it,” you rush out, narrowly dodging her guard dog’s hands. They both pause and the blonde brings the drink to her nose. She takes a deep whiff while the blonde man across from her goes colorless.
She lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. “Really, Brentley? Poison is a woman’s game; you should know better.”
Your eyes dart between the pair of them. She’s taking this a lot better than you would have. The shorter man redirects himself to the other man, ignoring you now. All three of them seem to have forgotten you were there. They began to act as if she were the one to make the discovery, icing you out of the conversation.
It’s a blessing, you think. She seemed ready to cut off your hands for getting poverty on her silk dress. Slowly, you back away from the trio. When you’re sure no one’s paying attention, you make a beeline for the kitchen. One attempted poisoning is more than enough excitement for the night.
Bev is surrounded by a cyclone of pans, cutlery, and splashing red sauces. Her white coat is absolutely covered in stains, and the stout woman from before is yelling at her for burning some hors d'oeuvres. You’re a horrible person for leaving her high and dry, but you need to get out of here before you discover something so bad that not even an NDA can shut you up.
You drop your tray by the kitchen door and rip off your apron, making a run for it before anyone can spot you. If Bev asks, you’ll tell her you got sick and had to leave. She probably won’t believe you, but you doubt she’s paying much attention to who’s missing right now.
Slipping outside, you tug out your phone. You’ll need to get an Uber out of here; the estate is over an hour out of the city. Like hell you’ll be able to make the walk in the heels they required you to wear.
Trying to open up Uber, you frown, no bars. Great, in this sprawling billion-dollar estate, they couldn’t shell out some extra cash for a cell phone tower or something. Grumbling, you lift your phone to the sky, trying to see if you can catch a signal. You don’t pay much attention to where you go, just walking until you get enough of a connection to call a ride.
After a few minutes, you find yourself outside of some strange shed. A bar comes to life and you let out a low noise of excitement, quickly ordering a ride. An odd noise to your right catches your attention and you shift your focus back to the shed.
It’s wet, this noise, squishing as someone lets out a low groan. Your nose wrinkles, disgust brewing hot in your stomach as you risk a step closer to the door. Through the wooden slats, you can make out the form of a hunched man. Another low grunt and he lifts his arm, the metallic shine of a butcher’s knife catching in the dim light. You clamp your hand over your mouth, swallowing back your gasp as he slams the knife down.
A painful squelch and then you hear the pitiful sound of an animal breathing its last breath. Are they preparing the meat for dinner now? You ask yourself. How odd, even for the rich.
Tilting your head, curiosity overrides sense as you press closer to the wood of the shed. The man straightens and you recognize the greying auburn curls from inside the estate. This had been the little guard dog standing next to that blonde woman you’d helped. He lets out a low grunt and wipes his hands on his apron, stepping to the side.
There’s no stopping the sharp gasp that rips through you. It wasn’t an animal he was butchering. No, it was the man who’d tried to poison the woman. His mangled body was crumpled on the floor, blood swirling down a drain in the center of the shed. His fingers twitched with the last bits of life as his body began to cool.
You stumbled back from the shed with burning eyes, stomach turning as you tripped over yourself.
“What are you doing out here?”
You whipped around with a gasp, barely stopping yourself from screaming. The blonde woman stood behind you, hands propped on her hips as she scrutinized your form. The shed door creaked open behind you and you went still, already feeling a predator's gaze boring into your back.
“I was looking for a signal,” you whisper, holding up your phone.
“Did you find it?” The man calls from behind you. You’re too terrified to turn. You can’t face a murderer, not with the body of his victim still cooling behind him.
“Yeah,” you squeak out, nails biting into your palm as your eyes desperately search for a way out of this.
The blonde’s head tilts and she offers a sharp smile. “You’re the maid that told me about Brentely.” Oh, of course, now they can remember a face.
“Mhm,” you hum, throat so tight you can hardly breathe.
Her eyes narrow for a split second before she waves you off. “Run along, little rabbit.” You hesitate and she tilts her head, almost daring you to disobey. It takes a second longer before you’re booking it back toward the main section of the estate.
“You’re just letting her leave?” The man hisses.
“I know what she looks like, now. Besides, she did sign an NDA,” she mutters, leading him back into the shed.
That should have been the end of it. After all, you did sign an NDA. And without much knowledge of the legal process, you just assume that you can’t tell another living soul what you witnessed. It’s not like you’re actively looking to snitch, either. The guy had clearly been a scumbag and those people were far more powerful than the justice system.
You’d looked them up after you’d gotten home. Trying to place where you’d seen them before. Titus and Ursula Danforth, the siblings who’d hired Bev. People who could bury you if you ever tried to report them. You knew you weren’t influential enough to pose a threat to them. And you know that they understood that, too.
So why the hell were you being followed?
Every night when you’d get home, a black town car would be parked outside your apartment. Too clean, too new, too rich for your neighborhood. You’d see it throughout the day as you went grocery shopping, as you applied for new jobs, everywhere. Those tinted windows prevented you from seeing just who was trailing you. But you knew who’d sent them.
You were nothing to the Danforths. An insignificant little bug who’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why would they waste so much time on you?
It didn’t make sense, and thinking too long about it made it harder to muster up the courage to leave the house. So, you tried to forget about them. You tried to forget about the town car parked across the street as you ran into the hardware store. But it was difficult to pretend it was a normal day when you turned the aisle and saw Titus Danforth standing at the other end.
His hands were in his pockets as he observed the axes and picks with an upturned nose. Your eyes widened, and you caught yourself, trying to slowly back out of the aisle. But your stupid, cheap shoes squeaked against the linoleum, and his head snapped toward you.
Your entire body froze under his empty stare. Those eyes, sharp as a blade and completely void of any emotion. It felt like staring down a shark, and you’d just chummed the waters.
“You,” he muttered.
You could try to make a run for it. You’d probably beat him to the door. But then what after that? He keeps following you, keeps having you tailed and you spend every waking second looking over your shoulder? Your life was shit enough already; you couldn’t give him so much power over it.
“Mr. Danforth,” you greet. Titus felt too comfortable. Too familiar for the man stalking you.
His head tilted at that, eyes flitting over your form as he appraised you. You’re sure he found you wanting for something. You were so far below him on the social ladder that you don’t even think there’s a rung for you to hold onto.
He takes a step closer to you and it feels as if the air around you grows colder at his presence. You can’t bring yourself to meet him halfway, but you refuse to back down. Holding your ground, you eye him warily.
“Have you been following me?” It’s posed as a question, but you can both hear the accusation in your tone.
His eyes narrow, lips quirking slightly as he scoffs. “Do you think I have the time to follow everyone who sticks their nose in my business?”
“Clearly, you do.” It’s probably stupid to goad the man who could kill you right here and walk away scott free. But you’re not going to let him make you feel like you’re going crazy. “I don’t see any other reason you’d be somewhere like this,” you gesture toward the run-down store and his nose wrinkles. His disgust gives him away.
“My sister thought it wise to let you go. You helped her; that was her returning the favor.”
“And you don’t agree?” He doesn’t have to say anything; his presence is enough of an answer. You risk a step closer, ignoring how his stare makes your hair stand on end. “You’ve been watching me, you know I haven’t done anything to earn your suspicion. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Do you?” He prods, your brows furrow at the dig.
“Sarcasm is a lot different than accusing someone of-” you stop yourself, biting your tongue before you blurt out what he’d done in the middle of the hardware store.
His brows pique, seeming disappointed you hadn’t just proved yourself wrong. “If you didn’t think you could trust me, why’d you let me go that night?”
A spark of emotion, just the slightest bit of anger on his face, before his calm facade slips back in place. “It wasn’t my choice,” he grits out. You draw back, eyes narrowing. So, his sister calls the shots then. You wonder if she’s aware her dog has sprung his leash.
“Look, I have enough to deal with without you making my life hell. Frankly, you’re not worth the fucking trouble it would take to report you. Just… let me be, please.”
He’s silent for a moment and you don’t know how to take that. When it gets to be too uncomfortable, you start to walk away. “You’re bold for someone who’d be so easy to erase.”
Tensing up, you risk a glance over your shoulder, but he’s already gone.
A few nights later, you find yourself standing outside a shitty bar. You’d spent the night making it up to Bev for ditching her by buying her cheap beer you could barely afford. Now, you’re staring down at what it would cost to order yourself a car.
Bev had taken off with some guy she’d picked up, leaving you stranded. You rock back on your heels, bare legs growing colder the longer you stay still. “Fuck,” you hiss, shoving your phone in your purse. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself and turn to make the trek home.
It’s beyond stupid, walking home like this, buzzed and in skimpy bar clothes. But you don’t even have enough money in your bank to pay your water bill. Let alone afford a ride back to your apartment.
It doesn’t take long to feel it. Your hair stands on end, gooseflesh pricks at your skin painfully. Someone’s watching you. Just behind you, just out of sight, their eyes are stuck on your back. It’s futile to try to shake off the feeling. There’s no getting rid of base instinct. You risk a glance over your shoulder and find no shadows lurking under the street lamps.
That’s when you hear it. The sound of an engine starting. Bright headlights flood the street before you. Grimacing back from the light, you cup your hand over your eyes and glare at the car making such a scene. It shouldn’t surprise you to see the black town car, but you’re caught off guard nonetheless.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, watching as it rolls to a stop beside you. The back window rolls down, hair that’s growing too familiar to you becomes visible. Jesus, he’s not even driving. Of course, he’s got a damn chauffeur. Why wouldn’t he?
You should honestly be concerned about the man following you. The one you’d just seen murder someone, not even a week ago. But you’re just relieved it's him and not some other freak following you. Better the evil you know…
The door doesn’t open, he doesn’t say anything, and there’s no invitation offered to get in. You’re not sure if he just wanted to taunt you with the heat you can feel wafting from the window or what.
“Um, hi?” you mutter, still slightly buzzed.
He lets out a sharp sigh, and then the door swings open. You leap back before it can bash into your knees, cheap heels tilting threateningly beneath you. “I don’t-”
“Get in,” his voice is short and leaves no room for questioning. Besides, you are desperate to be out of the cold. There should be far more of a fight put up, but you get into the car and close the door behind you. The driver pulls away from the curb immediately, seemingly desperate to be out of this shady neighborhood.
You can’t exactly blame him. You hate when Bev drags you to this side of town. She always ends up ditching you by the end of the night.
Just to have something to do, you plant your purse firmly in your lap, fiddling with the straps. You can see Titus out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tense, as usual, gaze is fixed pointedly ahead. You’re afraid to speak. As if one wrong word might trigger him to attack.
“Still following me, I see,” you mutter, fiddling with a string on your dress.
He sucks in a sharp breath, and you straighten, waiting for him to bite. “Did you drag your heels from the bottom of a bargain bin?”
Your eyes widen and your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?” But he’s not done.
“And your dress is one thread away from being nothing more than a cheap scrap in a landfill.” Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You’re far too astonished by such a brutal callout of your accurately described bargain bin wardrobe. “So, why would you ever think it’s smart to walk through a neighborhood like that in shoes you can’t even run in?”
Rolling your eyes, you let out a sharp scoff. “Jesus, don’t try to white knight me after you’ve been stalking me for a week.” His gaze snaps toward you, and you shrug. “If it comes to it, I ditch the heels and run. I’ve been in tighter squeezes than a shady neighborhood and a cheap dress.”
Your answer seems to have pretty much the opposite effect of what you’d been hoping for as his nostrils flare and his shoulders stiffen. Thankfully, the driver’s pulling into your apartment complex. You’re about ready to throw open the door and roll out; you’ve escaped from worse dates with the same method before.
“Your neighborhood’s disgusting,” he snipes, sniffing.
You open the door and toss him a glare over your shoulder. “Then buy me a house, or stop following me,” you snap, slamming the door behind you. You almost wished he would actually shoot you. It’d be preferable to being followed by a domineering, judgmental shadow.
When you open the door the next morning, instead of the paper, there’s a thick envelope on the mat. Bending over, you pick it up, honestly surprised one of your neighbors hadn’t snatched it yet.
You’ve got one foot in your door and have barely opened the envelope before you're racing outside. You keep it tucked tight to your chest, heart racing as you storm down your stairs and to the town car parked expectantly outside.
Rushing up, you rap your knuckles on the window, slippered foot tapping impatiently against the pavement. Slowly, the window rolls down, revealing Titus’ chauffeur, but no sign of the man himself.
“Is he in there?” you demand, trying to get a look into the back seat.
“No, ma’am, not today.”
Your brows furrow as your gaze snaps back to him. “He makes you come out here without him?”
The driver nods sagely, “In case you ever decide to swallow your pride and ask for a ride.” A sharp scoff escapes you and he offers a saccharine smile. “His words, ma’am.”
“Upptiy asshole,” you grumble. You pull the envelope away from your chest and flash it at him. The thick stack of hundreds inside dangles just beneath his nose. “What is this?”
His brows raise as he glances between you and the cash. “Money, I believe.”
You shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Yes, I’m aware of what money is. I want to know why it’s at my door.”
“I believe for a better pair of shoes, ma’am.”
Your lips part as your gaze drops back to the cash. Jesus, even his gift was insulting. And how much did he think a pair of shoes cost? This was two months of rent in your hand, not to mention every one of your overdue bills.
“Yeah, well, it’s going to my water bill,” you grumble. “You can leave, I’m not going anywhere today. Nor am I ever taking his chauffeur.”
The older man simply smiles and shrugs. “I’ll be here if you need me, ma’am.” The window’s rolling back up before you can object. Thoroughly dismissed, you begin the awkward trek back up your stairs. What the hell does he even do in there all day?
And why is Titus torturing his poor chauffeur and making him wait out there when he’s not even here?
You shake your head and grumble quietly to yourself. You never should have gone to that damn mansion.
“Where’s Ralph?” Ursula stepped into Titus’ office with her typical demanding air. Having no care for what he’s been doing or the fact that he’s been trying to clean up her mess for the past week and a half.
“With the girl,” he mutters, leafing through the paperwork on his desk. Ursula shakes her head, expression blank. Titus lets out a heavy sigh, “Brentley,” he reminds her.
That had been a particularly satisfying kill. He’d been looking for ways to get rid of that pompous ass for a long time. And you’d just walked right up and handed it to him on your little silver tray.
Ursula’s eyes narrow before recognition sparks in them. “I still don’t understand why he isn’t here,” she huffs.
“Because I’m trying to make sure that your odd desire for mercy doesn’t go to the police.”
“Jesus, Titus, I want my driver back. Put her down if you have to.” Ursula throws her hands up with a huff and begins to storm out of his office. Titus pauses, imagines what it might be like to kill you. He’s unsure how he’d do it, now. You’re easy enough to get in a car. Maybe he’d drive you back to the estate, take you to the shed where he’d slaughtered Brentley.
He imagines that terror in your eyes would be quite the sight to see. That brief moment right before you scream and he plunges the knife in your chest. Titus’s hands tighten around his papers before he releases a short breath, dropping them back on his desk. Something stirs in his groin that makes him stretch out his legs.
“Unless,” Ursula’s voice calls from his door. Hadn’t she left yet? “Are you playing with your food, again?”
“What?” He snaps, having less patience for her than usual.
“That little server from the party…” she shrugs. “Having fun playing with her, Titus?” His jaw clenches, imagining the generous donation he’d left you this morning. Pocket money for him. He’s sure it’s life-changing for a poverty-stricken thing like you.
“Ugh,” Ursula groans in disappointment. “You always do this. Find a new toy to play with, something that will really get on father’s nerves. Then I’m cleaning up your mess. I don’t feel like having to scrape a maid off concrete again. If you’re going to play, make sure it doesn’t get in my way.”
With that, she finally leaves, the door slamming behind her. Titus stays where he is, jaw flexing as he settles his breath. She has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s never kept toys, never played with women. They played with him, and he had little care for women who thought he was something disposable.
He doubts you’d be like that. Desperate as you are, you still manage to have a bite. Still try to fight against him. There’s something in that desperation, that gritty will to survive, that’s a hundred times more interesting than any heiress he’s had dinner with in the past year.
He tilts his head, picturing the look on your face if he presented you with one of his penthouses. Disposable things, he occasionally visited. An entirely different life from your shitty little apartment complex. It’s difficult deciding what’s more enticing…
The light leaving your eyes, or being the reason it’s still there.
“Oh, fuck me,” you hiss, staring out the peephole and finding an annoyingly familiar face waiting. When is this rich boy going to let you get back to your life? Passionless and boring as that life is, it’s yours. And you’d like him out of it.
You suck in a sharp breath and throw the door open. Titus waits for you, hands folded behind his back, a suspicious tilt to his lips. “What?” you demand, eyeing him warily.
His eyes narrow before he holds out his hand. “Take a ride with me,” he tells you. There’s no space for ‘no’ with him. It’s not something he’s ever heard or will ever accept. Despite every instinct telling you not to, you take his hand.
You frown as he slips a key into your palm, dragging you out of your apartment. “Where’re we going?” you demand, stumbling as he storms off toward the stairs. He drags you along behind him, paying little mind to your questions or complaints.
“Somewhere more suitable to my tastes,” he offers airily.
It’s hard to say how you end up here. Sort of. You understand the steps easily enough. Titus stalked you, paid you, and then dumped you in a penthouse so he could stalk you in a neighborhood closer to his economic bracket.
But there’s this grey area between all that, where you can’t quite comprehend what your life has become. You watched him murder a man, saw him and his sister cover it up. You should hold the power; you have something on him.
Yet, he has this power over you. This sway that makes you agree to things you never would before.
On your last cent and struggling to keep a roof over your head, you still wouldn’t let yourself rely on a man. But now, you sleep in his penthouse. You wear clothes bought with his card. And, occasionally, he visits you. For the most part, he keeps to his mansion and socialites.
But when he’s looking for something interesting, for someone without an ulterior motive or fake personality, he comes to you. Eventually, the shininess of a new toy will wear off. You’ll dull around the edges after not having to fight to survive. The thing that’s strangely endeared him to you will be gone, and you’ll be left worse off than before.
Because now, you don’t have your own place to run back to.
You’re searching through job listings on the new laptop he gave you when the front door opens. “Shit,” you hiss, closing out the tabs and sliding the computer away just as he walks into the living room.
“What was that?” He demands, eyes already narrowed in suspicion.
“Porn,” you respond bluntly. His nostrils flare for a moment before his lips quirk. You offer a weak smile, feeling like a fool performing for nobles so far above her. Each moment with him, in the comfort of this grand place, you wonder when he’ll grow tired. When you won’t be funny enough to keep around anymore. When you’ll have to fight for scraps again.
He unbuttons his coat and you stand, already reaching for it. He lets out a rough sigh, collapsing on the couch as you go to hang it up. What are you to him? You find yourself asking that question more than you’re comfortable with.
When you return, he’s digging through your computer. You’re not stupid, though. You look for ways to escape him on incognito tabs. “Snoop much?” you tease, offering a tense smile.
He closes your laptop and tosses it onto the table. Your eyes widen at the blase attitude. You could never imagine treating your valuables as if they were so… replaceable.
“What did you do tonight?” He asks, rubbing his temple as he sinks into the cushions.
“I already told you,” you snark. He pops open an eye, and you shrug.
Replaceable. “Cooked some dinner, burnt it. Ordered Thai, instead.”
“I’m so sick of these fucking gatherings,” he grunts, eyes clenched shut as he shakes his head.
Replaceable.
He completely passes over what you’ve said, but you don’t really care. Taking a seat beside him, you’re not surprised when he grabs your waist, tugs you onto his lap. It’s routine when he visits, now.
A doll.
You run your fingers through his tight curls and he shudders at the gentle touch. Smiling slightly, you pull his head into your chest. He falls easily into you. Most days, he reminds you of one of those mutts used in dog-fighting rings.
He’s got sharp teeth and a worse bite, but he seems to just be looking for an iota of normalcy. Sadly, a life lived with a silver spoon in his mouth means he has no idea what normalcy is. It’s certainly not playing house with your stay-at-home sugar baby whenever you get tired of being rich.
Dolls break so easily.
His arms tighten around you and you suck in a deep breath, trying to settle yourself. “What’re all these meetings about, anyway?”
“Marriage,” he answers bluntly. Your fingers still in his hair, job applications sit in the back of your mind. He lifts his head with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
Dolls are replaceable.
Your smile tightens at the edges until it hurts. “Nothing,” you lie. “Don’t like any of the gorgeous heiresses they’ve presented you with?” you try to tease him. It comes out too strained. Too bitter to fit your role.
Titus catches on, like a shark sniffing out blood. He leans back on the couch and you stiffly follow him. “Worried?” he taunts, and the joy that flickers through his eyes fills you with a blinding hate. He knows.
You almost thought he was too stupid to understand what it means to struggle. To have to worry about where or when your next meal will come. But he knows what you fear, he knows how to use it against you and keep you docile. It’s fun for him, being so wholly in control of your life and your future.
I am replaceable.
“Not at all,” you shrug, dipping forward to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “We both know I’m more fun than them.” You slip from his lap, smirking as you drag your hand along his shoulder, slowly making your way to the bedroom. It doesn’t take him long to follow once you’ve tugged his leash.
“Oh.” Ursula stands at the entrance of the penthouse. Her sunglasses are still on, lips curled as she takes you in. “I was looking for Titus,” she explains, brushing past you and making her way inside.
Your eyes narrow as the door shuts behind her. Why do you feel like she’s lying?
“Shouldn’t he be at your mansion?” You ask, heart skipping when you realize you’ve left your laptop open on the coffee table. You knew Titus wouldn’t be coming by anytime soon. You hadn’t thought to cover your tracks.
Of course, Ursula takes after her twin. She loops through the living room, arms crossed in judgment, before her attention’s snagged by the screen. She lifts her sunglasses and peers down at it.
If you pretend like it’s normal, maybe she won’t tell Titus.
“Big mansion,” she mutters in response to your earlier comment. “Must’ve missed him.”
Now you know she’s lying.
“Uh-huh,” you mutter, trailing after her. “Well, he’s not here.” Ursula ignores you, bending down and scrolling through your laptop. “Hey, do you mind-”
“Office administrator?” She questions, tongue rolling like a job title is a foreign language.
You roll your eyes, “I forget nepo babies don’t understand the idea of employment.”
She lets out a short scoff, offering you a bitter smile. “Careful,” she warns. “I don’t like you that much.”
You offer a sharp grin, but bite your tongue. You’re more scared of her than you are of Titus. She’s had him in her claws a lot longer than you. And you doubt you mean enough for him to protect you from her.
“Why are you looking at jobs?” She demands, eyes snagging on your half-packed suitcase. “Escaping, are we?”
You follow her gaze and shake your head. If only. “No, Titus wants to get away. Something about a property up in the mountains.”
“The Leedle Property?” She interrupts.
“I guess,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at how eagerly she jumps at the information. “Why?”
“And why are you applying to jobs if you’re not running away from my brother?” she asks, ignoring your question.
You bite your lip, wondering how much you should actually tell her. But it doesn’t seem like she’s leaving until she’s satisfied. “I’m not an idiot. Your brother likes collecting toys, but he enjoys breaking them more.” Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t try to lie, doesn’t try to correct you.
“This can’t last forever,” you motion toward the penthouse. “I need something I can actually rely on. Myself.”
“Why not babytrap him?”
If you had a drink, you’d choke on it. “What?” you demand, voice rising in pitch.
Ursula shrugs. “Babytrap him, file false charges against him, stalk him. A few of the things the women in his life have tried to have a piece of my inheritance.”
“Crazy women,” you correct. “I’d rather work until I’m 90 before I babytrap a man. Especially your brother. No offense,” you quickly correct.
Her tongue laves across her teeth as she surveys you. A part of you shudders, wondering if this is the part where the rich people cannibalize the poor to taste poverty for the first time. “The Leedle Property, then? When’s this little getaway happening?”
She completely disregards your previous line of conversation. You’re not sure if you’re grateful or more unsettled. “This weekend,” you tell her.
“Hm,” she hums before nodding and making her way back to the door. “Make sure Titus doesn’t see those applications. I doubt he’d take kindly to his doll escaping her house.”
Your jaw clenches as the door slams shut behind her. You do not like that woman. Why the hell did she even come over?
Grumbling to yourself, you collect the rest of the clothes you plan on packing and shove them into your suitcase. No wonder Titus seems so eager to get away from his family. They’ve got the meanest bite of anyone you’ve had the displeasure of meeting.
Titus drives you up to the estate. You’d had to bite back a joke about him knowing how to drive when he’d come to pick you up. You doubt he’d appreciate mockery during one of the few times he actually does something for himself. Besides, he seems to be in a good mood, no need to ruin that with your mouth.
“Why the mountains?” you ask, breaking the silence for the first time during the drive.
Titus’s eyes drift over to you before focusing back on the road. “It’s quiet, peaceful.” He reaches over, hand squeezing your thigh. “No one around for miles.”
You snort and toss him an unimpressed look. “You could say that about any of your estates. How come we’re not relaxing on a beach with a drink in our hand?”
“Don’t complain,” he chides, hand squeezing in warning.
You shift uncomfortably, straightening in your seat. “Thank you,” you amend, “for bringing me.” He offers a hum but says nothing else. Your stomach twists as you worry you’ve just messed this trip up for yourself.
“Hey,” a cool touch on your chin and you’re tilting your head to meet his eye. “This will be nice,” he tells you. As if there is no greater authority than him. Like nothing could ever prove him wrong.
You yearn to move through the world with the kind of self-assured confidence a rich man has. As if the entire universe bends to his will and his alone. It must be nice, being so self-deluded.
“Yeah,” you agree, voice empty as you offer a shallow smile. When will you get tired of me?
You hear it, a sort of clock counting down before you’re left broken on a curb somewhere.
His hand lingers on you the rest of the ride, but you both remain quiet. Something heavy has settled between you. An amalgamation of your hesitation, his uncertainty about what to do with you. For an hour of the drive, you actually wonder if he’s just brought you out here to kill you.
But he could have easily killed you at the penthouse. He doesn’t seem the type to need a change of scenery. At least, that’s the best you could comfort yourself.
Eventually, he pulls up the long, winding driveway of a sprawling estate. “I thought you said this was a cabin,” you accuse, forehead practically pressed to the window.
Titus pauses, “It is.”
Your gaze drifts back to him and you scoff. “It’s the size of a McMansion.”
Titus shrugs, “It’s rustic.”
He gets out and you wait like you’re supposed to. It takes a second before he’s at your door, opening it and offering you a hand out. He leaves your luggage in the car. You wonder if he’ll get it later or if there are little servants here to do that for him.
“You know,” it's an effort to keep your jaw off the ground as you take in his second home. “I’m going to need a house tour, so I don’t get lost in here this week.”
Titus lets out a small huff of laughter, arm winding around your waist as he leads you up the front steps. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you all the hidden rooms.” He opens the front door as you shoot him a wide-eyed stare.
“Hidden rooms-”
“There you are!” A sharp voice interrupts you, cold and cruel. A blonde monster stands in the foyer. (Cabins definitely don’t have foyers, by the way. Something to be addressed later.) “I was starting to worry you would never show up, brother.”
Ursula stands holding a champagne flute, dressed to the nines, and you suddenly realize there are a dozen other well-dressed people all around her. Certainly better looking than your worn-down jeans and baggy sweater. They all sip their drinks and fiddle with their diamonds, gaze scrutinizing you.
You shudder, freezing in the doorway as you realize this is an ambush. Women your age and younger all stand in a circle to the right of the door. Each dressed better than the last. Not one of them pays attention to you; all eyes are on Titus.
“Ursula?” Titus grits out, eyes roaming the room with fury burning in them. “What are you doing?”
She walks forward and holds out her hand. Suddenly, you’re alone, Titus following after his sister as she leads him into an adjacent room. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what's happening. You’d let it slip to Ursula where your getaway was going to be, and she’d set this up.
An ambush of socialites and heiresses, far better suited for her brother than some scrappy little piece of trash like you. The women’s parents were all eyeing you with disgust. Unable to comprehend how you captured Titus’s attention when their daughters failed.
You wind your arms tight around yourself, taking a hesitant step back. Maybe you could just steal his car and make a run for it.
“Oh,” your back slams into someone’s chest and you falter. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, already turning around.
An older man with cold eyes glares down at you. Shivers rack up your spine, gooseflesh pinches at you. The Senior Danforth, you would bet everything. Those cold, emotionless eyes are just like his son’s.
“Sir,” you greet, taking another step back.
His eyes narrow, and he lets out a low huff of disappointment. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand my son.”
You offer an awkward chuckle, knowing you’re being insulted straight to your face. “Does any parent?”
“Are you being smart with me?”
“I-”
“Father,” a voice interrupts. You sink back in relief, practically hiding behind Titus as he comes up behind you. “Ursula’s just explained the mix-up.” His eyes dart over to you and you feel like you’re missing something crucial. “I wish you had told me your plan,” he grits out, clearly struggling to stay polite.
His father scoffs, not sparing you another glance. “Why? So you could run away with your little paramour?”
Your brows turn in, the way he says it makes it sound like a slur. You must be nothing to this man. Honestly, he looks at you and probably just sees a little roach to crush under his heel. Is this why Titus is with you? There’s clearly no love lost between him and his father. Maybe you’re his rebellion.
“Of course not,” Titus hisses. “You know how deeply I respect our traditions,” again, another sly look over at you. What the fuck were they talking about?
You glance over your shoulder and catch a few people just as they rip their stares away. Their voices remain hushed, too low for you to make out any hints of what might be happening. Slowly, you step back from Titus. He’s too absorbed by his father to pay much attention.
You make it all the way back to the car, thinking you’ve successfully escaped, before you hear footsteps rushing to catch up. “What are you doing?” Titus demands.
“What do you think?” You whip around with a scoff and he draws back. “I know what I am to you, Titus. I’m not something permanent or anyone worth a damn. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay here and be insulted while you cozy up with some heiress.”
“Is that what you think?” He asks, head tilting curiously.
“It’s what I know. And it’s not like you’ve proved me wrong.”
Titus smirks and that little quirk to his lips is infuriating. “And letting you stay rent-free at my penthouse doesn’t prove you wrong? Providing you with any creature comfort you might want or need doesn’t prove that?”
You lick your lips and let out a sharp sigh. “No. Because I know you, this is your game, Titus. So, just let me go home, alright?” You reach for the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Titus,” you grit out, yanking on the car door.
“You’re not leaving,” he tells you.
“Seriously, Titus, I don’t want to be here.” His lips flatten, and you draw back. For a moment, he almost looks sorry, and you think that’s more terrifying than any anger you’ve ever gotten from him. “What’s going-”
An arm wrapped around your back, a cloth pressed to your nose. One whiff of that sickly sweet scent and you were going limp.
Sharp, pungent, someone slips something under your nose strong enough to shock you back to life. You suck in a sharp gasp, more of the smell burning in your lungs. Your eyes open, but your vision remains dark. Something burns around your wrists, they’ve tied your hands behind your back.
“What’s- what’s happening?” Laughter to your left, chilling and shrill.
“Take it off,” you vaguely recognize the voice of Titus’s father as a mask is ripped from your eyes. The light floods into your vision and you grimace, head pounding from whatever they’d used to knock you out. When your eyes relax, you realize you’re in a basement of some sort. The walls are all dark brick, the floors a black tile that looks like it’d be easy to clean blood off of.
There’s a circle formed before you. The guests from upstairs are all staring at you now. Except the girls are dressed in white gowns and slips. While their parents all don black cloaks.
“Oh fuck me,” you hiss, looking down at yourself. You’ve been changed into a matching white dress with the rest of the women. “I knew you assholes sacrificed people," you snap, glaring through the crowd. You’re searching for one man, but they’ve all got these terrifying goat skull masks on.
Still, you think you recognize that haunting look in Titus’s eyes by now as your gaze stops on a man to your right.
“The eloquent language of the working class,” someone titters off to your left.
“Forgive the French,” you bite out. “But at the very least, we don’t fucking eat people.”
“Enough!” Your shoulders jump as Titus’s father descends the dais he’d been standing on. “No one is getting eaten or sacrificed. All this is… is an annual hunt.”
The way he says it makes you wish you were being ritually sacrificed. A maid strolls through the crowd, a covered cart in her hand that she pushes to the middle of the circle. You almost call out for help, but their employees are just as fucked as the rest of them.
“A hunt?” You whisper, eyes being ripped to the side by one of the women in a white gown. Her glare is boring into you, malice and hatred bubbling over in frothing animosity. You’d never even said one word to her, and she looks ready to rip your throat out and eat your heart.
“As our guest to this tradition,” the Senior Danforth offers a chilling grin. “I allow you the first pick.”
“We had a deal-” A man steps forth to object, but Titus’s father holds up his hand, silencing him without even looking away from you. Swallowing thickly, you step forward, hands still bound behind your back with rope. The Senior Danforth rips the sheet off the cart with a gusto better suited for a magician. Two servants appear behind you and roughly cut the rope away.
Beneath are a dozen different weapons. Glocks, shotguns, hunting knives, throwing stars, even a bow and arrows. “Oh, we’re actually hunting?” You offer him a confused stare. If only one fucking person in this room would give it to you straight rather than playing at these confusing mind games.
“Not game,” someone answers and you go still. Titus, that’s his voice. His father shoots him a reproachful glare and your former paramour goes quiet.
“When an eldest son is viable for marriage and deigns to choose outside of his… circle. A hunt is ordered by the families of the poor girls jilted. The last one standing earns his hand.”
“Marriage,” you tumble over your words. Reeling from figuring out you’re being hunted and that this is all for some man. “I’m not even his girlfriend. I mean, this is one big mistake. I don’t want to marry him at all!”
“Ouch,” someone laughs behind you.
“I’m afraid the hunt has already started,” Titus’s father motions behind him. On a marble slab behind the dais is a goat’s corpse, its throat slit and blood dribbling into an engraved sigil on the floor. “Unless you’re willing to forfeit?”
“Ye-”
“No!” A sharp voice interrupts. You turn and see Titus, his mask discarded as he stares past you at his father. “A forfeit is automatic disqualification.”
“Okay…”
“Death,” he snaps bluntly when you fail to pick up the hint.
“Fucker,” you hiss, glaring over at his father.
“Enough,” Titus steps back into place as his father motions him away. “Pick your weapon before I pick for you.”
This is fucking insane. They’re asking you to pick your weapon to murder other women. Half of whom look a decade younger than you. God, are you really about to murder child brides?
Someone laughs at your side and you glance over to see one of the young women whispering to her mother. Their eyes are sharp as they observe you, devoid of humor. You’re nothing to them. Not human, not prey, just an obstacle in their way.
Your eyes drift back to the cart. Your hand inches toward a revolver. You know how to shoot and you’ve got a decent aim. But you hesitate, there are eyes boring into the back of your head. Burning and urging you away from the revolver. Guns run out of bullets, but that hunting knife with the long, curved blade seems far more reliable.
Your hand wraps around the leather-bound handle. And Titus’s father hums. “Interesting,” he mutters. You pull back, the knife tucked to your chest as a maid directs you back into the circle. The other women step up, the majority going for bows or guns. Did you just get yourself killed?
When the last one has chosen, a girl barely older than twenty, the Senior Danforth claps his hands with a mirthful smile. “With each bell tolled, we are one step closer to a most beneficial union. Take them to their release points.”
Your arms are snatched up by two servants as they march you out of the basement. The majority of the women are split up, taken to different sections of the estate to lessen the chances of a quick, boring game. But while they’re directed outside, you’re led up the stairs to a bedroom. “What’re you doing?” You demand, eyes wide as the servants deposit you in the center of the room.
One of the maids giggles, pressing a finger to her lips as she runs from the room. “What?” You hiss, bewildered as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened.
But life doesn't feel like letting you get comfortable in this new reality. “Make this quick, Titus, I don’t want to be accused of cheating.” Ursula’s voice, bored and cold as usual. Her steps are growing closer to this room.
You suck in a sharp breath, eyes darting around for somewhere to hide. There’s an old wooden wardrobe, just big enough for you to slip in. You rush toward it, throwing yourself inside just as the bedroom door creaks open.
Titus lets out a low groan and you press your eye to the crack of the wardrobe. “I told them to bring her here.”
“I told you we should have fired those two years ago, they’re fucking worthless.” Ursula has a revolver in her hands, similar to the one that you’d rejected. On Titus’s shoulder is what looks like a large hammer. The type you’d see at historical sites beside blacksmithing forges, not held casually.
“Where do you think they left her?” Titus glances around the room, his eyes hesitate over the wardrobe. You jump back from the crack in the door, clamping your hand over your mouth so he can’t hear you breathe.
“Who knows? Let’s just make this quick,” Ursula checks her revolver, loading in bullets before sending Titus a sharp smirk.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he sighs, following her out of the room. You wait until the bedroom door closes to slip out of the wardrobe. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, blood thrumming with adrenaline as you let out a shaky breath.
It’s not like you and Titus were some grand love story. Your relationship lies within transactional boundaries. And you’ve known…. You knew! That this would always end badly for you. Titus likes to break his toys; you just hadn’t thought he would go so far as to drag you into a fucking satanic cult.
Your throat clenches tight as your chest quakes; it’s hard to get your breath as reality slowly dawns on you. The knife is clutched so tightly in your chest, one trip and you’ll end up offing yourself. Slowly, you creep toward the bedroom door.
Maybe you’d be better off hiding in here. Your hand hovers over the doorknob as you think of something Titus had said to you. “I’ll give you a tour of the hidden rooms.”
Your eyes track over every crevice of the room you’re standing in. There are at least three spots you see that might be a secret door or hidden passageway. Nowhere is safe.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re throwing open the bedroom door and peeking into the hall. The stupid dress they’d put you in trips up your feet as you step outside. The door closes softly behind you as you kneel, taking your knife and cutting into the hem.
“There you are.”
Your head snaps up, blood draining from your face as you see Ursula standing at the end of the hall. “Titus,” she calls, eyes alight with the joy of the hunt.
You step from the tattered remains of your gossamer skirt, bare feet tripping along the waxed marble. Titus turns the corner, that hammer still on his shoulder. “There you are,” his lips quirk and Ursula cocks her revolver. You take a step back and Titus’s eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he warns.
But you’re already turning, feet slapping against the floor as you make a run for it. You can hear them curse behind you, Ursula’s annoyed sigh as you turn the corner.
You come to a short stop, body freezing as you see another woman in a white slip. She’s apparently ditched the dress, same as you. Her eyes widen as they land on you, lighting up with a challenge. “No, no, no, wait!” You let out a shrill scream as she lifts her gun, shooting wildly.
“Jesus,” you drop to the ground, hands covering your head as a vase shatters behind you.
“Shit,” she whines, stomping her foot as she goes to reload.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap, surging to your feet and storming toward her. Your hand lashes out, sending the gun clattering to the floor. She lunges for you, hands outstretched toward your neck. On instinct, your hands fly out. Both of them.
The knife you’d forgotten about plunges into her gut and she lets out a rattling groan. “Oh, oh no,” you whisper, eyes bugging out as blood begins to pool down your arm. “Oh I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, lowering yourself as her body goes limp in your arms. Slowly, you let her drop to the floor, the knife making a schlick noise as it slips from her stomach.
“What did I do?” Tears are welling in your eyes. It doesn’t matter that she was actively trying to kill you. Or that she would have gotten you first if you hadn’t been faster. You just killed someone. Just took a life like it was nothing.
“I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” With a gasp, you leap to your feet. Titus stands behind you, head tilted as he takes in the dead body. “Congratulations.” Barely a moment later, you hear it, the bell tolling somewhere off in the distance. Your eyes drop to the dead body at your feet.
“How do they know?” Titus smirks and you have a feeling you won’t be made privy to family secrets unless you survive the night.
He opens his mouth, but the bell tolls once more, and then again. Two more girls, dead. “Only eight left,” he grins. He takes a step closer, and you stumble back, knife pointed at his chest.
He glances between you and the knife with astonished surprise. “What are you gonna do with that?” His voice is low, disarmingly calm as he holds out his hand. The knife trembles in your grip, faltering slightly as he takes your wrist in his hand.
A sharp breath rips from you as he tugs you into his chest. The knife picks against his shirt, tearing at a thread, but you bend your wrist. Stopping yourself before you really hurt him. He tuts, disappointed by such a weak display of mercy. “You’re not going to make it much longer if you can’t go in for the kill.”
“I don’t want to,” you whisper, biting your tongue so the tears in your eyes don’t spill over. His gaze tracks the way your lashes flutter, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips.
“Do you want to live?”
You’re silent for a moment, the blood of that woman cooling on your hand. His thumb sweeps through it, admiring how it paints your skin. “Yes,” you finally choke out. As selfish as it is, you want to live. And if that means killing a few spoiled heiresses before they get you...
You’ve survived tighter squeezes in worse dresses.
“Good,” he practically coos, his voice a low purr, lulling you into this false sense of security where he isn’t the same man who’d gotten you in this situation to begin with. “Because I don’t want any of these other women. I want you, which means you need to live.” This cadence of his voice is the same tone he uses when he coaxes you into his bed.
He likes this.
You shouldn’t be surprised. You met the man because you caught him murdering someone. Still, there’s a dead body cooling at your feet and you can feel the weight of his want pressing into your hip.
“Why did you do this?” You hiss out, finally asking the question that’s haunted you since the game began. “Why-“ your voice breaks and you clamp your mouth shut. You can’t let him see you cry. He’d like it too much.
His hand comes up, gently cupping your cheek as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Wasn’t the plan,” he mutters, eyes stuck to your lips. “My family thought it was about time I settled down. They wanted to make sure I chose the right woman.”
“They don’t want me, Titus.” And until a few minutes ago, you hadn’t thought he wanted you either.
His eyes narrow as his grip on you tightens. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like you’re one bad move away from making him bite. “I don’t care what they want. I want you. Which means you’re getting through this, alive. I’m not calling another woman Mrs. Danforth, do you understand me?”
Even if you didn’t want to survive… even if you weren’t already the type of person who claws and scratches and doesn’t care who she hurts to keep living, you wouldn’t have a choice. He’s not giving you an option; he’s threatening you. Making sure you’ve got it through your thick skull that, no matter what, there is no escaping him.
“What do I do?” You whisper, lips nearly brushing his with how close he stands. He sucks in a deep breath before slowly releasing you. It’s an effort not to stumble over the corpse as you put some space between the two of you.
“Stay hidden,” he instructs. “I’ll take care of the others.”
Your brows furrow as you fiddle with the torn edge of your dress. “Won’t that count as cheating?”
“It will.” Your shoulders jump to your ears as Ursula’s voice echoes down the hallway. You turn to see her striding toward you. There’s blood splattered against her silk blouse and an angry red welt on her cheek. “But if you think the others aren’t out here sniping the competition, you’re not as smart as I gave you credit for.”
Another toll of the bell in the distance. The numbers are dwindling faster than expected. “As for what you should do,” her brows raise and she offers you a cruel smile. “Run, rabbit, before someone else finds you.”
You want to ask them where the hell you’re meant to go, but footsteps are approaching from the other end of the hall. Titus spares you one last look before heading toward them, dragging his hammer from his shoulder. You swallow roughly, giving the dead woman one last look before you take off at a run.
You’d thought the best place to hide would be in plain sight. Skulking around the estate while everyone searched for the girls outside seemed smart. Until the rain came, it began washing everyone inside, hunters and prey alike. One girl had found you hiding near the kitchen as she came back in from the storm.
It was only because the floor beneath her was soaking wet that you managed to get a good shove in. Just enough to have her slip and knock her head against the tile. After that, what happened feels like a blur. You know she’s dead, that her blood coats the front of your dress. The bell had tolled, but you don’t remember it.
It seems wrong, not remembering your own kill. Like you’re not honoring her death properly. But she’d had a shotgun pointed at your chest, so it’s a little harder to find any sympathy. Unfortunately, her screaming had drawn attention to you.
You had to run out of the estate, into the pouring rain and raging winds. It battered your body, turned your white dress sheer as you tried to find cover in the woods bordering the estate. You briefly considered trying to find the road, but you doubt you’d have much luck in these conditions.
The bell tolls in the distance. If you’re keeping count right, that means there are only two other girls. You grimace, chin tucked to your chest as the rain howls around you. Your hair is soaked, stuck to your cheeks as you try to wipe the water from your eyes. You have no idea where the sudden storm came from, but you can hardly see a foot in front of you.
If the other women find you before you find them, you’re screwed. You won’t even have the time to be scared before they pounce. Shivering, you shove your hair off your face and push away from the tree you’d been resting on.
You try to keep low to the ground, using the underbrush as cover as you skulk through the forest. Somehow, through the sound of your own footsteps and the rain hitting the foliage, you manage to make out strange noises. It reminds you of the night you first met Titus, the last time you’d tasted normalcy.
It was the same noise the man he’d killed made right as he died. Peering around the tree you’re cowering behind, you see her. The last woman, shoulders heaving as she stands over the body of another. You flinch as the bell tolls and huddle down as she slowly surveys the area around her.
Recognition flares in your mind, and you feel your chest tighten. This is the same woman who’d looked ready to rip you apart in the estate. Of course, the most vicious bitch had to be the last one standing.
The only advantage you have right now is that she doesn’t know where you are. Knife in hand, you slowly creep your way out from behind the tree. Her back stays turned toward you, head tilting as she tries to get a better view through the rain.
You hold your breath, not making a noise. Not even as you lunge at her, arms wrapping around her neck as you both hurtle toward the forest floor. She lets out a low grunt, growling as you sit on top of her, struggling to pin her flailing limbs down.
One well-thrown elbow and you’re rolling off her, curling into yourself as you try to catch your breath. She’d managed to catch you right in the diaphragm. The impact gives her just enough time to right herself. Both of your dresses are stained with mud and blood. And as the rain continues to pour, you only grow filthier.
Nails tear through skin, hands slip and drag along wet flesh as you grapple on the floor. Your knife is kicked away, and her gun is buried somewhere in the dirt. You’re left with nothing but physical strength and pure terror.
She gets her hand tangled in your hair and uses the leverage to slam your head into the ground. Your vision goes dark as your ears ring, pain throbbing through your skull. You lash out violently, nails catching her cheek. You dig in, dragging down until you feel her flesh building beneath your nails.
She lets out a gasping cry of pain, batting your hand away. She manages to turn you over, with a tight grip, she’s quick to find your neck. Your legs kick violently beneath her, hips bucking as you quickly lose your breath.
She’s pinning you down, lips pulled back around sharp teeth in a growl. Her hands are wrapped around your throat, squeezing the life from your lungs. And, still, you have an advantage over her.
You’re used to living off scraps, used to having to fight for what you want. You didn’t grow up with everything handed to you on a silver platter. She never had to fight to live or to get what she wanted. That desperate drive to keep going and never stop isn’t anywhere in her. She just wants to win. Just wants another trophy on her mantle.
Your legs slowly stop kicking as your hand gropes blindly through the mud. Your vision is beginning to go, the world greying at the edges as your nails catch on something sharp. She doesn’t pay you any mind, grinning as she digs her thumbs into the hollow of your throat.
Blindly, you grab the rock and throw it into the side of her temple. She lets out an odd noise, grip loosening as she tilts to the side. You don’t waste time catching your breath. Lunging forward, you knock her onto her back and raise the rock high above your head. Her eyes widen as you bring it down against her skull.
There’s a sick crack and then her eyes are shutting. But the bell still hasn’t tolled. You bring your hand down again and again and again. Until the crack turns into a soft squish and there’s blood weeping from the mangled mess that used to be her face. You don’t stop until that bell rings, until you get to feel the finality of the night in your bones.
Your hand hovers above your head, the bell tolls through the night air. Slowly, the rock tumbles from your grasp as you struggle to your feet. The rain eases up, harsh battering becoming a gentle mist as the clouds above you part.
Your hair hangs in matted tangles around your face, your entire body is covered in mud and blood. The dress you wear is in tatters, thin straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Heavy boots snap against the branches behind you.
You hardly even flinch, just briefly glancing over your shoulder. All those from the basement have returned, black cloaks on and skull masks donned. You hear them whispering, betting with one another about which of their daughter’s survived the night.
Scraping your hand across your cheek, you attempt to rid yourself of some of the grime coating your skin. It barely puts a dent in it. With a sigh, you resign yourself to your fate, slowly turning.
You can tell from the gasps rippling through the crowd that they’d already forgotten about you. You were never a threat to them, just the inciting incident to get their daughters into the right family.
A part of you almost wants to taunt them. To ask what good their deal with the devil did? Because you’re still alive and their daughter’s aren’t. But you’re too tired and too beaten to do anything but keep standing.
The Senior Danforth stands at the front, hands tucked behind his back. “Interesting,” he muses, eyes narrowing.
First.
“I knew you were scrappy, but this is something else,” Ursula chuckles at her father’s side, admiring the mangled corpse at your feet.
Second.
Titus steps from the crowd, followed by a man in an elaborate cloak with a veil over his head. “You all know the deal,” he calls to the others. He holds a hand out to you and you stare down at it.
He could be third, he could be last, but maybe you’ll keep him around.
“What?” you croak, throat destroyed from what that woman had done to you.
“Your prize,” Ursula drawls. Oh, right, the whole reason for this fucking hunt. Marrying Titus, being a Danforth, signing away your soul.
“And if I say no?”
“You’d be forfeiting,” Titus tells you, a quirk to his lips. He already knows your answer. You didn’t make it this far just to give up now. You didn’t claw your way back from hell just to throw it all away at the end.
Slowly, you take his hand in yours. The satanic priest beside him steps toward the corpse of the last woman. He dips his thumb into what's left of her skull and approaches you both. The warmth of her blood dribbles down your forehead as the priest etches a sigil into your skin. He doesn’t do the same for Titus.
Your mind loses focus as he begins to speak. The vows you make certainly aren’t those of holy matrimony, but you can hardly pay attention. You think about how with Titus on your arm, his leash will be passed hands.
Ursula, you’re sure, will try to get cozy with you. Make sure her guard dog never strays too far. It shouldn’t be hard to get Titus to turn on her. Family has so little meaning to these monsters. But first, you’ll want him to take out the patron of the family. The smug bastard who’d dragged you into this hell simply because he couldn’t stand his son dating someone so… cheap.
Then, you’ll go after the others. All the soulless bastards who sent their daughters to die and didn’t bat an eye. If you have to marry into this, bring children into this world, then you’re going to make sure there’s no competition left for them to fight.
“I do,” Titus echoes the priest’s words and stares expectantly at you.
Thunder rolls in the sky behind you. “I do,” you whisper. Lightning flashes and for a moment, there are horns curling above Titus’s head. They’re gone as quick as they came, then he’s tugging you into a harsh kiss, another’s blood smearing between your lips as your unholy union’s sealed.
This is your world now, and you’re not some trampy little paramour anymore. You’re Mrs. Danforth. And you’re going to make every one of these fuckers pay for ever letting you grasp the power you’d fought for your entire life.
𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘳
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 Some say it's a place where your dreams come true 💿
This is one of my favourite fics, and my favourite from @nifolution. I reread it once in a while. I read it again a couple of days ago and can't stop imagining first season Sammy Bryant.
Tammy left him and told him that he could never find someone better than her and that he ended up alone and pathetic.
After a long shift, Sammy goes to a nearby dinner. When he met the new waitress. He told her all about Tammy.
She helped him heal and regain self confidence. Then they started dating, Sammy thought she was just helping him, teaching him how to please a woman.
Tammy saw how good he looked. It also helped that he got a promotion and earned a little more money than before. She asked him for a second chance, both had changed and that they already have history together.
Sammy was reminded by the love he had for her, gave her another chance. Leaving you behind.
You never know what is going to create that spark for a writer. This was it for me. It motivated me to post the sequel after having it in my drafts for ages. It is scheduled to go up later today.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: It could have been love. It could have been everything. Can Dennis change his luck again, or will it end in misery?
Warnings: smut, dumb choices, fluff, angst, heartache, sex with a drunk partner that’s more than okay with it, Dennis being Dennis
A/N: This is a sequel to It Happens. Reader insert version found here 18+ only due to smut. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated.
It Happens Main Masterlist
Dennis had been trying to claw his way out of the rock bottom basement he inadvertently put himself in. All alone, pushing a stroller down the park path, passing so many happy families and couples, didn’t exactly make him feel like a winner.
For the past eight months, he’d been trying so hard to do better. Make better choices. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking for her everywhere he went.
He missed her.
Stopping at an empty picnic table, he got out a bottle to feed the baby. Once lil’ man was happily in a milk coma, Dennis opened his own snack of flavored water and pistachios. His mind returning to his greatest loss.
For two months, he waited each day at ‘Back to the Grind,’ but she never showed. She must have changed her coffee spot… because of him. He didn’t blame her for not wanting to see his face again. He ruined everything.
Until Bailey, all Dennis had was his ex. No friends, no family, just his wife. Taking Gina back felt easy and he thought it was what he was supposed to do. As awful as she had treated him in the past, she was familiar. As his only girlfriend, she held all his romantic firsts. Been there for all his life events. Not necessarily by his side, but in the same room.
So he agreed too quickly to her plea for another chance. He assumed it would be different the second time. They could be equals, happy. The way she touched him that night, acted like she finally saw him, actually apologized to him, felt like progress, but it was just another one of her games.
He got it so wrong. Losing what he didn't even know he had. It could have been love, it could have been everything.
Releasing a heavy sigh, he wished to see her again. His best friend. Someone that let him be himself, liked him for who he was, wanted to spend time with him. He'd beg, grovel, crawl on his belly over fiery hot coals to be near her. If only…
“Hey coffee buddy.”
Dennis looked up, startled at the familiar voice. He gaped at her, how was she here? Was he hallucinating? Did he manifest her? Could she read his mind?
Standing too quickly, he knocked over his drink. Frozen awkwardly as the water continued to run down the front of his pants.
"Oh shit," Bailey dug around her purse, pulling out a small package of tissues, she held it out to him. "Here."
Oh my goodness, she was actually talking to him. Dennis attempted to say hi, but his mouth made no sound. Finally feeling the cold, he swore under his breath. Righting the bottle and taking the tissues from her to attempt to wipe up some of the mess.
Figures his wish finally comes true and he looked like he pissed himself.
The next attempt wasn’t any better. “H... uh-i i. Di-did… did you,” face turning crimson, he lowered himself back down. Cringing at the squish of his wet clothes. Trying to move past his embarrassment, he used his hands to sweep up the discarded shells in front of him. Making a tidy pile and scooping them back into the package, then shoving that in the diaper bag to be thrown away later.
Luckily she seemed to understand his bumbling, offering a smile as she sat on the opposite bench. Giving him an appraising glance, she noticed the hair on his head and face were longer, but it suited him well. The same bright eyes shined at her through his glasses. He had a bit of a tan and his arms looked more toned then she remembered. “You look well, Dennis.”
“YOU LOOK AMAZING!”
Thanking him, her focus turned to the stroller. An odd look crossed her face as she stared at the chubby faced infant inside. “Cute baby, what’s his name?”
Dennis’ brain finally clicked back online. He realized what that look was, what she must be thinking. Unable to get the words out fast enough, he explained this was NOT his child. He was babysitting for a friend who was attending a cousin's wedding.
Bailey nodded and seemed to relax. Making idle chit-chat, mostly about work. There was a tenseness to their conversation that never existed before. The next question pushed into deeper territory.
“How's Gina?”
Dennis scoffed, “Gone.” The bitterness in his tone was palpable.
Seeing her eyebrows raise, he rushed to clarify, “Not like dead, gone. I didn't kill her or anything like that. She's just out of my life… for good this time. Over. Done. Forever.”
She nodded, her thumb slowly scratching a pattern into the table.
He didn’t blame her for doubting his words. He’d given her every reason to not believe him. Letting that bitch back into his life was the worst mistake he had ever made. And he’d made A LOT of them in his crappy excuse of an existence. He opened the door and let humiliation and abuse into his home. A home she tried to take from him.
That was the real reason she and her boytoy moved in. To steal his inherited property and anything else they could get out of him. And he almost let them. Only snapping out of it the day he came home to find all the new furniture he picked out at the curb. In a rage, he picked up his bean bag chair and stormed in. Throwing it across the room while screaming at them to get their shit and get out. Resulting in a fist fight with Lenny on his front lawn, which he surprisingly won. Even with Gina trying to stab him with a fork once she realized her schmoopsie was losing and she wasn’t going to get her way. The cops were called. He's certain it was great entertainment for his neighbors.
Thankfully it all worked out in his favor. Trips to his lawyer and doctor assured the house was securely his and he had a clean bill of health. He continued to work hard on himself, his job, and his social circle. His life was almost the way he wanted. Almost.
“I miss you.”
Bailey met his eyes, something honest and fragile passing between them. “I missed you, too… More than I should have.”
His whole body sagged in shame, “I don’t blame you. I really fucked that up.”
“Yeah,” she nodded, speaking through gritted teeth, “you did.”
Knocking her fist on the table, she leaned back, preparing to lay it out for him. “I liked you, Dennis. I really-really liked you and I thought we had something.” A self-deprecating laugh fell from her perfect lips, “It was like a cruel joke. I was falling for you and you- you were using me to win your ex back. I was pissed... I was hurt.”
“No, that's not,” pulling at his collar, Dennis swallowed around the boulder that made itself home in his throat. “I didn't know it was real.” He winced at the admission, wiping at his moist eyes. “I never meant to hurt you. If I knew… I didn't even want Gina, not really. I don’t even like her, but she was all I knew, so I made a ginormous - colossal mistake and I will never stop being sorry for it.”
His pink cheeks puffed with a long exhale, “I know I ruined everything, but I swear to you, I didn't know we were in a relationship. I never imagined that someone like you would willingly be with someone like me. I thought you were just being an incredible friend. Helping me. Teaching me how-”
“Wait! Wait,” Bailey interrupted, staring at him incredulously. “You thought I was going on dates and having sex with you as part of what, some training program?!?! I'm not THAT good of a friend. Jesus!” Another laugh slipped out at the sheer ludicrousness of it all. She covered her face with both hands, peaking out at him after a brief moment.
Dennis looked stricken, his chin falling to his chest. The sight made Bailey’s heart constrict. The urge to make him feel better and put that dopey smile back on his face overwhelmed her reasoning. “Fuck, I told myself I wasn't going to waste anymore time on you, but I just can't help myself. What do you do to me, D?”
Still focused on his own lap, a ghost of a smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. “We had something good, didn't we?” His face crumpled, “Until I destroyed it.” He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to be as small as possible. His mind provided the verbal bashing that never came.
“We did,” Bailey agreed. “I was really taken with the sweet, sexy, burger loving dork that made me laugh and could definitely dick a woman down.” Seeing the blush spread down his neck filled her with pride. It was easy to vilify him after their breakup, but he was still the same Dennis. Shy, kind, clueless at times, and impossible to resist.
“We just got our wires crossed somehow and it all blew to hell. But it was great until that point.”
Clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses, Dennis refocused on Bailey. The desperate adoration was clear on his face. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear your voice. Talk like we used to… These last few months have been rough, and you always made things better.”
“You had my number.” Her face twitched in hesitation, “I mean, I wasn't willing to at first, but after a few weeks of cooling down I would have answered, especially if you needed me.”
Dennis rubbed the back of his neck, “Umm, actually I couldn't.” He sheepishly explained how his ex stole his phone while he slept, deleted Bailey’s number along with all the pictures of her off his phone, including everything in the cloud. So he couldn't call, and was too chicken shit to show up at her apartment.
Not surprised in the slightest, Bailey shook her head, grabbed her phone and verified his number was the same.
Hearing his phone chirp in his pocket, Dennis took it out and opened it. She had texted him an upside down smiley face. She was letting him in. Feeling the flare of stupid courage that he got around her, his mouth ran ahead of him. “M-maybe we can try again. Go out for dinner and drinks, or stay in for drinks. We can grab some beers and burgers and watch Rumble in the Bronx. Whoever laughs first has to buy dessert.”
“I'm seeing someone.”
His heart deflated at her words, “Oh… um…” He unsuccessfully tried to keep the stinging in his eyes at bay, but the tears still came. “Yeah, of course you are. Of course you are. You're smart and beautiful and fun and so so nice, and someone as amazing as you, doesn't stay single. I was stupid for even thinking…” He couldn't finish his sentence.
Dennis removed his glasses to wipe the accumulated fog on his shirt, ignoring the wetness sliding down his face. He really should have expected this, having already lucked out just seeing her again and being allowed to have a conversation. It was asking the universe too much at once to be able to have her fully. He’d take what he could get though.
Seeing him cry tore painfully at her heart strings. “D,” she reached across the table to squeeze his hand, running her thumb soothingly over his knuckles.
Maybe he held on too long, hoped too hard, but she looked just as upset as him. Her glassy eyes never left his. He weighed his words carefully before speaking again. “Do you think we can be coffee buddies again?”
“Of course we can. I…” The blare of her ringtone startled them both, breaking the spell. The name J.J. flashed on the screen. She answered quickly, telling the caller she was in the middle of something and would call him back in a minute.
Dennis assumed that had to be her boyfriend. He breathed through the pain as he listened to her apologize, explaining she was running late. Rising from the bench, she walked over to his side to say goodbye. “Dont,” he pleaded.
She paused, unsure how to navigate the situation. She didn’t want to cause him any more distress.
Giving her a rueful smile, he explained, “If you don’t say it, I can pretend you're not leaving.” His eyes closed as she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He kept them shut, unable to watch her walk away from him.
When enough time had passed, ensuring she would be out of sight, Dennis sighed. No longer sure if this was a dream or a nightmare.
Checking on the sleeping babe, he thought of how lucky lil’ man is to have the world ahead of him. Hopefully he will have the courage and support to take life by the horns and make it his own. Surround himself with love and not live in regret.
Dennis rubbed at his own hand like she had, still feeling her warmth. He wasn’t asleep, this was real. Cursing himself, he got up to begin the trip home.
It really could have been everything.
---------------
Life liked to make Dennis take it on the cheek, or up the ass, depending on the day. He was used to it by now. So no one was more shocked than him when the next evening he received a text from Bailey.
Spitting out his toothpaste, he gingerly sat on the edge of the tub. Not wanting to fall in… again. His breathing increased as he read. That was her number. He memorized it this time, unwilling to chance repeating that mistake. This was really happening.
Bailey: hey coffee d 👋Howd the weeknd treat ya? What u up to?
Dennis: I’m getting ready for bed. What about you?
Bailey: under the influence. bored. Thinkin about u.
Dennis: I hope you’re safe at home. If not, I am more than happy to pick you up from wherever are.
Bailey: lol im good d. dont be such a crab apple
Bailey: speakn of 🍎s… IF i was your teacher what boyfriend grade do you think you deserve?
Dennis: I’m not sure.
Dennis: Hopefully I’m not a total failure, so a C-, I guess.
Bailey: hmmm. I think you get extra credit for your tongue game😝… so B-
Dennis: 😳 I’m not sure I deserve that.
Bailey: you do. So says me. now for my review did i earn a raise 💵💵
Dennis: You’ve been awarded an extra-large iced coffee and 2 chocolate croissants.
Bailey: fabulous 🤩🤤😎
Bailey: you wanna meet me tmrw for a hot cup of bean juice??? ☕️
Dennis: Absolutely, yes. I would love that. ❤️
Was the heart too much? Too needy. He was definitely needy as hell, but did he want to advertise it? She didn’t run the first time, so maybe it was okay. It had to be okay because her next text was the address. Dennis practically floated to bed. Setting his alarm earlier than normal so he could make sure he looked presentable.
Turns out Bailey had found a great new coffee place. Unlike the kiosk, this was indoors and had cushy seating and a larger menu. It was a relief to find out she hadn't switched to avoid him. She'd never let a guy wreck something she enjoyed (if she could help it.) However, getting a better job across town required the change.
They eased back into a comfortable friendship. Daily texting became chatting on the phone for hours. And at least twice a week, Dennis took extra time in the morning to meet her for coffee before he was forced to fight the rush hour traffic to get to his own job on time. But it was worth it. She would always be worth it.
---------------
During the next four months, Dennis came up with a plan. He was going to take matters into his own hands. Take charge of his own life and stop waiting for it to happen to him. He loved having Bailey as a friend again, but if he was truly honest with himself, it was ripping his heart out piece by piece to have her so close and yet so far. It was a big risk, but he had to take it.
It had been an entire year since he could call her his. Not that he was aware of that at the time. Foolishly thinking it was all practice. But it was real, special and meaningful, and as close to true love as anyone could get. He needed her back.
His leg bounced uncontrollably in the back seat of the Uber. The drinks he consumed to calm his nerves were failing him. The seat next to him held a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a gift basket filled with an assortment of her favorite candies and snacks. Cliché, maybe, but it was the anniversary of their first date and he wanted to leave her with something nice, even if she rejected him.
He really-really-really hoped she didn’t reject him. If she did, it was a small comfort knowing she’d let him down gently. He wouldn’t lose her again, he refused to give up this time. Consequences be damned, he was going to make Bailey his again.
Once they arrived at her apartment, Dennis thanked the driver and promptly tripped over his own feet as he exited the car. Righting himself before his face met the pavement, he exhaled and smoothed his hair back. Waving a quick goodbye as the vehicle drove away.
Dennis punched in the code and entered the building. A few steps more placed him in front of the elevator. He pressed the button, rocking on his heels in anticipation. Just as he was about to consider the stairs, the doors slid open.
After stepping inside and pressing the number of her floor, he looked down at his arms in horror. They were empty. Cursing, he realized he must have left his stuff in the Uber. Okay, it’s a hiccup for sure, but he didn't come all this way for nothing.
As the elevator climbed, Dennis swore his rapid heartbeat was so loud, it echoed off the steel walls. His bravado waning, he wiped his sweaty hands onto his pants. When the metal box stopped moving, he took one more deep breath before stepping out and walking to her door.
Knocking twice, he stood back and waited.
No response.
Dennis put his ear against the door, not hearing any movement. “Hmmm.” If he couldn’t hear her, maybe she couldn't hear him. He began rapidly pounding on the offending wood separating them.
Several moments later, the door flew open, making Dennis jump. Revealing a pissed off Bailey, wearing pajamas, staring daggers at him.
“Are you serious right now!? What the hell is wrong with you!?” She was seething from being woken up at this hour for what appeared to not be an emergency.
Her friend only blinked at her. His long dark eyelashes fluttering in a way that made her melt under normal circumstances. Taking in his appearance, her anger faded fast. It was freezing outside and Dennis did not have a coat on. This pathetic wet cat of a man really was her weakness.
With an exasperated sigh, she decided against slamming the door in his sexy face. “You're smelling a bit flammable,” she deadpanned instead.
Dennis’ arms flailed, “I'm not THAT drunk. See.” A wide swing of his arms touched each finger to his nose. “I- I had…” He squinted, attempting to count in his head, “...a few before coming here because I have to ask you something important. Umm, why don't we go get coffee. We talk so good over coffee.”
Bailey rolled her eyes, “It's two in the morning. Not a single place around here would be open.” She held the door wider, beckoning him inside. “Why don't you come in and warm up. I've got coffee in here.”
“Two??!! Ohhhh noooo,” his voice grew loud and panicked. “I screwed up again. I missed it. Please, I didn't mean to be at the bar that long. I had a-a plan. A romantic plan. This was supposed to be my do over.”
Dennis looked completely dejected, she couldn't stand it. Both arms reached for him, but he flinched, backing away.
Head swimming in doubt, his first instinct incorrectly telling him he was about to be shoved. He told himself he deserved it. This plan was stupid. He assassinated his own chance at happiness. It was too soon, too late at night, too… too Dennis.
“Don't make me go away,” he pleaded. “You’re the only good thing in my life. Please don't shut me out. I know I suck, I suck so much, but please hear me out. I- I got you gifts. I lost them in the car though, but I will get you more, I promise.”
“Stop! You don't have to do that, D.”
“I DO!” He had to make her see. Make her understand what she meant to him. How his entire world revolved around her and he wouldn't have it any other way.
“I do, because you are the only person that has ever liked me, for me. You saw me as a person, not just some garbage to kick out of your way. I know it's too late. In so many ways too late. But you have to know that being your friend, just being around you, was the best time in my entire life.”
He took a big step toward her. Close enough he could feel her warmth. Bask in her glow. "I find myself holding my breath until I'm in your presence. I can breathe around you. Only you. I miss seeing your face everyday. I miss touching you and being allowed to kiss you. I miss talking to you about ev-everything. Just everything and anything at all. You glued my broken pieces together and made me a real man. I wish I knew, I wish I knew you were mine, because I NEVER would have let you go.”
“I fell so helplessly in love with you, I realize that's probably not what you want to hear from me, but it's the truth… I know I fucked it up. I'd sooner die than hurt you.” Dennis knew he was crying, embarrassing himself, but he persisted.
“I love you so much and I want to make you happy. Cause you deserve it. And I want to give it to you… I need you, Bailey. Nothing is worth anything unless you're there with me. I'd do anything, anything for a second chance. And I mean anything. Because I want you in my life for the rest of my life.”
He couldn’t discern the expression on her face. Her eyes filled with tears that began to fall as he watched. Fuck! He didn't mean to upset her. He should have stayed home. Idiot. Idiot.
Her voice cracking, she tightly grabbed his shirt, ”Will you get the fuck in here already.”
Pulling him inside, her lips crashed into his as soon as the door closed. Both moaned into the kiss, the reconnection electric and intense. Coaxing him further into her home, feverously kissing as if she wanted to devour him. He'd let her. He dreamt of this so often.
She still tasted like cherries.
Whimpering, his mouth searched for hers when she pulled away, before feeling her teeth nip at his chin. “Heh.” That's where she went. His eyes rolled, half lidded in pleasure as she left possessive bites along his jaw. “Fuck, Bailey.” Dennis’ hands settled on her waist.
Her hot breath tickled as she nibbled his earlobe. He couldn’t be more elated at this turn of events. Craved it with every fiber of his being. A traitorous thought lingering in the back of his mind forced its way out before he could stop it. “What about your boyfriend?” He wanted to kick himself. Why the fuck was that his concern right now?
“Broke up.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, “He didn't see me like you do. He didn't make me feel the way you do.” She pressed another kiss to his awaiting lips.
Her eyebrows crinkled in concern when he shivered. His skin still carried the chill of the night air. “Why do you have to be such a dumbass, D? We have to warm you up.”
Weaving his arms around her body, he kept her flush against him before she could pull away. “You're warming me up just fine.” Bringing their mouths back together, he slipped his tongue in to swirl with hers. She eagerly reciprocated. Taking off his glasses without breaking the kiss, he blindly reached to set them on the nearest surface. The sound of them clattering onto the floor barely registering.
Dennis’ breath hitched when her hand slipped into the waistband of his pants, firmly grasping his rigid length. “I ummm… I don't have a…”
“Bedroom.” Bailey flicked her tongue on his bottom lip, eyes filled with lust and promise. Grinning, she escaped his embrace to lead the way.
His fingertips touched his tingling lips, convinced he’d died and gone to heaven. Falling a few steps behind, he trailed after her while trying to get his pants off. The shoes on his feet prevented the removal of the vexing slacks. Stumbling at the bedroom doorway, Dennis fell back, his naked ass hitting the hard floor. The sting of it barely registering through the desire coursing through his veins.
An amused Bailey was making her way back to him, having already grabbed what she needed. Shimmying out of her pajama bottoms, she mounted him right there in the hallway. Legs spread across his pale thighs where his pants still were, she ripped open the condom, rolling it onto his leaking cock. “Ask me.”
“Wha?”
Squeezing his base, she repeated, “You have to ask me. I want no confusion this time.”
Dennis understood now. He knew what she needed to hear. “Will you be my girlfriend?”
“Yes!” Bailey guided him to her entrance. “Nggh,” she softly moaned, sinking slowly down to the hilt. Placing her hands on his shoulders, they shared a wet kiss as she raised and lowered herself on his thick shaft. She repeated her actions at a leisurely pace, savoring the moment.
Overwhelmed, Dennis cried out, “Fuck, oh fuck. You feel so.. Oh fuck.” His hands slid over her gyrating hips. Gripping tighter as she increased her speed. It felt too good. He wasn't going to last.
Bailey’s eyes closed as she rocked back and forth, “Mmm, I missed your cock.” Giving a particularly lavish roll of her hips, she increased her speed. “I love your penis.”
Panting, he agreed, “I love my penis.”
He traced her bottom lip with his thumb, dipping into her mouth. She sucked on it as she continued to ride him. Licking his other thumb, he lowered it to her clit, rubbing circles as her greedy hole swallowed him.
Dennis could feel her body start to tense, her walls clenching tighter around him. She sucked harder at the digit, mewling around it. “Let go. I got you.”
Letting the thumb fall from her mouth, her wanton gasps became something between a moan and a shriek. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy. Dennis pumped up into her as she fell over the edge of pleasure.
While she pulsed around him, he held the back of her head, pulling her close until her sweaty brow crashed into his. Inhaling deeply, he let her fill his lungs. “You are so fucking gorgeous.”
It didn’t take her long to recover. Her arms wrapped around him, holding impossibly close as she began to meet his thrusts. That was all it took for Dennis’ whole body to shudder and explode.
As he twitched inside her, Bailey’s hands moved to grip his damp hair, stroking it back. With trembling breaths, he captured her lips in a soft lingering kiss.
Pulling away slightly, she looked into his big blue eyes. Her palms moved down to press his cheeks, “Please don't screw this up, D. Because you won't get another chance.”
“I won't, I promise. On my life, I promise.”
Nodding, she kissed him hard, trying to sear the words into his soul. They remained where they were, holding on to each other as their racing hearts slowed.
Oh how he loved her. And with the way she looked at him right now, scared and hopeful, her heart laid bare before him, he knew she loved him too. He’d have to wait until she felt safe enough to say it, but Dennis could see it. He had never been more sure of anything.
Bailey lovingly scratched his beard before testing her shaking legs. He placed a tender kiss to her mound as she stood, hands caressing down her legs. Looking up at her with utter devotion written on his face.
Glancing down at the front of his pants, she snorted, “We made a mess of you.”
He looked down, then up to her with an unregretful and satisfied smile. Dennis pulled off and tied the condom. Taking her offered hand, he less than gracefully got off the floor. The ripping sound of his ass unsticking made them both break out in laughter.
“Why don’t you take your clothes off so I can throw them in the washing machine. Then after you toss that in the bin and get cleaned up, you can join me in bed.”
Dennis removed his shoes first this time, before taking off the rest, “All night?”
Bailey picked up his glasses, handing them to him. Luckily they were not broken. “I’m not going to throw my boyfriend out in the cold. You can stay as long as you want to.”
Boyfriend. He was her boyfriend. Guess he wasn’t a total failure after all, he got the girl. “Forever?” He looked at her with that sweet puppy face she couldn’t resist.
“We’ll see.” She took the soiled clothing from him and walked toward the laundry closet. She called over her shoulder, “This doesn't mean I forgive you entirely.”
He nodded, still feeling on top of the world. “I know. And that’s alright because to make amends, I’m going to be living under your skirt for the next month, tongue at the ready? In fact you should stop wearing underwear entirely.”
“DENNIS!”
The End
A/N: Don’t fuck it up this time Dennis.
A/N: A special thank you to everyone that has read this. It has been sitting in my drafts for forever. I appreciate you all. I’d love to know your thoughts.
I wasn't planning on going to Louis Tomlinson concert in Mexico next year, because I'm getting my BA title (? (I really don't know the name of the paper but here in México it is título). And the process to get it is really expensive (to me, because I don't have a stable job/pay).
So now my bbf gifted me a ticket as a early titulación present 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
I also wasn't planning on going because I want to go to Niall's next tour.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Reader: She/her pronouns, no given name
Warnings: Heavy angst, emotional neglect, marital conflict, pregnancy, divorce discussion, loneliness, hurt/no comfort, Jack missing an important event, a painful marriage breakdown, emotional abandonment, public humiliation, pregnancy reveal, divorce papers, and unresolved ending.
Author’s Note: Inspired by the kind of heartbreak that does not end just because someone leaves. Loosely inspired by Janine Berdin’s What If I Miss You For The Rest Of My Life?
This will be one of the few works I’ve decided to allow reblogs on, mostly because I want to see how I feel about it before deciding whether I’ll allow reblogs on future fics. I haven’t been the biggest fan of reblogs in the past, so please be respectful of that.
Summary: Jack promised he would be there. For once, on the most important night of your career, you believed him. But when the hospital takes him away again, you are left to stand alone beneath the lights, accept an award with his chair sitting empty beside you, and carry the secret you had planned to share with him. By the time he finally comes home, the marriage has already broken in a place apologies cannot reach.
I have built a house where I wait for your return
The dress had been hanging on the back of the bedroom door for almost two weeks before Jack finally noticed it.
You had left it there on purpose, though you told yourself you hadn’t. You told yourself it was there because the closet was too full, because the garment bag was too long, because the silk would crease if you shoved it between winter coats and blazers. You told yourself a lot of things because admitting the truth felt too humiliating, and the truth was that part of you wanted him to see it. You wanted him to remember without being reminded. You wanted him to walk past it after a long shift, pause with his hand still on the doorknob, and say, “That’s for the gala, right?” like the date lived somewhere in his head that wasn’t overcrowded by trauma charts, shift changes, hospital pages, and everyone else’s emergencies.
It was a black silk gown, simple in the way expensive things were simple. Off the shoulder, fitted through the waist, smooth over the hips, with a slit that opened only when you walked. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The fabric caught the bedroom light softly, almost like water, and every time you passed it, you imagined wearing it beside him.
That was the part that embarrassed you now. You had imagined it.
Jack in a dark suit. You in the black dress. His hand at the small of your back while people congratulated you. Maybe he would be tired, because he was always tired, but he would be there. You pictured him standing slightly behind you when people asked questions about the hospital contracts, his expression quiet but proud, his thumb brushing your hip like he needed to remind himself you were real. You pictured him leaning down and saying something low near your ear, something dry and teasing, something only meant for you. You pictured walking into a room and not feeling like you had to be impressive alone.
Three weeks earlier, he had stood in the kitchen with the invitation in his hand, wearing sweatpants and an old Pitt hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes had looked bruised underneath from exhaustion, but when he read your name embossed in gold, he smiled.
“Dr. Y/N Abbot,” he said, running his thumb over the raised lettering. “Founder and Chief Systems Architect. This is fancy.”
You had been sitting at the island with your laptop open, pretending not to watch him too closely. There was a half-empty mug of tea beside your hand that had gone cold while you answered emails, and Jack had been barefoot on the kitchen tile, still carrying the warmth of the shower and the fatigue of the hospital with him.
“It’s a major industry gala, Jack. It’s supposed to be fancy.”
He looked up, amused. “I know. I’m just saying. This is real fancy.”
“You’re acting like I invited you to prom.”
“Kind of feels like it,” he said, setting the invitation down. “Except I don’t think anyone at my prom was casually entering billion-dollar valuation territory.”
You laughed despite yourself, and he came around the island, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. For a moment, you let yourself lean back into him. He smelled like soap, coffee, and hospital laundry detergent, that clean, sterile scent that had somehow become part of your marriage. His mouth brushed the side of your neck, and for a second, the kitchen felt like a place where both of your lives still fit.
“Don’t say it like that,” you murmured.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” Jack said, his voice low against your skin. “In a good way. My wife builds technology hospitals are fighting to buy, and I’m over here trying to remember where I left my badge.”
You turned in his arms and looked up at him. His hands stayed at your waist, warm and familiar. You could feel the small tremor of exhaustion in him, the way he was never fully still after a hard shift, like some part of his body was always bracing for the next alarm.
“So you’re coming?”
His smile softened. “Of course I’m coming.”
“You asked Harper to switch?”
“Already done.”
“You’re not on call?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Jack’s expression changed then, the teasing fading into something more careful. He touched your cheek with his thumb, and you hated how quickly your heart wanted to believe him. It was always like that with Jack. One gentle touch, one serious look, one promise said in that tired, sincere voice, and all the loneliness you had been trying to gather into evidence loosened in your hands.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m coming.”
You searched his face. “This one matters to me.”
“I know.”
“It’s not just dinner. We’re announcing the hospital network implementation contracts. The rollout plan. Market entry. The valuation estimate. This is the kind of night people remember.”
Jack nodded and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be there. I promise.”
That was the version of him you kept loving. The version that meant it. The problem was, Jack almost always meant it. If he had been careless, maybe you could have hated him properly. If he had forgotten because you did not matter, maybe the grief would have sharpened into something cleaner, something you could hold without blaming yourself. But Jack remembered in fragments. He loved in fragments. He showed up in small, exhausted pieces and looked at you like he wanted to give you everything, right before the world asked him for more than he had left.
And you kept living on those pieces.
A hand on your waist in the kitchen. His mouth against your temple before a shift. The rare mornings where he woke before his alarm and pulled you back against him like sleep had made him honest. The way he still looked at your face sometimes, quietly, almost helplessly, like he was surprised life had ever given him something soft. You had survived on that for longer than you wanted to admit, and that was the humiliating part. Not that he hurt you. Not even that he missed things. It was that one good look from him could still make you forgive a loneliness he had not yet apologized for.
On the night of the gala, he called you at 5:18 p.m.
You were standing in the bathroom in a silk robe while your makeup artist packed up her kit. Your hair was pinned into a low twist at the back of your neck, with a few pieces left soft around your face. Your earrings were already on, small diamond drops that caught the light whenever you moved. Your face looked finished in the mirror — warm skin, dark lashes, softly lined lips — polished enough that no one would know how nervous you were.
The bathroom smelled like hairspray, powder, perfume, and the faint steam from the shower you had taken an hour earlier. On the counter, your lipstick lay uncapped beside a little dish holding your wedding rings, which you had cleaned that afternoon because you thought there would be photographs of the two of you. The whole apartment felt too quiet, too prepared, like a stage waiting for someone who had not arrived yet.
Your phone lit up on the counter.
Jack.
Your stomach dropped before you even answered.
“Please don’t,” you said immediately.
There was a pause on the other end. Then Jack sighed, and the sound told you everything before he did.
“Y/N.”
You closed your eyes. “You said you weren’t on call.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You said you switched.”
“I did.”
“Then why are you calling me like this?”
He sounded tired already. Not physically tired exactly, but braced, like he knew he was about to hurt you and hated that knowing. “Harper’s kid got sick, and they’re short. It’s bad. I wouldn’t go in if they had coverage.”
You stared at yourself in the mirror. Your eyeliner was perfect. Your lips were perfect. Your whole face looked calm in a way that made you feel almost detached from it.
“Did they ask you, or did you offer?”
Jack didn’t answer quickly enough.
You let out a small, humourless laugh. “Oh.”
“They were drowning,” he said.
“So you offered.”
“I said I could come in for a few hours. I’m going to try to get out as soon as I can.”
You pressed your fingertips into the cool marble counter. The makeup artist moved quietly in your peripheral vision, pretending very hard not to listen.
“Jack, the reception starts at seven. Dinner is at eight. Speeches are at nine-thirty.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“That’s not fair.”
You looked down at your wedding band in the dish. The diamond caught the bathroom light, clean and bright and cruel.
“I can’t do this right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
The silence stretched. You could hear hospital noise in the background already: a distant page, someone calling for transport, the low hum of a place that never cared what anyone had planned.
“I’ll make it,” Jack said, but his voice had changed.
You heard the lie before it fully left his mouth.
“Don’t,” you said softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t give me a second promise to cover the first one.”
He exhaled. “Y/N.”
“I have to finish getting dressed.”
“I love you.”
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
He waited, but you did not say it back. After a few seconds, he said he would text you when he knew more, and you ended the call before he could apologize again.
The makeup artist stood very still, her brush bag in one hand, pretending she had not heard enough to understand. You looked at her through the mirror and smiled with the exact expression you used in investor meetings.
“Sorry about that.”
Her face softened. “No, don’t apologize.”
You picked up your lipstick and opened it even though your lips were already done. “I’m fine.”
She did not believe you, which was kind of her. At least she did you the courtesy of not saying so.
You waited until she left before you put your rings back on. For a moment, you stood in the quiet bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. The woman looking back at you was composed, elegant, expensive. She looked like someone who knew exactly where she was going. She did not look like someone trying to decide whether it was more pathetic to cry before the biggest night of her career or to still hope her husband might walk through the door in time.
You got dressed carefully. You stepped into the gown and pulled it up over your body, smoothing the silk over your hips with both hands. The dress fit perfectly. That almost made you cry. You had wanted Jack to see it. You had wanted the private little intake of breath he sometimes gave when he forgot to pretend he wasn’t stunned by you. You had wanted him to look at you like he remembered you were not just the person waiting at home with leftovers and patience.
Instead, you zipped yourself up alone.
The first news segment aired from the lobby of The Pitt just after 7:00 p.m.
It wasn’t unusual for the televisions in the emergency department to run local news with the volume low. Most of the time, no one paid attention unless there was a weather alert, a mass casualty incident, or something affecting hospital funding. It was background noise beneath sharper sounds: monitors beeping, wheels rattling, phones ringing, curtain rings scraping open and shut.
Jack was at the desk reviewing imaging when one of the nurses looked up at the television.
“Wait,” she said. “Is that your wife?”
Jack’s head lifted.
The screen showed the front of the Meridian Grand, a luxury hotel downtown with a glass canopy and warm lights spilling onto the rain-dark sidewalk. A reporter stood outside in a wool coat, holding a microphone while guests moved behind her in formalwear.
The lower-third banner read:
L/N POWER SYSTEMS CELEBRATES MAJOR HOSPITAL GRID CONTRACTS
Company valuation expected to climb as implementation phase begins
Jack’s hand tightened around the tablet.
The reporter smiled into the camera. “Tonight, L/N Power Systems is hosting a private gala following a major round of hospital infrastructure contracts that could place the company among the most valuable emerging players in emergency energy systems. Founded by electrical engineer Dr. Y/N Abbot, L/N Power Systems has developed adaptive microgrid technology designed to keep critical hospital units powered during grid failures, natural disasters, and rolling outages.”
A resident standing nearby glanced between the television and Jack. “Dr. Abbot, that’s your wife, right?”
Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Damn,” the resident said, clearly trying to sound impressed rather than awkward. “That’s huge.”
Jack did not respond. The broadcast cut to a graphic showing projected contract values, implementation timelines, and valuation estimates. The numbers were careful, couched in analyst language, but the implication was obvious. If your company hit its implementation targets and the contracts expanded the way people expected, you were on track to enter billion-dollar territory.
A nurse whistled quietly. “Billion with a B?”
Another nurse said, “And she designed the actual system?”
Jack looked at the screen. “Yeah.”
The nurse shook her head. “That’s wild.”
The camera returned to the hotel entrance just as your car pulled up. Jack knew it was you before the door opened. He recognized the way Mara, your assistant, stepped out first and turned back toward the car, one hand hovering near the open door.
Then you appeared.
For a second, the desk around him faded out. The dress looked different on you than it had on the hanger. It followed your body with quiet confidence, the black silk catching silver from the camera flashes and gold from the hotel lights. Your shoulders were bare. Your hair was pinned low, elegant but not severe, and the diamonds at your ears glittered whenever you turned your head. You stepped under the canopy and smiled for the cameras.
It was a beautiful smile. It was also the smile you wore when you were trying not to feel something.
The reporter turned as photographers called your name. “And there she is now, Dr. Y/N Abbot, founder and chief systems architect of L/N Power Systems. Dr. Abbot has been described by analysts as one of the most closely watched engineers in the hospital infrastructure space, especially now that her company’s adaptive grid platform is moving from pilot installations into large-scale implementation.”
Someone at the desk said, “Jack, aren’t you supposed to be there?”
Nobody meant it cruelly. That almost made it worse.
Jack swallowed, still watching as you paused beside the step-and-repeat, your clutch held neatly in both hands.
“I was.”
The answer made the area around him go quiet.
On-screen, a reporter asked you, “Dr. Abbot, tonight is being described as a turning point for your company. What does it mean to have hospital systems moving forward with implementation?”
You smiled, and Jack noticed your fingers tighten slightly around your clutch.
“It means the work is becoming real,” you said. “Designing the system was one part of it. Proving it under stress testing was another. Implementation is where it starts to matter for patients, doctors, nurses, and everyone relying on those seconds when the grid becomes unstable.”
The reporter asked, “There’s already discussion of a possible billion-dollar valuation. Are you thinking about that tonight?”
You gave a small laugh, polite and controlled. “I think my CFO is probably thinking about it more than I am. The valuation matters because it affects growth and deployment, but for me, the focus is still the technology. If a trauma bay stays powered during an outage because of something my team built, that means more to me than a headline.”
The reporter thanked you. You nodded, smiled again, and moved inside.
Jack stood very still until the charge nurse beside him looked over. “You okay?”
He dragged his eyes from the screen. “Yeah.”
She held his gaze long enough to make it clear she did not believe him. Then a trauma page came through, and the whole department lurched back into motion. Jack handed off the tablet, shoved his phone into his pocket, and went where he was needed.
Again.
At the gala, people kept asking where your husband was.
You answered the first few times with patience. “He got called into the hospital.”
Most people responded kindly. Some even looked impressed, as if Jack’s absence made the two of you nobler somehow.
“Oh, of course. Emergency medicine.”
“That must be so difficult.”
“You both do such meaningful work.”
“Power couple, even when you’re in different places.”
You smiled through all of it. “Yes. He’s very dedicated.”
The ballroom was beautiful, but after a while its beauty started to feel almost cruel. The ceiling was high and painted cream and gold, with chandeliers throwing soft light over round tables covered in white linen. Each place setting had a black menu card with gold foil, a small arrangement of white orchids, and a tiny glass votive candle. Along one wall, a projection displayed animated renderings of your adaptive grid system: hospital wings lighting in sequence, power rerouting through alternate pathways, emergency loads stabilizing under simulated failures.
Your company’s leadership team sat near the stage. Your engineers were at the tables closest to you, dressed in suits and gowns that looked slightly unfamiliar on them. You loved seeing the people who had built the system with you getting treated like they belonged in rooms where money moved. Some of them kept taking discreet pictures of the menus and the floral arrangements. One of your junior engineers had shown up in a suit that still had a faint fold line in the sleeve from being fresh out of the garment bag. Another kept touching the stem of his wineglass like he was afraid of breaking it.
You should have been happy. Part of you was happy. That was what made the grief feel so unfair. The night was not ruined. The contracts were real. The applause was real. Your team’s pride was real. Your name on that screen was real. All of it was real.
So was the empty chair beside you.
By the tenth time someone asked where your husband was, you stopped hearing the question as a question. It became part of the room.
Where is he?
In the clink of champagne glasses.
Where is he?
In the scrape of chairs being pulled out for other wives, other husbands, other people with someone’s hand resting warmly against the backs of their seats.
Where is he?
In the empty space beside your plate, where his name sat in elegant black ink on heavy cream cardstock.
Dr. Jack Abbot
You stared at it for too long once, long enough that Mara touched your elbow beneath the table.
“You okay?”
You smiled before you answered, because that had become its own kind of muscle memory. “Yes.”
But your chest ached with something so childish and raw that it embarrassed you. You wanted him to think of you. Not the company. Not the press segment. Not the award. You. The woman in the dress he had promised to stand beside. The woman who had cleaned her wedding rings because she thought there would be photographs. The woman who kept glancing at the doors like wanting him hard enough might make him appear.
You hated yourself a little for that.
You hated that even surrounded by applause, even with your name glowing behind you, some stupid, tender part of you was still waiting to be someone’s favorite thing in the room.
Mara stayed close, fielding conversations when she sensed you needed a breath. She wore a deep green dress and carried a tablet even though you had told her not to work tonight.
“You’re doing great,” she murmured when a hospital executive walked away after asking too many questions about rollout costs.
You looked at the champagne flute in your hand. You had not taken a single sip.
“I’m doing rich-woman cosplay.”
“You are a rich woman.”
“Not emotionally.”
Mara almost laughed, then looked at your face and didn’t.
Your hand went to your clutch, where the white envelope from the doctor’s office was tucked beneath your phone. You had not told anyone. Not Mara. Not your mother. Not Jack.
Especially not Jack.
The result had come through that morning after bloodwork confirmed what the home tests had already said. Five weeks. Early enough that it still felt secret and unreal, but real enough that the nurse had told you to start prenatal vitamins and book a follow-up appointment. You had sat in your car outside the clinic with both hands on the steering wheel, staring at the printed result until the words stopped looking like English.
Pregnant.
At first, you cried because you were happy. Then you cried because you were scared. Then, worst of all, you cried because the first person you wanted was Jack, and you had already known there was a chance he would not be there when you told him.
During dinner, your phone buzzed once. You checked it under the table.
Jack:
I’m still here. I’m so sorry. I watched your interview. You looked beautiful. I’m proud of you.
You stared at it for a long moment. For a second, you felt nothing. Then the hurt arrived slowly, settling into the parts of you that had already made room for it.
Mara leaned closer. “Is it him?”
You put the phone face down on the table. “Yeah.”
“Is he coming?”
You smoothed the edge of your napkin in your lap. “No.”
Mara went quiet. Across the room, your CFO was laughing with two investors. Someone from the hospital network raised a glass toward you, and you smiled back automatically.
“I don’t want to cry in this dress,” you said.
Mara’s voice softened. “Then don’t. Be mad instead.”
You looked at her, and something in your chest tightened. “I’m so tired of being mad.”
That was the truth you never said out loud. Anger took energy. Anger required the belief that something could still change if you made enough noise. You were so far past that now. You were tired in a way sleep could not fix, tired of dressing up disappointment until it looked like understanding, tired of giving Jack the best parts of your compassion while keeping none of it for yourself.
The first time the lights flickered at The Pitt that night, nobody really reacted.
Hospitals had a way of making disaster feel routine at first. A monitor blinked. A ceiling light hummed. Somewhere behind the desk, a printer stopped halfway through a page and then coughed itself back to life. The nurses looked up, annoyed but not afraid, because annoyance was easier to wear than fear.
Jack was in trauma two with both hands pressed around a patient’s bleeding thigh when the second flicker came.
This time, the room noticed.
“Power?” someone asked.
“Backup should catch,” a nurse said, but her voice had gone thin.
Then the overheads steadied. The monitors held. The ventilator kept its rhythm. The trauma bay stayed bright.
A few seconds later, someone from facilities came over the radio, breathless and stunned.
Only for a second, but long enough for the words to land somewhere beneath his ribs.
Adaptive reroute.
Your system.
Your work.
Your sleepless nights, your marked-up schematics, your laptop glowing blue at two in the morning while he came home too tired to ask what you were building. Your hands, your mind, your stubbornness, your company, your impossible little gap between failure and recovery.
The trauma bay lights stayed on because of you.
And he was not beside you when the world clapped for it.
“Dr. Abbot?”
Jack blinked and looked down. His gloves were slick. The patient was still bleeding. The room still needed him.
“Clamp,” he said, voice rough. “Now.”
He kept working because that was what he did. He kept people alive. He kept rooms from falling apart. He kept going until the crisis passed and everyone around him could breathe again.
But after, when the patient was taken upstairs and Jack stepped into the hall, the television over the nurses’ station was still showing the gala.
Your gala.
The reporter’s voice filled the space between ringing phones and rolling carts.
“Moments ago, L/N Power Systems’ adaptive grid platform stabilized a critical load interruption at an emergency department participating in one of its pilot programs. Company officials have not yet confirmed which hospital experienced the event, but analysts are already calling tonight a live demonstration of the technology’s value.”
A resident looked from the screen to Jack.
No one had to say it.
Jack already knew.
The hospital had needed you tonight too. The difference was, the hospital had gotten you.
He had not shown up for you at all.
Jack saw your acceptance speech from the staff lounge.
He had missed the start because a patient had crashed, and by the time he made it to the lounge, his scrub top was damp at the collar and his hands still smelled faintly of antiseptic even after washing them twice. Someone had turned the television volume up because your gala was now the top local business story of the evening.
You were on stage behind a podium, your award resting beside the microphone. The lights made your skin glow and turned the black silk of your gown almost blue at the edges. Behind you, the screen showed a slow animation of your company’s system keeping a surgical wing powered during a simulated outage.
Jack stayed in the doorway.
On the screen, you took a breath and looked out at the room.
“When I started this company, a lot of people told me the idea was too difficult to scale,” you said. “Some were polite about it. Some were not. I was told hospitals already had backup systems, that emergency power was a solved problem, and that the failure gap we were focused on was too small to justify the investment.”
You smiled slightly, and the audience laughed when you added, “The thing about engineers is that if you tell us the gap is small, we tend to ask what happens inside it.”
Jack’s throat tightened. He had heard you practice versions of this speech in the shower, in the kitchen, in the car. He had teased you once for rewriting one paragraph eleven times. You had thrown a pillow at him and told him the paragraph was weak.
Now you were saying it without him in the room.
“We built this system because seconds matter,” you continued. “A few seconds without stable power can change what happens in an operating room, in a trauma bay, in a NICU, in an elevator carrying a patient between floors. The goal was never to make hospitals perfect. The goal was to give them a better chance when everything else is failing.”
The staff lounge was quiet. Jack noticed one of the nurses standing near the coffee machine, arms folded, watching with damp eyes.
You glanced down briefly, then back up.
“I’m grateful for my team. I’m grateful to the hospital partners who believed in the technology early. I’m grateful to the people who asked hard questions, because they made the system better.”
You paused.
Jack knew that pause. He knew it because he had lived with you long enough to hear the breath you took before saying something that cost you.
“Tonight is a professional milestone, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel personal too. Building something this demanding changes your life. It changes your relationships. It tests who shows up, who wants to, and who actually does.”
Jack’s face went still.
On-screen, your expression remained calm, but your voice softened.
“I’ve learned that success does not make loneliness disappear. It can fill a ballroom. It can put your name on a screen. It can bring applause, contracts, and congratulations. But at the end of the night, you still know which chair beside you stayed empty.”
Nobody in the lounge moved.
Jack looked at the floor. He did not have to see the screen to know the camera would have found his empty chair. A place card with his name. A dinner plate cleared untouched. A visible absence.
But the camera did find it.
Not for long.
Just long enough.
There it was on the television: the chair beside you, empty beneath warm ballroom light. A white place card sat above the untouched dinner setting.
Dr. Jack Abbot
Someone in the lounge inhaled quietly.
Jack stared at his name on the screen.
It was different seeing it like that. Not as a missed text. Not as a fight waiting to happen. Not as something he could explain with patients and short staffing and impossible nights.
It was a space with his name on it.
A promise that had a shape.
An absence everyone could see.
You continued, steadier now. “I am proud of this company. I am proud of the team who built it. And tonight, I am proud of myself for believing that the things I needed were worth building, even when I had to build them alone.”
The applause started slowly, then grew.
Jack stood there, unable to move.
One of the residents near the table said quietly, “I’m sorry, man.”
Jack nodded, because there was nothing else to do. A minute later, his pager went off again.
You left the gala after midnight with your award in one hand and your clutch in the other.
People tried to stop you on the way out. A board member wanted to introduce you to someone from a national health system. Your CFO wanted five minutes about a follow-up call. A journalist asked for one more quote. You gave polite answers, promised emails, and let Mara run interference until you made it to the lobby.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a mist. The hotel’s front drive shone under the lights, slick and dark like spilled ink. Your heels clicked against the polished stone as you waited for the car. The night air was cold against your bare shoulders, and Mara draped your coat over you before you could pretend you were fine without it.
“You don’t have to go home,” she said.
You looked at the road. “I know.”
“I can book you a suite upstairs.”
“I already did.”
Mara turned to you.
You kept your eyes forward. “I booked it this afternoon. Just in case.”
Her expression changed, but she did not make it worse by reacting too much. “Okay.”
The car pulled up. The driver took your award and placed it carefully in the back seat. When you slid into the car, the dress gathered around your legs in a pool of black silk. Mara got in beside you.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The city moved past in blurred lights and wet windows. Billboards, traffic signals, restaurants closing for the night, people standing under awnings with cigarettes and phones. The world looked ordinary, which felt insulting. Something inside you had cracked open, and outside, people were still ordering late-night fries.
Mara broke the silence gently. “Do you want me to stay with you for a bit?”
You looked down at your clutch. “I’m pregnant.”
The words came out flat, almost too calm.
Mara’s head turned slowly. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Your eyes burned immediately. “I found out this morning.”
“Does Jack know?”
You shook your head. “I was going to tell him tonight.”
Mara covered her mouth for a second, then lowered her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
That was what undid you. Not the empty chair. Not the text. Not the speech. Just someone being sorry for you without making you explain why you had the right to be hurt.
You bent forward slightly, one hand pressed over your stomach, the other over your mouth, trying not to sob too loudly in the back of the car. Mara moved close and put an arm around your shoulders, careful of your hair, careful of the dress, careful of all the pieces of you that were barely holding.
“I wanted him there,” you said, voice muffled through your fingers. “I wanted one night where I didn’t have to understand.”
Mara rubbed your back. “I know.”
“I hate that I still wanted him.”
“That’s love,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t always leave when it should.”
You cried harder at that, because she was right. You thought you had moved past needing him like that. You thought if you got busy enough, successful enough, full enough, maybe you would not notice the missing parts so much. But then something happened, something beautiful or terrifying or important, and he was still the first person you wanted to tell.
You looked out the window, watching the city smear itself into streaks of white and red through the rain. Pittsburgh looked softer from inside the car, almost forgiving. Like it did not know what had happened to you tonight. Like somewhere behind all those lit windows, people were still coming home to each other.
“I’m sitting here with an award, a company people are saying might be worth a billion dollars, a baby I don’t even know how to feel brave enough for yet, and all I can think is that I wanted my husband to call me his girl one more time and mean it like nothing else in the world mattered.”
Mara reached for your hand.
You let her take it.
“I don’t know where to put all of this love,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part. I can leave the apartment. I can sign papers. I can sleep somewhere else. But what am I supposed to do with all the years I spent loving him?”
Mara squeezed your hand.
You looked down at your wedding ring.
“What if I spend the rest of my life missing him?”
The question was so quiet it barely felt spoken, but once it was out, there was no taking it back.
Jack came home at 2:38 a.m.
He opened the apartment door quietly, like quietness could make his absence smaller. The living room lamp was on. Your award sat on the coffee table, still gleaming, still heavy, still proof that the night had happened whether he had attended or not. Beside it were two envelopes. One cream, one white.
You were sitting on the couch in your gown. You had taken your earrings off. Your hair had loosened, soft pieces falling near your cheeks. Your lipstick had faded, and there were faint marks under your eyes where you had cried and carefully wiped the evidence away. Your heels were lined up beside the couch. Your bare feet were tucked beneath you.
Jack stopped near the door. “Hey.”
You looked up. “Hey.”
He closed the door and set his keys in the bowl by the entryway. The sound was small and domestic, so painfully normal that you almost laughed. How many times had you heard that exact sound? Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. His tired sigh. Your voice asking if he had eaten. Marriage had so many tiny rituals that survived even when the people inside them were falling apart.
“You’re still dressed,” he said.
“I know.”
“I thought you might be asleep.”
“I thought a lot of things tonight.”
Jack looked down. He was still in his scrubs under a dark jacket. His hair was messy from running his hands through it, and there was a line across his cheek from where a mask had pressed into his skin. He looked exhausted. He looked guilty. He looked like the man you loved.
That was inconvenient.
That was devastating.
He stepped farther into the room. “I watched your speech.”
You nodded.
“You were incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. The way you talked about the system, the contracts, all of it. You were…” He stopped, searching for the right word. “You were exactly who you are.”
Your eyes filled, but you blinked the tears back. “That would have been nice to hear in person.”
Jack flinched. “I know.”
You looked down at your hands. Your rings caught the lamplight.
He came closer, stopping at the end of the coffee table. “I’m sorry.”
You smiled a little, but there was no warmth in it. “You say that so much.”
“I know.”
“I think that’s part of the problem.”
Jack sat in the armchair across from you instead of beside you. You appreciated that. At least he could still read a room.
“I didn’t want to miss it,” he said.
You looked at him. “I believe you.”
He seemed thrown by that. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you sound like that?”
“Because wanting to be there and being there are different things.”
Jack rubbed both hands over his face. When he lowered them, his eyes were red. “Harper called. They were short. I thought if I went in early, I could help stabilize things and leave before dinner.”
“You thought.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t call me before deciding.”
“I didn’t want to stress you out while you were getting ready.”
You stared at him, and he heard it as soon as he said it.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.
“You didn’t want to stress me out, so you made the decision alone and told me after.”
Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I made the wrong call.”
“You made the familiar call.”
He swallowed.
The room settled around those words. Rain tapped softly at the windows. Somewhere outside, tires hissed against wet pavement. The apartment smelled faintly like his hospital jacket and your perfume, like two lives still pretending they knew how to touch without hurting each other.
“You don’t understand what it’s like there,” Jack said quietly.
The words came out tired. Not cruel. Not even angry at first. Just exhausted enough to be careless.
You went still.
Jack looked at you and immediately seemed to regret it. “Y/N, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” you said softly. “Say it.”
He closed his eyes. “I just mean, when someone is dying in front of you, when there aren’t enough hands, when people are looking at you like you’re the last thing standing between them and the worst day of their life, it’s not easy to walk away.”
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
That one hurt.
You stared at him for a second, and something in your face changed. Not anger. Not even shock.
Exhaustion.
The kind that comes when someone you love finally says the thing you always knew they believed underneath all the apologies.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack opened his eyes. “What?”
“You’re right. I don’t know exactly what it’s like to be you.”
His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I—”
“But I know what it’s like to keep the lights on when a hospital can’t afford for them to go out. I know what it’s like to have people depend on something I built, something I signed my name to, something that could fail in ways that would haunt me. I know what pressure is, Jack. I know what responsibility is.”
His face softened, shame creeping in.
You looked at the award on the table. “And I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people congratulating me while my husband is on a television screen’s other side, using my work to save people, and still somehow unable to show up for me.”
Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not fair.”
The words came out before he could stop them.
You laughed once, small and wounded. “There it is.”
“Y/N—”
“No, it’s okay. It’s not fair. Someone was dying. The hospital was short. Harper’s kid was sick. There was a trauma. There was a power issue. There’s always a reason, Jack. There is always a reason good enough to make me feel awful for being hurt.”
His jaw worked, but no words came.
You leaned forward slightly, your voice low. “You know what the worst part is? I believe all your reasons. I believe they’re real. I believe they matter. I believe you’re a good doctor and a good man and that people are alive because of you.”
Your eyes filled.
“But I also believe I have been lonely in this marriage. And you keep asking one truth to erase the other.”
Jack looked down.
You reached for the cream envelope on the table. Your fingers brushed over the thick paper, and Jack’s gaze followed the movement.
“What is that?” he asked.
You held it in your lap for a moment. Jack looked at you like he wanted to memorize you and beg forgiveness at the same time. You wondered if he knew how often you had done that to him.
Memorized him, you meant.
The slope of his shoulders when he came home defeated. The faint scar near his eyebrow. The way his hands looked too capable around a coffee mug, too gentle when they touched you, too absent when you needed them and they were somewhere else holding someone else together. You had loved his face through every version of your own disappointment. You had loved him in doorways, waiting for him to take off his shoes. You had loved him across dinner tables where his phone kept lighting up. You had loved him in bed while he slept beside you, too exhausted to notice you were crying.
You had loved him so thoroughly that leaving him felt less like choosing yourself and more like cutting your own heart out before it could beg you to stay.
“I don’t want you to be a lesson,” you said suddenly.
Jack’s brows pulled together. “What?”
You looked down at your hands. “I don’t want to look back one day and tell people you taught me what I deserved. I don’t want you to become some sad, useful story about growth. I wanted you to be my husband.”
His face broke.
You swallowed hard. “I wanted you to be the person I came home to. Not the reason I had to learn how to stop waiting.”
Jack stared at you, and for a moment, you saw the words land somewhere deep enough to hurt him. You almost hated yourself for noticing. You almost hated that even now, a part of you wanted to soften the blow.
“When you asked me to marry you, I thought I understood what you were asking,” you said.
Jack’s face shifted. “What does that mean?”
You looked at him, and the ache in your chest sharpened. “I thought you were asking me to share your life. I thought it meant we would make room for each other, even when it was hard. I knew your job would be demanding. I knew there would be nights you couldn’t leave. I knew I would have to be patient sometimes.”
Your voice stayed even, but Jack’s expression was already changing.
“I didn’t know I was signing up to become the easiest thing to cancel.”
He closed his eyes. “Y/N.”
“I didn’t know I would have to feel guilty for needing you.”
“You don’t have to feel guilty.”
“But I do. Every time. Because there’s always a patient, or a shift, or someone sicker, or something worse. And I know those things matter. I’m not pretending they don’t.”
You set the cream envelope on the table and slid it toward him.
“I just can’t keep living like my pain only counts if it’s an emergency.”
Jack stared at the envelope. For a few seconds, he did not touch it. Then he picked it up.
You watched him open it. You watched him read the first page. You watched the colour leave his face.
“Divorce,” he said quietly.
You folded your hands together so he would not see them shake. “Yes.”
He looked up at you, stunned. “You want a divorce?”
“I don’t want this version of marriage anymore.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You breathed in slowly. “I know.”
Jack stood, then seemed to realize he did not know where to go, so he sat back down hard. “When did you decide this?”
You looked toward the window. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass.
“I think part of me has been deciding for a long time.”
He shook his head. “No. We’ve had hard months. I know that. But divorce?”
“You keep saying it like I’m being dramatic.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“No,” you said. “You’re trying to find the part where I did this wrong, so you don’t have to look at how long you were doing it to me.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. “That’s not fair.”
The words left him fast.
Too fast.
You looked at him, and he looked like he wanted to reach across the room and take them back.
“Stop saying that to me,” you whispered.
His face cracked. “I’m sorry.”
“I am so tired of being told my pain has to be fair to yours.”
Jack covered his mouth with one hand and looked away.
You wiped your thumb over your ring. “I sat at that table tonight with your name card beside me. People kept asking where you were, and I kept making you sound noble because I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
Jack looked crushed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I did. Because I’m used to protecting you from how it feels to be married to you.”
His mouth opened, then closed again. That was the first time he really had no defense.
You continued, softer now. “I don’t think you’re a bad man, Jack. That would be easier. You’re kind. You care about people. You work yourself into the ground because you can’t stand leaving anyone unsupported.”
Your eyes met his.
“But somehow, I became the person you could leave unsupported because I was good at surviving it.”
Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not how I see you.”
“I know. But it’s how you treat me.”
He pressed his palms together, his hands shaking slightly. “I can change.”
You looked at him with so much sadness that he almost looked away.
“I needed you to change before I had to beg myself to stop hoping.”
The room was quiet after that.
Then Jack noticed the second envelope. The white one. It sat beside the award, small and plain, with the doctor’s office logo in the corner.
His eyes stayed on it too long.
“What’s that?”
You felt your throat close. This was the part you had dreaded most. The part that made everything feel impossible.
You picked up the white envelope. Jack watched you like his body already knew what his mind did not.
“This is what I was going to give you tonight after the gala.”
His face went still.
You held it out.
He did not take it right away.
“Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Please just open it.”
He took the envelope. His fingers were careful, almost gentle, as if the paper might bruise. He pulled out the test results, unfolded them, and read.
You watched the exact second he understood.
His lips parted. His eyes moved over the page again. Then again. When he looked at you, his face had fallen apart so completely that you had to look down.
“You’re pregnant,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since this morning.”
“This morning?”
You nodded.
Jack looked back at the paper, then at you. “You went alone?”
“I didn’t know if it was real yet. I took tests at home. Then I booked bloodwork.”
“You didn’t tell me?”
You laughed once, and it came out more like a sob. “You weren’t even there when I tried to tell you after.”
He took that quietly.
He deserved it, and he knew he did.
You pressed a hand to your stomach, more for comfort than anything else. “I had this whole plan. It feels stupid now.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It was.” You wiped under your eye carefully. “I thought we’d get through the gala, and then maybe we’d go somewhere quiet. Maybe the balcony or the car. I thought I’d hand it to you and you’d look confused for a second, and then you’d understand. And I thought, for once, the night would feel like ours.”
Jack’s eyes filled. “I should have been there.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
He put the divorce papers and the test results down on the table with shaking hands, keeping them separate, like mixing them together would make the whole thing more unbearable.
“I want this baby,” he said.
Your face crumpled. “I know.”
“I want you.”
You shook your head slowly. “Jack.”
“I do.”
“I know you want me.”
“Then don’t leave.”
“That’s not how this works.”
He stood again, and this time he came around the coffee table but stopped a few feet away from you.
“I’ll do better,” he said.
You looked tired suddenly. Tired in a way he had never really let himself see.
“You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it differently now.”
“You always mean it.”
He swallowed hard. That hurt him because it was true.
You stood too, the black silk falling around you as you rose. Without the heels, you looked more vulnerable. Less like the woman from the news. More like his wife, barefoot in the living room, exhausted from being brave in public.
“I don’t want to punish you,” you said. “I need you to understand that. I’m not doing this because I want you to suffer.”
“It feels like suffering.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Your voice broke. “Because staying feels like disappearing.”
Jack’s face tightened as if he had been hit.
You looked down, trying to keep your breathing steady. “I don’t recognize myself anymore sometimes. I used to tell you everything. I used to get excited to share things with you. Then I started editing myself because I didn’t want to add pressure to your life. I stopped telling you when I was upset because you already looked crushed when you came home. I stopped asking for dates because it was humiliating to watch you check your phone the whole time.”
Jack closed his eyes. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“You didn’t ask.”
The words came out quietly, but they landed hard.
He opened his eyes again. “You’re right.”
That made you cry harder, because you had wanted him to argue. You had wanted him to give you something to push against. Instead, he looked at you with tears in his eyes and finally saw the damage.
“You’re right,” he said again, his voice rough. “I should have asked. I should have noticed. I should have made room for you without you having to keep proving you needed it.”
You covered your mouth for a second.
Jack looked at your hand, then your stomach. His voice softened. “Are you okay? Physically?”
That question broke something small inside you.
“I think so.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
“No.”
“Are you nauseous?”
“A little.”
He nodded, doctor mode flickering in, then dying immediately because he seemed to realize how badly timed it was.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’m doing the thing.”
You let out a tiny, sad laugh. “Yeah. You are.”
Jack wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “I want to come to the appointments.”
“I know.”
“Will you let me?”
You looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know yet.”
He nodded quickly, even though it hurt. “Okay.”
“I’m not saying no forever.”
“I understand.”
“I just can’t make promises tonight to make you feel better.”
He breathed in shakily. “Okay.”
You moved toward the chair near the hallway and picked up a small overnight bag.
Jack saw it, and panic crossed his face before he could hide it.
“You packed a bag?”
“Yes.”
“You’re leaving tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
You looked at him.
He nodded once, backing off. “Right. Sorry.”
“I’m safe.”
“Okay.”
You slipped the bag over your shoulder. The movement was ordinary, almost boring, and somehow that made it worse. This was what leaving looked like. No screaming. No slammed drawers. Just a woman in a black gown picking up a small bag because she had reached the end of what she could carry.
Jack followed you to the entryway but kept a careful distance.
“Can I drive you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Can I at least walk you down?”
“No.”
He pressed his lips together, trying not to fall apart completely.
You put your hand on the doorknob. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Jack said, “Do you still love me?”
You closed your eyes.
Of course he would ask the one question that did not save anything.
“Yes,” you said.
His breath caught behind you.
You turned back to face him, and there he was: wrinkled scrubs, red eyes, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but had finally learned that wanting did not give him the right.
“I love you,” you said, and the truth of it nearly ruined you. “I love you so much that I stayed long after I started feeling alone. I love you so much that I kept making excuses for you because I knew you were tired, because I knew your work mattered, because I knew you were good.”
Jack’s eyes filled again.
“But I can’t keep giving you access to me just because you’re sorry after,” you whispered. “I can’t keep building a home out of promises you only remember once I’m already hurt.”
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.
“I know.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
You looked at him for a long moment. You thought of the gala. The black dress. The empty chair. The envelope. The baby. All the nights you had waited and waited, feeding yourself on old versions of him, surviving on memories like they were meals.
“Be someone our child can count on,” you said. “Start there.”
Jack nodded, crying silently now. “I will.”
You wanted to believe him.
God, you wanted to believe him so badly that for one dangerous second, your hand almost left the doorknob.
But then you remembered the chair.
You remembered your name being called in a room full of people while the place beside you stayed empty.
You remembered that love had not been enough to bring him there.
So you opened the door.
The hallway outside was quiet and softly lit. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbour’s television murmured behind a closed door. Life was still going on in all the ordinary ways.
Jack said your name once more.
You looked back.
He stood in the entryway with your award visible behind him on the coffee table and the two envelopes lying open beside it.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
You gave him a small, broken smile. “I know.”
And that was what made it worse.
Because you knew.
You knew he loved you. You knew he was proud of you. You knew he would miss you when the apartment went quiet and the hospital could no longer give him somewhere else to run.
But knowing had never been the same as being held.
So you stepped into the hallway. This time, when you walked away, you did not wait for him to follow. You heard the door close gently behind you, and the softness of it hurt more than a slam would have.
After you left, Jack did not move for a long time.
The apartment stayed quiet around him. The lamp hummed softly. Rain touched the windows. Your heels were still by the couch, lined up neatly, as if even your heartbreak had manners.
On the coffee table, the divorce papers sat beside the pregnancy results.
The ending and the beginning.
Both addressed to him.
Jack picked up the remote with a hand that did not feel like his and opened the news replay. He did not know why. Maybe because grief made people stupid. Maybe because some part of him thought if he watched the night properly, he could punish himself into becoming the man who should have been there.
The video loaded.
There you were again.
Black dress. Soft hair. Bare shoulders. That careful, beautiful smile.
He watched you enter alone. He watched you answer questions alone. He watched you sit at the table alone. Then the camera panned, briefly, almost accidentally, to the empty chair beside you.
His name card was clear.
Dr. Jack Abbot
Jack paused the screen.
The room went silent.
There it was.
Not a feeling. Not an argument. Not your sensitivity. Not his schedule. Not bad timing.
Proof.
A chair with his name on it.
A space he had promised to fill.
Jack sat on the couch slowly, still staring at the frozen image. His face crumpled, but no sound came out at first. He had cried before. He had cried after losing patients. He had cried in stairwells, in supply closets, in the shower with one hand braced against the tile.
This was different.
This was not the grief of failing to save someone he had only just met.
This was the grief of realizing he had been losing you slowly while calling it survival.
His eyes moved from the frozen screen to the divorce papers.
Then to the pregnancy result.
Then back to your face.
“How do I forget you?” he whispered, but there was no one there to answer.
The apartment seemed to hold the question for him.
Your perfume still lived faintly in the room. Your mug was still in the sink. Your cardigan was still folded over the back of the chair. The book you had been reading was still open on the side table, a receipt tucked between the pages because you hated using proper bookmarks. There was a sticky note on the fridge in your handwriting reminding both of you to buy more oat milk. There was a pair of your socks half-hidden under the coffee table because you always kicked them off when you were working late. There was a framed photo from your courthouse wedding on the console, both of you laughing because Jack had been unable to get the ring onto your finger at first.
You were everywhere.
That was the cruelty of it. You had left, but the life you had built with him remained behind like a house still waiting for its owner to come home.
Jack covered his mouth with one hand and bent forward, shoulders shaking.
For once, no one was paging him. No one was asking him for help. No one was bleeding, crashing, coding, crying out, reaching for him from the other side of a curtain.
For once, there was no emergency left to run toward.
Only the life he had kept meaning to choose.
Only the wife he had loved too late.
Only the baby he had learned about on the same night he learned she was leaving.
Only the empty chair beside you, waiting on a screen for a man who never came.
And the worst part, the part that finally broke him open, was that Jack knew this would not be a clean grief. He would not miss you once. He would miss you in places. In the kitchen when the coffee brewed too strong. In the car when he passed the hotel downtown and remembered black silk under gold lights. In the emergency department when the power held steady because of the system you built. In every waiting room, every hallway, every quiet elevator ride where he would think of you standing somewhere else, living a life he was no longer trusted to enter.
He would miss you when the baby came.
He would miss you when your child had your eyes.
He would miss you when people asked about his wife and he had to learn how to say your name without saying mine.
Jack stared at the empty chair until the screen blurred.
For the first time all night, he understood that you had not left because you stopped loving him. You left because you were terrified you would spend the rest of your life loving him from a room he never came home to.
And Jack, too late, finally knew what it meant to wait. Not for a patient. Not for a shift to end. Not for the next crisis to pass. But for a woman who might never come back.
The television stayed paused on his name.
The apartment stayed still around him.
And Jack sat there in the home you had built together, finally surrounded by all the love he had assumed would wait forever.
I think one thing that really pisses me off about all the noah wyle hate and conspiracies I'm seeing talking about how this is all for his ego or some other shit, is that his mother is a healthcare worker. Iirc, his mom is a nurse. I don't know if she was working during COVID, but she would have known and lost people that did. To me, the Pitt is just a love letter to his mother and so many other healthcare workers like her, and people have just been twisting it into something so malicious.
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: The Pitt's quietest nurse is pregnant, and no one can figure out who the baby's father is. Fluffy and short.
A/N: I wrote this half awake at 3 in the morning. Maybe a little ooc for everyone considering I know the Pitt gossip goes crazy and this would have been figured out in two seconds, but my tired brain was going wild thinking of this so here it is.
Paternity
You were a fairly private person.
You never really spoke about your life outside of the hospital. You were friends with your fellow nurses, certainly, but you had that ability to have conversations without revealing too much about yourself that infuriated your colleagues, (Princess and Perlah especially) and that was how you liked it. You didn’t need everyone to know your business.
So when you revealed your pregnancy, whispers flew around the hospital. Who was the father? Were you even seeing someone? Was this a one night stand situation?
When Princess finally asked the question on everyone’s lips, tentatively, trying not to offend you, “who’s the father?” And you answered with a simple “Dr. Robby”, like it was the most obvious thing ever, no one believed you.
You were joking, obviously. Dr. Robby.
Sure, you and Robby got along well, just like any other colleagues in the hospital. But there was no way he was the father of your baby. No way the two of you were dating, or even just hooking up. You were never anything but professional with each other in the ER.
So when you went into labour earlier than expected, gripping the counter of the central hub with white knuckles as a contraction washed over you, no one thought anything of it when Robby hurried over, helping you into a wheelchair and into a room. He was just being Dr. Robby, the good doctor they all knew him to be. They had seen him take off running multiple times when one of their own was injured on the job; of course he would stay with you while an OBGYN team came down to check you out.
And when the baby was born, and everyone came to visit the Pitt crew’s newest addition, maybe there was some surprise to see Robby holding your baby in his large hands, cradled against his bare chest, a blanket over one shoulder. But it made sense, you clearly didn’t have anyone else in the picture — you were doing this on your own — why wouldn’t he give your baby some skin to skin while you rested? You were all family in the Pitt, at the end of the day.
And when Robby told everyone you and your baby were settling in nicely at home, everyone was happy to hear it. They were happy for you and the baby, and why wouldn’t Robby know how well you were doing? They had all watched him wheel you out of the hospital, knew he helped place the carseat in the back of your car. He had even driven you home.
It wasn’t until you came to visit nearly a year later, carrying your baby, when everyone realized that maybe, they had misunderstood the situation.
You stood with Dana and Perlah at the central hub, smiling as your round faced, happy looking baby waved a chubby hand at Jesse juggling for them, when Robby turned the corner, stopping short.
“My favourite person in the world” Robby crowed happily, and you watched as your baby’s face lit up at the sound of his voice. You set them down, letting them waddle as fast as they could over to Robby, who crouched low to catch them.
And it was only when Robby stood up, holding your baby close in his arms that everyone came to a very sudden realization.
Robby and your baby had the same brown eyes, the same nose, the same tilt of the head when someone spoke to them. But it was only when your baby scrubbed their tiny hand down their face the same way Robby did on particularly rough days and there was an incoming trauma, that Perlah shot a look at Princess, who looked at Dana, who looked at Jesse, who looked at Mateo.
Thankfully, the only thing incoming was nap time.
“It’s about that time” Robby said quietly, glancing at his watch.
“We should get going” you said, reaching out to take your baby back, but they stubbornly held on to Robby.
“I’ll come to the car” Robby said, and with a happy wave, you said goodbye to everyone in the Pitt, following along as Robby led the way outside. Your baby rested their head on his shoulder, their brown hair the same shade as his.
Your colleagues watched you all walk away, an awkward silence hanging over them before slowly turning to the security office.
I’m always unsure if i should continue a story so your comments and questions mean a lot.
Summary: Everyone let you down, including the person you loved the most. Curiosity got the best of you when you agreed to do one more shift at PTMC, but found yourself in a the midst of multiple mass shootings and you, were everyone's senior. Your boyfriend, as well as you, work in teams to save the day.
Trigger warning: medical setting, injuries, facial scars, angst, anxiety, bad MH, shooting, mass casualties, hurt, anger, trauma flashbacks in bold
Word count: 7k
As the laptop slammed shut, a loud sigh filled the room. A whisper escaped your lips “shit”. You pushed off the chair and walked into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face.
One offer. Fourteen-hour shifts. A paycheck with enough digits to pay towards the hospital bills.
Crashing, give epi
You could say no — tell them to fuck off. But curiosity lingered in your mind since you saw them last.
Jack get out!
You’d do so many things, yet none, to see him one more time.
No, no, no, stay with me
The cold water didn’t help — nothing helped with the numbness. You stood there, hands gripping the edges of the sink, staring at the stranger in the mirror. Another long sigh slipped out of you. Feeling alive left you with scars — a constant reminder that to feel something, even a spark of happiness, you must also feel pain.
Mohan get out. Every single fucker who’s not working on her needs to get out!
You emailed Gloria, short and direct, saying you’d take the offer, but only if you were everyone’s senior. No exceptions. No one could push back and no one could say no to you.
She agreed.
Scrubs on and hair gently sitting on your shoulders. Makeup done just enough to look sharp and shoes laced.
Today’s scrubs colour of choice was red.
The colour of anger.
The colour of superiority.
The colour of your blood that covered the ER floor that day.
The colour that told everyone: I am your senior and you report to me.
You took one last look at yourself in the mirror and smiled.
You walked out of the door.
My face… what the fuck happened to my face!
You stood outside the ER doors and repeated to yourself: fourteen hours, fourteen hours, fourteen hours, fourteen hour sh….. You held your head high and walked in — no smiles, no eye contact, just focusing on the target ahead.
“Good morning Lena” voice firm, quiet and stern.
She turned around slowly to the familiar voice she thought she’d never hear again.
“Hello Doc!” She said, a smile spreading across her face “It’s good to see you, sweetheart”
Likewise? No that would be a lie. You watched her eyes as they slowly traced your scars, from your face down to your arm.
“I’m good, Lena” you said firmly, snapping her out of whatever world she was in. Not an answer to a question she asked, but an end to a thought that wandered through her mind.
This is all your fault Jack
I know it is!
“Is your attending around?” You asked “I’m here early so I can catch up”
“He’s in there, sweet”
You muttered “thank you” before walking towards the room.
Hours turned into days. Days dragged into months of you wondering if you’ll get to speak with him again. If you will ever tell him what you truly feel. If you will ever get your revenge?
His broken eyes haunted you in your sleep. His screams hid in the corners of quiet rooms.
He didn’t know you were coming — that was another condition. The beautiful element of surprising every motherfucker that did you wrong.
“Hello Jack” you said as you walked in. Not Dr Abbot, like he reminded you last time. Just Jack.
And there it was. The beautiful look of betrayal. All the color drained from his face. He froze, eyes wide with shock. You counted in your mind: one, two, three, four….
Starting compressions! One, two, three, four….
“Are you aright?” You asked, holding down a small smile “do you need to sit down?”
“Uh…” was that a word? A sound? A noise? Eventually, the cat let go of his tongue as he said “hello”.
He gripped onto the edge of the bed and adjusted his posture. That beautiful posture that the old you had fallen for.
“I’m here for rounds” you said.
“F—for rounds?” He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck.
That beautiful hair you used to run your fingers through until he fell asleep.
“I am covering for Michael” not Robby “As senior emergency attending physician for the day shift.”
The jaw dropped wide open.
“So” you said quietly “rounds then you can go home?”
His chest rose and fell faster. After a few seconds, he gave a small, shaky nod.
“Good to see you Jack” therapy taught you to kill them with kindness but it didn’t say you had to forget or forgive. “You look well”
A lie. He looked terrible — like he hadn’t been mentally or physically well.
Every fibre in your body wanted to reach over and pull him in for a hug, but you knew that would break him. Not you. It was always about him.
You turned your back to him and moved in a confident rhythm, so womanly and heavenly, and so God damn powerful.
You caught up with the night shift staff — filling you in on every single patient. Eyes traced your scars with every movement you made. You scared them — not because of the scars, but because of your confidence and your powerful charisma.
“Thank you for filling me in. I’ll take it from here” you clapped your hands together once, gave a sharp nod, and walked toward the hub.
The day shift staff gathered around, backs turned to you, chit-chatting amongst themselves.
“So if Robby isn’t here who’s covering today?”
“Has the ER even not had an attending?”
“W—what happens now?”
“Dana, do you now who’s covering?”
You smiled.
“Me”
They all turned at once. Hands in pockets, shoulders squared, black stethoscope around your neck and scars glowing under the fluorescent light.
You craved a dramatic entrance, and you got your moment.
Jaws dropped.
Eyes widened.
Someone whispered shit.
Your ego gave you a tap on the shoulder, and somewhere in the distance, you heard an imaginary audience, clap.
“Good morning team” you said “I will be covering today’s shift as your senior attending”
You approached them slowly and said “The night shift has filled me in, but I trust you will all do rounds quickly. There are already 50 patients in triage”
“H—hi” Langdon said, giving you a small wave.
“Hello Frank” you replied with a nod “Any questions?”
I did this Robby, I did this!
“Uh..” Whitaker tried to say something but Santos nudged him and so he kept quiet.
“Dennis, it’s good to see you too” the first genuine smile you have given so far.
Whitaker can you intubate any faster!
He smiled back.
You turned around to face Javadi who looked like she was about to cry. You gave her another genuine smile and she rushed over and hugged you so tightly she almost knocked you off your feet.
“Hi sweety” you said, voice muffled against her shoulder as you pushed her hair out of the way. She pulled back smiling and fixed her scrubs as she stood next to you.
“Alright, rounds. Present after each case, and your senior is Langdon. You report to him, he reports to me. Langdon, I would like you to float today — supervise, educate, present” you said “they do all the work, you correct verbally and only step in when you think it’s necessary”
He nodded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Has everyone been assigned sections?”
They all nodded.
“Uh” Ogilvie raised his hand “where am I?”
“Where are you usually?”
He pointed at Santos.
“Today you will shadow nurses”
“N—nurses?”
“Yes, nurses. Does anyone here know what our nurses actually get up to?”
Perlah put her hand up, smiling. You glanced at her from the corner of your eye and back at the team. “You will learn a lot of them — you gotta respect and know what they do so you can complete your work”
He nodded and you felt a few approving smiles.
Perlah can you uh… I need more o-neg. Stat.
What you hadn’t noticed was Jack, along with the night shift crew, standing behind your team, watching.
“Fucking hot damn” Parker said “she looks good”
“I’m scared” Shen replied quietly.
Your phone rang as the group dispersed.
“Hi”…. “Shit. When?” “How many?…. What do you mean you don’t know?” “Lockdown?”… “Alright”
You hung up, cleared your throat and walked through the ambulance bay door, outside. The calm before a terrible, fucked up storm, and you were in charge. You breathed in the last bit of fresh air your lungs will know for some time.
With heavy and determined footsteps, you walked back to the hub and grabbed the intercom. “Can all staff gather around the hub please, that’s all staff to the hub. Now”
“What was that all about?” Dana frowned at you. There was a look of fear in your eyes that she knew too well.
You replied quickly “nothing good”.
Everyone gathered within minutes — another tap on the back for the commanding voice.
“Listen up team, I just got a call from SWAT. There are multiple mass shootings currently happening all across Pittsburgh.”
You saw Gloria rushing through the doors but you continued talking.
“The number of casualties is unknown, however they have already targeted one hospital, with multiple staff injured”
“What!” You glanced over your shoulder to Jack but you ignored him.
“Gloria, am I correct in saying we are in lockdown?”
“Correct. The doors will be locked and SWAT will be positioned outside. Victims will be brought in only when it is safe”
“You can’t just lock the door otherwise, how are we treating casualties?” Jack now stood across the floor from you.
“We can’t treat casualties if we’re dead” you said sharply, your stare holding his “they shoot the staff, they shoot the only people who can save their lives.”
“Fuck” someone said and you heard uneasy whispers fill the floor.
“Staff will be allowed to go home” Gloria’s lips parted as she heard you say the words “your safety is more important than a job. But if you want to stay, I, and no one else, can promise you safety”
You looked around at panicked and scared faces.
“SWAT will also be bringing everyone bulletproof vests. Outside will be triage — SWAT medics will assist and send them in. The closer you are to the door, the more careful you need to be” You continued “If anyone needs to go home, you need to leave now. But please be careful”
No one moved as everyone stared at you and your scars.
“Night shift staff” you said to them “are you leaving or staying?”
“Staying” Parker quickly put her hand up along with the majority of the staff.
“I will stay too” Lena said.
You turned around to Jack “of course I’ll stay”
“Good, please go take your break now”
Jack cut in sharply and said “we’re good”.
“Nope” you smiled “you will take your break, a minimum of two hours. I will not allow tired staff on the floor”
He nodded and you saw Parker smirk.
“SWAT is here” Javadi whispered.
A tall man with dark hair and striking green eyes walked in like he’d stepped off a magazine cover — full SWAT uniform, bold letters across his chest. Every head in the room turned to watch him.
Two dramatic entrances in one day. Perfect.
He spotted you immediately and smiled and you didn’t hide your grin. People’s heads turned away from him towards the person he was smiling at: you.
You walked straight over and he pulled you in with one strong arm, and you gave him a long, heavy kiss. You whispered against his lips “Hi baby.”
You heard someone whistle — actually, it was multiple people. You felt eyes burn in the back of your head as you pulled away from him.
“Everyone, this is Pete, Chief of Special Operations and SWAT commander for the city police department” you said, standing by him. “He will cover the outside with the squad. He is accompanied by Dr Lane, the lead medic assigned to Special Operations.”
Dr Lane gave a small wave as he stood to your side.
“SWAT has already surrounded the hospital” Pete announced, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the room with authority “we will communicate via radios…”
A couple of officers started handing them out.
Your eyes finally met Jack’s — they were sad and tired. They were also jealous that your lips were no longer his.
Is sh—she dead? Robby is she dead!
“…and no one enters without going through SWAT”
You didn’t notice yourself smiling as you watched him take command.
Today was a bad day for many people, but revenge was sweet, and today was going great for you.
You explained to everyone how triage would work and which protocol had been initiated. Some staff decided to leave, and you certainly did not blame them. Everyone had now gowned up, except you. You remained in red, loud and clear.
You oversaw what everyone was doing and how they were operating. Critical patients were all moved upstairs, beds empty and ready for the chaos. You then heard the first siren and braced yourself.
SWAT medic cleared the first patient and passed the gurney to the ER staff.
“GSW right thigh, clean exit wound” King said.
“Yours, take Javadi” you said firmly. The entirety of the ER stood behind you as you triaged each patient and assigned them to clinicians.
If she dies, I die!
And suddenly, every doctor and nurse were occupied with patients. You floated between rooms, barking commands, stepping in when needed, and most importantly, teaching.
The casualties slowed down, which was unusual because it hadn’t even been two hours. You took your gloves off and walked outside to find Pete.
Jack had already beaten you to it, and he was outside talking to the squad
“Babe, what are you doing out here” Pete quickly stepped to your side with a bulletproof vest “you need to wear this”
You shook your head “I’m good, thank you”.
Your eyes swept the perimeter: armed officers were posted at every corner, rifles trained on every passing car. A loud intercom kept repeating the same commands: open all windows, hands where we can see them.
“What’s the update?” You asked.
“The second hospital has been attacked” someone said “although they didn’t have SWAT”
“Why not?”
“There are still active shootings they can’t seem to control” Pete added.
Your lips parted in panic and you felt your heart rate spike. “Okay. Do you think you guys will leave?”
“We won’t leave our positions, no” Pete said “Not when we’re here to protect the biggest trauma centre”
“And Pete’s girl” someone muttered with a grin.
You let out a small laugh and said “shut up, Martin”
Your eyes flicked back to Jack. “Dr Abbot, may I speak with you inside?”
He nodded. You gave Pete’s hand a quick squeeze before walking back inside.
“I’m on break” he quickly said, eyes not meeting yours.
“That’s not what I was going to say” you quietly replied, “I wanted to see how you are doing, with all of this”
He gave you a small smile, and you felt that same heartbreak you did that night.
I love you, i will always do. But i will never forgive myself. If you live, please don’t ever forgive me
“I am around if you need anything. Please take your break somewhere where you can actually rest?” You said “the second wave will hit us shortly”
“Sure” he said quietly and walked off. You watched him, a familiar limp in his step, wondering why life was so unfair.
If one person was going to make you cry today, it was Jack’s broken heart. You wondered how many times it could break before he walks over the edge of the roof.
“Uh I need uh… help” Whitaker said with a panicked look on his face “pretty sure my patient was one of the shooters”
“Shit. Alright, who’s in there?”
“Me and McCkay”
“What did he say?”
“He mumbled something about people deserving this. He also has a mob tattoo on his arm” He said “he said that people should own guns and do whatever they want with them”
“Okay let’s not make any assumptions. I’ll swap with you. Please let SWAT know that I need someone to assist, uniform off, no guns. Got it?”
He nodded and rushed off.
You stepped into the room where McKay was suturing a leg wound. “McKay, I’ll take over”
She frowned, still focusing on the patient’s leg.
“Now, please” you said, putting gloves on.
She nodded, stepped aside, and quickly briefed you on the history and what she’d done.
“Thank you” you said as you attended to the wound.
“So, how are you feeling?” You asked the patient as you scanned for any weapons and staying clear of his hands.
“I’d like some pain meds, please”
“We’re running low on them I’m afraid” you said firmly.
You glanced over and someone you didn’t know, walked in. You flinched hard at first until he gave a quick series of tactical hand signals, then tapped his chest where the SWAT lettering would be.
You nodded and turned back to the patient.
“My colleague here is going to ask some questions as I work on your leg” you said softly, working as quickly as possible.
The SWAT officer, who introduced himself by his first name, said he was asking witnesses to describe what happened. The patient, after answering many, many questions, turned out to be a big believer in gun laws and… applying these laws.
A decision was made to detain him until proven innocent. Arguments and yells filled the room but he was quickly handcuffed to the bed.
We failed her, every single one of us failed her!
You walked outside to find Jack wandering around, eyes full of fear.
“Did you seriously go in there on your own with a possible shooter?” He asked.
You wanted to roll your eyes at him, and snap back but all you said was “yes, do you have a problem with that?”
His shoulders dropped and you saw his jaw tense.
You asked “What area are you covering?”
“Trauma”
“You need a bullet proof vest then” you bit back.
He cut in quickly “Where’s yours?”
You took a small, calculated step towards him “I died once, what’s another?”
You felt the tension grasp at the thin air between you and Jack. “Don’t worry about me, Dr Abbot. That was never your job”
You turned your back on him and continued with rounds.
I smell blood, so much of it. Where is it coming from?
You looked at the ER floors — colours indeed matched your scrubs. You refused to let your mind wander to your past, but sometimes, only sometimes, you let it. You found comfort in repeating familiar events in your mind.
Someone touched your arm gently and you flinched.
“Doc we need you in trauma two” Princess was by your side.
Don’t cry, Princess I’m okay.
“How can I help?” You asked as you walked in.
Garcia and Walsh’s mouths dropped wide open.
Garcia said quietly “What the fuck”.
“Nice to see you too” you smiled “and no you’re not seeing a ghost. It’s me in the flesh”
“Well, God damn girl, you look good” she smirked and shook her head.
“So I’m needed in here?”
“Abbot and I are having a little disagreement and we need a senior to settle it” Walsh said.
Childish. Foolish. All of you! You did this!
“Walsh presents first. Don’t cut each other in, this isn’t high school” you said firmly.
And they did, just like you asked them to. Two hot-headed doctors, both passionate about what they wanted to do. But one critical patient.
“Walsh take the lead” you said firmly before walking out, feeling Jack follow you, all the way to the break room.
“You’re taking a break?” He asked quietly.
“No, I’m making a hot drink” you said softly “I need caffeine if I’m going to run this for the next however many long hours”
You glanced over your shoulder, noticing his silence and said “Would you like one?”
He stayed quiet.
“Look, Robby ran things differently. But I don’t pride myself in exhaustion” you said softly “if I’m tired, I make mistakes. If I make mistakes, the team gets in trouble”
“You changed” he said softly. Was he admiring? Jealous? Sad?
“Of course I did Jack” you said softly “what did you expect was going to happen?”
“I’m sorry.” A whisper. A mutter.
“I uh…” he stared at the floor, too embarrassed to meet your eyes “I regret so many things. How I let you down and…. Everything I did…”
“Regret only stops you from moving forward in life, Jack. You only get one shot at this, you need to move on”
He said “I don’t think I ever will”
“That’s a shame” you said as you walked past him leaving the room.
You felt your throat go dry and anxiety slowly creeping up. Would it be so bad if you just… hugged him? Told him how much you missed him? You swallowed back tears and jumped right back into the chaos.
You stood by the ambulance doors, watching another wave of casualties being rushed in, when the ER lights suddenly cut out. The entire department fell into darkness.
You stood out like a sore thumb in your red scrubs. Panic had now fully taken over as you yelled “everyone get down!”
Everyone dropped instantly, covering patients or their heads. You charged toward the trauma room when strong arms grabbed you, yanking you down and pinning you beneath them.
At first it was panic.
Then it was comfort.
Jack was on top of you, shielding your body with his own, covering every inch he could.
“I’m okay” you whispered “Jack I’m okay”
He nodded, breathing hard, and carefully rolled off you, pulling you both into a shadowed corner.
You grabbed your radio. “Pete, come in.” Nothing. You tried again. “Anyone, come in.” Silence.
The ER was pitch black, the only light came through the ambulance doors.
“Shit, shit, shit” you muttered. You looked over at Jack and said “give me your bulletproof vest”.
“The hell im not! You’re not doing what I think you’re doing”
“Give me the fucking vest, Jack”
He hissed “Over my dead body. Stay down, I’ll take a look”
You shook your head in anger and slowly got up, looking around. He pulled your wrist back down.
His hands warm, rough, familiar.
Please baby don’t leave me. It’s only you that I want. It’s only you that I ever wanted
Everyone fell silent. The only sound left was the steady, eerie beeping of machines. The monitors were still running and outlets worked. Everything had power — except the lights.
Was someone fucking with you?
You lifted the radio again. This time, Pete’s voice crackled through. “Stay down. Possible shooter. Over.”
You ducked back down, heart hammering, then started crawling low across the floor, moving out of the corner. You closed your eyes for a second, steadying your breath before shouting loud enough for the whole ER to hear “I need everyone to remain calm, regardless of what happens next. You protect yourself first, then others. Got it?”
No one answered.
You said again, louder this time “got it?”
Everyone replied at once.
Time passed by, then cutting through the silence was a the sound of a flatline. The cruelty of the timing hit you hard. In the pitch black, with a possible shooter still out there, someone was slipping away and no one could move to help.
You lifted the radio again. “Pete, come in.” No answer.
But after a few seconds, Martin’s voice crackled through. “Patchy… we’re good out here. Trying to locate contact. You guys good in there? Over.”
“Marty we’re okay. Uh… be careful out there. Over” your voice shook, and you didn’t hold back tears. Not when you now had two teams to take care of.
“Patchy?” Langdon asked quietly.
“Patches, scars, whatever they did to put this face back together” you said quietly.
He whispered back “I like it”
“Me too” you answered.
You heard footsteps and you peeked outside the room, Jack next to you, to find a shadow walking down the corridor.
“Shit someone’s coming. Move, move” Jack said as he pushed you towards the back of the room. He quickly took his vest off and put it over you.
He leaned in closer and you felt his warm breath on your face “if they come in here, you crawl through the back door, got it?”
You nodded.
You sat against the wall, knees up to your chest, and Jack now sat in front of you.
I will give you my life, every minute, every second, every hour, if it means I get to see you happy again.
The lights turned on all of a sudden, and the shadow was a SWAT team member.
Everyone sighed in relief at the sight and you felt tension break. But you didn’t and neither did Jack.
Something was wrong. You didn’t know him. You didn’t know everyone, but him; he didn’t look familiar.
The way he had tied his laces wasn’t military-like. His posture… the way he held his rifle. It wasn’t someone who said loud and clear: I work for SWAT.
You quickly got up and walked over to him and said “thank you”.
He replied quitely “anytime”.
You flashed the tactical signals for freeze and enemy. He nodded like he understood and kept walking.
Jack saw the interaction and fear spread across his face.
You had an active shooter, in disguise, in your very own ER.
You backed away slowly and radioed Pete, praying he’d pick up “Code Contact, code contact. I repeat, code contact. Over”
Pete answered back instantly “Did you just say code contact? Over”
“Code contact in ER floors, dressed in SWAT. Over”
You watched the so-called SWAT officer pace around the floor, looking at everyone. You took small footsteps towards him, mind ticking, think, think, think.
You saw Jack wanting to make a move but you put your hand out and urged him to move back. The shooter turned around and faced the two of you.
“What are you two looking at?” He snapped.
“Nothing, officer. It’s been a long day” Jack responded quickly.
All eyes were on the three of you. Behind the shooter, real SWAT was quietly moving in through the ambulance doors.
Pete signalled for you to freeze.
You said “Hey officer, can you uh… talk to one our patients please? We think he’s one of the shooters”
“Yeah sure”
“Follow me” you calmly said. You gestured at Jack in tactical sign: gather, evacuate, door.
His lips dropped in defeat as he nodded.
“There he is” you said “so, our officer here would like to speak with you. Ask you some more questions. If he thinks you’re innocent, we can let you go”
You said, giving the officer a small forced smile. The shooter didn’t seem to notice the eerie silence that had fallen over the ER — no one moving, no one speaking, injured patients and staff alike on the floor.
“Uh sure, whatever gets me out of here” the patient replied.
You nodded and walked calmly out of the door and as you did, SWAT stormed in.
Before you could even react, strong arms grabbed your waist and your feet left the ground. Pete had thrown you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and was running you out of the ER.
“I don’t abandon my team, Pete” you said quietly as he sat you on the ground. Not a snap, not a moment of anger. Those days were behind you.
Pete was patient, and kind, and loving. He opened the door of the armored truck and motioned for you to get in.
“Okay baby” you whsipered.
He cupped your face with his hand and leaned in “I love you, and I will never tell you what you can or can’t do. But I can’t have you anywhere near a shooter okay? If I get the chance to protect you then that’s exactly what I’ll do”
He pulled you into a long, deep kiss.
“Pete” you said “if we get out of here—“
“I’ll fucking marry you” he cut in “if we get out of here in one piece, you’re mine for the rest of my long life”
“I love you too baby” you leaned in for another kiss.
“I need to get back in there. By the way you look so good look in red” he smirked “but I prefer you naked”
He winked as he shut the door and rushed back inside.
Someone tell me what you’re doing, please. My face is burning. Someone say something.
You traced your fingers down your scars, smiling to yourself as you thought of Pete. Butterflies danced in your chest as you lost track of time.
Everything hurts. Please let me go.
We cant do that, you know we can’t. You can do this
I don’t want to be here just let me go, let me go, let me g…
You spotted Pete through the glass doors, walking straight toward you.
“That was quick thinking” he said as he opened the truck door “and I’m proud to say that my girlfriend was the one who caught it”
You smiled “Actually…it’s fiancée?”
He grinned and leaned in, taking his helmet off. “Oh yeah? That sounds so damn good”
He paused then whispered “Shit I need a ring”
You tipped your head back and laughed “no baby we don’t need a ring. I just need you”
You grabbed the front of his vest and pulled him in, kissing him hard — like the world might end any second and this could be the last time.
“Ummm as much as I love this” he mumbled against your lips “I don’t know if I can stop and we can’t have sex in the middle of a crisis”
“We have an on-call room?” You whispered as you laughed.
“Oh you’re gonna wanna be somewhere very private when I take these scrubs off, trust me”
You squealed at his words as he helped you get out of the car.
“Right I best go back in, are you gonna carry me in this time?”
“No, the floors all yours” he watched you walk away, leaning against the truck. “Hey babe?”
You stopped and turned around.
“Tell him how you feel” he said softly “he deserves to know”
You told Pete everything — no secrets and no lies, and no chances for rumours to spread.
“Are you sure?”
“You’re mine forever and I know I’m never going to lose you. But he did, so tell him”
You signed I love you and walked back in.
How long has she been like this for?
Hours maybe.
Did she say anything?
She said she doesn’t remember what happened.
Is her memory intact?
No, she didn’t recognise some people initially but it’s slowly coming back.
Call psych.
Will do.
You brushed against the shooter, who had been handcuffed, as you walked back in, holding your head high. You checked in on everyone, announced multiple deaths for lives that were lost when nothing could be done. Everyone was covered in blood, tired, and exhausted. You asked everyone to gather around the hub.
“Casualties are starting to slow down” you said and saw Pete walk in.
He added “Everything’s now under control”.
You smiled and nodded. “People will now take turns to take breaks. Shower, freshen up and eat something”
“We don’t need to take a break” someone said and you didn’t bother to look at who it was.
“If I say you need to take a break then…” you put your hands in your pocket “… you will take a break. We have hours left of this shift, and once all casualties have been attended to, these doors will open back up to other patients.”
You glanced at all of them “now would you like to be hungry, angry, covered in blood and tired when you greet them?”
No one answered
How long has she been quiet for?
Weeks.
She only communicates by gestures.
Is she in pain?
She hasn’t said so.
Maybe sign language might help, I’ll give one of our volunteers a call.
“I thought so” you continued “You have your teams so you will work it out between all of you. Any questions?”
“What happened to your face?”
You heard ohs and whispers then heads turned. It was a young patient sitting on a bed in the corridor, staring straight at you.
Where does it hurt?
You tapped on your heart.
Anywhere else?
You shook your head.
Do you want me to teach you sign language?
You nodded.
Will you ever tell me why you don’t speak?
“I got my heartbroken then rode a motorcycle with no helmet on” you said softly “looks like we both have cool ass scars, kid”
He smiled and nodded.
You felt your eyes start to well up. Not because of the patient’s question — no. It was everything else. You’d been strong for too long today, holding the weight of it all on your shoulders, and now a small, exhausted part of you regretted ever coming back here. You turned away from the group before anyone could see your face crack. Without a word, you charged down the hall toward the break room, desperate to get away from all of them.
My name is (he signed) P E T E. You can spell yours this way: ….
You ran your hands under cold water, wanting to snap out of whatever you were feeling.
Overwhelmed. Tired. Exhausted. In love. Happy.
Today certainly didn’t go as you planned it. You didn’t plan to announce that many deaths and you certainly didn’t plan to spend the whole day with Jack.
Lastly, you didn’t expect to feel this many emotions, this late into the shift.
Jack walked in, freezing as he saw you: red eyes and shaky hands.
It was like a magnet was pulling you towards him — all you wanted was to tell him that everything will be okay. But nothing was and nothing ever will be okay between the two of you.
The very same friend that you laughed and cried with.
The same friend that you so deeply loved.
The same friend who believed everyone but not you.
You said “are you going to stand there and stare at me?”
Your glossy eyes were now matching his.
“I’m proud of you” he whispered “of the woman you have become”.
“You should have been proud of me from day one, Jack”
“That’s not what I meant”
“But it’s how you worded it. Funny isn’t it? How words can be twisted” you said quietly as you leaned against the counter.
He nodded, jaw tensing, wrinkles spread across his sweaty forehead.
Jack, your broken Jack, was crying. But the broken version of you couldn’t comfort him anymore.
You let out a small, broken sob as you brushed past him, head pushed down until you ran through the ambulance doors.
“Hey, hey baby what happened” Pete was now by your side, taking you in for a hug.
“I just needed a hug” you said “that’s all”
“Do I need to beat someone’s ass?” Martin asked.
You pulled back, looking at the squad.
“Easy boys” you smiled “but the damage is already done”
“Hey Patchy, you did great in there” someone said.
You whispered “thank you”.
Pete took his hand in yours and walked away from the eyes of the squad.
“Are you anxious? Sad? Scared? Talk to me baby”
“Oh I’m on a very high dose of Lexapro so it’s gonna take a lot more than that to upset me” you joked.
I don’t want to feel anything anymore
That is a beautiful voice I’m hearing for the first time and I am privileged you’re trusting me with it
I don’t know what I want
I can help you, if you let me
“Hey Pete. When you saw my scars…what did you think of them?”
“When I first saw you, baby, I thought God damn, i’m allowed to walk on the same ground as that beautiful woman?”
You laughed. “That’s definitely not true. I was a mess”
“No, my love, you weren’t. There was a small sparkle in your eyes. One that told me you wanted to keep going”
“Is that why you stayed?”
“I thought to myself she’s mysterious… and cool, and one day, I will marry her”
You giggled and felt your face flush “What made you think that?”
“It was the way you went from complete silence to commanding any room you walked into. The way you spoke to everyone like equals. The way you supported them without needing anything back.” He brushed his thumb across your hand “I’ve seen you with my squad — they crumble under your authority.”
“You make it sound like I work for SWAT”
“You don’t, but if you were to walk up to them right this second and command them, not one would protest or bat an eye”
I was thinking today we can leave the hospital for a bit?
You signed: where?
We can grab some food, eat in my truck and make up stories about people?
You signed: okay.
What do you want to eat?
You signed: everything.
“I best get back. Thank you for… being you”
“And thank you for making me the happiest guy in the world” he leaned down and kissed your forehead.
You walked back and the team was now gathered all around the hub, with Gloria addressing them all.
“… and thank you to everyone who got us through it. You should all be proud of yourselves”
The room filled with applause. You joined in, clapping for them. They had earned it.
“And thank you to Patchy” Langdon turned around and faced you “for saving the day”
“That’s not on me Frank. That’s on everyone else who worked on patients”
“Patchy?” Javadi asked, confused.
You pointed at your face.
She muttered under her breath “that’s mean” and McKay gentle nudged her.
You gave them all a genuine smile and said “thank you, to everyone who stayed and pulled a double shift. To everyone who risked their lives to be here. And to SWAT who kept us safe”
“And to you” jack added quitely “for spotting the shooter”
Your eyes met his first then over to Pete who signed tell him everything.
“I am only covering one shift here and it is ending soon. It’s been a pleasure, working with you all one more time. I wish you all the best” you smiled and looked around.
“We’re sorry” Santos said “about everything”
Gloria tried to cut in “I don’t think we should —“
“No, no, we should” she said “we all were in the wrong and we lost her because of what we did”
You signed: Your eyes are beautiful, Pete
Are you flirting with me?
You signed: of course I am
It’s about damn time sweetheart
“I’ve not come back here for an apology, guys. I’ve moved on, so should all of you”
Sad faces looked back at you across the ER.
“It was all my fault” Jack said quietly and head snapped in his direction “I should’ve been the one to be pushed out. Not you. If anyone’s to blame and people to hate, it’s me. My fuck up, my mistake”
You felt your breath catch in your throat. Your eyes widened, along with everyone else’s.
“Dr Abbot may I speak with you?”
He nodded and gestured towards the door.
You both walked through triage and stepped outside, standing by the road.
Who was screaming? Why are they screaming? My face hurts. What happened? I can taste something bitter. Why can’t I speak? Who’s that man? Why is he looking at me like that?
“Hey Jack, I don’t know if I am ready to forgive you yet. I don’t know if I ever will” You said, staring at the traffic.
Do I know him? His eyes look familiar. He has kind eyes.
“There is a small broken piece of my heart that belongs to you. That piece is dark and miserable but it is yours and forever will be.”
Why is he crying? Does he know me?
“I hope you find peace, just like I did. I hope that you’ve learnt from your mistakes”
I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry
Jack get out you’re stressing her out
I’m sorry, please forgive me
“People told me after my accident, to go find my own village. And I did. I’m somehow surrounded by so much testosterone and uniform, but it’s mine”
What do you think of the two old couples over there?
You signed: future.
I think so too.
“The single version of me would be going crazy over this. But the engaged version of me is finally on the right path to happiness”
Hey Pete? Tell me more abut SWAT.
Why do you think you’ll join us?
Hah. Never. The only man in uniform I need is right here.
“Please don’t look at my face and remember your mistakes. Think of my old face. The face of your friend who loved you and supported you.”
Jack’s cheeks were covered in tears and he fidgeted with hands — a soothing motion he did regularly when he was nervous or sad.
“In another life, Jack, we are friends. Ones who are not broken. Ones who are loyal to each other. Ones who are friends and stay that way forever.”
Get out of my room and I never ever want to see you again!
Please let me apologise.
Get out Jack!
You gave his arm a squeeze before walking inside, back turned to the scene of your accident, back turned to the person you once loved so much, back turned to your past.
“Good bye Jack”
--
Notes: i’m not going to lie I really wanted to end this story like this:
you opened your eyes and you were back on the ground outside PTMC and it was all a beautiful nightmare.
But I thought that would DESTROY people and i will end up with so many haters so... it was all real, she’s very happy and loved.
I listened to Raye - Click Clack Symphony as inspiration.
--
Who said what - if anyone's interested!
Crashing, give epi - Robby
Jack get out! - Dana
No, no, no, stay with me - Jack
Mohan get out. Every single fucker who’s not working on her needs to get out! - Parker
This is all your fault Jack - Lena
Starting compressions! One, two, three, four…. - King
I did this Robby, I did this! - Jack
Whitaker can you intubate any faster! - Parker
Perlah can you uh… I need more o-neg. Stat. - Shen
Is sh—she dead? Robby is she dead! - Jack
If she dies, I die - Jack
I love you, i will always do. But i will never forgive myself. If you live, please don’t ever forgive me - Jack
We failed her, every single one of us failed her! - Dana
Childish. Foolish. All of you! You did this! - Garcia
Please baby don’t leave me. It’s only you that I want. It’s only you that I ever wanted - Jack
I will give you my life, every minute, every second, every hour, if it means I get to see you happy again - Jack
We cant do that, you know we can’t. You can do this. - Langdon
How long has she been like this for? - unknown nurse 1
Hours maybe - unknown nurse 2
How long has she been quiet for? - unkown nurse 3
Weeks - unknown nurse 4
Where does it hurt? - Pete
That is a beautiful voice I’m hearing for the first time and I am privilaged you’re trusting me with it. - pete
I was thinking today we can leave the hospital for a bit? - Pete
What do you think of the two old couples over there? - Pete
frank langdon x fem!reader, jack abbot x fem!reader
summary: based on this request from @biggityboppingboob, i just found out i got into my top psych doctoral program to be a clinical psychologist and id love a fic of jack abbott or frank langdon? (as freaky and nasty as you want) i’m so open to whatever way you want to take it, but id love for the character to be a psychologist that makes an appearance in the ED for whatever reason. (it feels like a reward😛😭) thank you!!!!
content/warnings: inaccurate medical details, inappropriate relationship, unspecified age gap, dirty talk, messy, messy relationships, fingering, oral (f receiving) unprotected sex, drinking, multiple partners but not at the same time, jack is messy, frank is an idiot no use of y/n NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 4k
notes: sorry this was supposed to be written 2 weeks ago but life comes at you but I hope it does it justice it's super late now so I need to sleep. not proof read I apologise
You have a crush on Frank Langdon. You're not the only person in Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre to feel this way. He is really handsome. Probably one of the most handsome doctors in the whole hospital.
The only problem is you've been well and truly friendzoned. You never saw it as a problem...until you were watching the Penguins game in his cramped bachelor pad and you realised how blue is eyes were.
Fuck...
Langdon had always been kind to you. Despite his prickly exterior, he was a sweetheart. And maybe you'd have a crush on him since you were called down to the ED on your first week in PTMC...
"We need to call Psych down here!" Langdon says with a sigh.
He truly just wants to get this patient treated and streeted, but that isn't going to happen. He's going to have to wait around all day for a consult and Robby is probably gonna be on his ass. He's been on him ever since he came back a couple of months ago. Frank loves the Pitt, he loves working in the Emergency Room, he wants to specialise in Emergency Medicine. But recently, Robby's attitude had him browsing other options late at night.
He could go into a private hospital? Pick one of the many other EDs across the city. But God, he had worked so hard to be here and he's not ready to lose it.
He gives Al-Hashimi a rundown of his case. An agitated young man who appears to be experiencing an extreme bipolar episode. But he needs to wait on Psych. Al-Hashimi smiles at him, placing a soft hand on his bicep to reassure him before heading off across the ED.
Langdon spends the next three-quarters of an hour checking in with patients and charting. It is a surprisingly slow day. Slow enough, his head pops up when he hears the elevator open.
"Whose that?" he asks Dana as he watches you walk through the harsh lights of the Pitt.
"Think she's a new psych doctor," is all the charge nurse responds, examining the iPad in front of her.
She finally looks up at Langdon, "Close your mouth, you're catching flies, kid!"
She smiles to herself, knowing why he's gone all moon-eyed. Dana is always in Langdon's corner, that's her boy! And if he wants to get back on the horse now the ink on his divorce papers has dried, why not? She never much cared for Abby anyway!
"Dr Langdon?" you say with a huge smile.
You push your hand out and introduce yourself.
"From psych," you rush to add.
Langdon's hand grips yours, and you can feel your cheeks turn red. You've heard other women in your department gush about Frank Langdon, the prince of the ER, but you've never seen him before. And the gossip doesn't do him justice. His grip is just the right amount of firm.
"You're new," he says, still holding onto your hand.
"Oh yea! New intern, I've been here for a month. But this is the first time I've been called down here. I mean, it is my turn to do the call downs so..." you trail off. "You don't care!"
Langdon chuckles and finally lets go of your hand.
"Oh, I do, don't worry. Will I fill you in on our patient?" he suggests, walking you over to his room.
You blush, ducking your head. Thank God you chose one of your cuter blouses today. Unlike most of the other departments, psych usually wore their own clothes. You had to be professional, of course, but you hoped Langdon was impressed with your choice.
The patient consultation actually goes well. You're relieved, it's your first time in the Emergency Department and you didn't know how emergency this case would be.
"We're gonna get you moved up to a bed upstairs, Mr Hathaway," you promise, patting the man's arm for good measure.
He's certainly much calmer than Langdon had warned you of. So you don't think as you leave your hand on his arm before turning to look out the door. It's a rookie error because Mr Hathaway has grabbed your arm and is yelling profanities now.
Langdon had stepped out to chart. But as soon as he hears the yelling from the room he just left the pretty new psych doc in, he runs. He untangles you from the patient as Perlah and Ahmad come in. A quick sedative calms him down, but you're a bit shaken. And rightfully so.
"You good?" Langdon asks you.
"Um, uh, yea! Yea, sorry I...I looked away for a second. He seemed fine. But I just...It was my fault," you grumble, pressing the palm of your hand to your forehead.
"Hey, why don't I make you a tea to settle your nerves?" he suggests.
"I should head back upstairs," you argue.
Langdon gives you a boyish smile and shakes his head, "Doctor's orders. C'mon."
You smile then and let him lead you to the breakroom.
"Who's that?" Robby asks Dana, watching his former protege and a smaller woman walk through the ED.
"New psych doctor. Think there was an altercation with the patient," she responds with a sigh which makes Robby rub his hands over his face.
"Great. Well, he can write that up!" he grumbles as he walks away.
Langdon hands you a cup of tea as you settle in the breakroom. You really should get back upstairs, but you want to be around him for a bit longer! And who could blame you?
"So you from Pittsburgh?" he asks as he makes himself a coffee.
"Me? No!" you confess. "But PTMC is such a good hospital, I'm really happy this was my match. You're not from Pittsburgh, not with that accent."
Langdon ducks his head, a few strands of his hair falling in front of his eyes.
"No I'm-" he begins before the door flies open and Dana is alerting him to an incoming trauma.
He nods before looking back at you.
"Maybe we can continue this another time?" he suggests before rushing out.
You don't really thinking much of his suggestion. He was just being nice. So you're surprised when you meet Frank Langdon walking towards the nurses' station on the psych ward. He's changed out of his scrubs and fuck he looks even better now. How is that possible?
"Dr Langdon!" you say, jumping up from your station. "Is everything okay? Is something wrong in the ED?"
He shakes his head, "Um, no. I just clocked out. But I did mean what I said earlier about continuing our conversation. Do you wanna grab a drink after work?"
You can feel your cheeks turn pink but you nod immediately.
"Yes! Yes! Of course. I just need to finish this patient's chart, but give me like 10? I can meet you in the parking lot?" you suggest.
And since that night, Frank Langdon has been your best friend. And has no idea that you are desperate for more.
Well, maybe not as clueless as you think when he asks you to watch a Penguins game...again. It's your tradition at this point. He jokes that you're their good luck charm.
"Sure, I can bring that weird soda you like," you tell him as you walk towards the elevator after the consult.
"Oh, um, no. Actually, I have tickets," he tells you.
"To the game? To watch it in person?" you ask, cocking your head to the side. And he just nods. "Frank! That must have cost a fortune. Lemme send you money for-"
He cuts you off, "My treat. You're their good luck charm, after all."
That's how you find yourself fixing your hair in the mirror for the millionth time before you hear a knock at your door. Is he early? You check your phone. Nope, you've just spent way too much time stressing over your appearance.
It's not as if Frank Langdon hasn't seen you day after day stressed in work. But this is different. This is a date. Neither of you says it. But it is. He drives to the rink and the chatter is easy, light. But there's a tension in the air that wasn't there before. Something has shifted.
You're glad that you get to spend the evening focusing on the ice rather than on the man beside you. The Penguins are playing like shit.
"So much for me being a lucky charm," you tease him as the third period begins.
He just gives you an easy smirk and nudges your hip with his.
"Don't count yourself out," he tells you as he watches the puck drop.
And you watch as they hit goal after goal into the net until their neck and neck. You're gripping Langdon's arm as the clock is counting down, there are only seconds left and suddenly the puck is in the crease, suddenly there is a cheer from the crowd and you realise that they've just scored the winning goal.
You don't know how you've gone from watching Sidney Crosby skate around that ice to looking up at Frank Langdon's beautiful blue eyes. You certainly don't know how your lips are pressed against his. One hand is tangled in your hair, the other is pressed into your lower back. And you don't want to stop kissing him. But you have to, because you can't breathe.
The kiss has changed the way Langdon is looking at you. Any plans for going to a bar have gone out the window now. He's the dragging you back to his car, one thing in both of your minds. You've been unknowingly dancing around this inevitability for months. Once you get into the car, you can't help but pull him in for another kiss. This one is even better. (You're gonna be stuck in traffic anyway, you might as well enjoy yourself a bit.) His hands roam your body, as much as they can when you're still in semi-public.
It feels like eons before you are on the highway back to Langdon's apartment. You're a giggling mess as he presses you up against the wall in the elevator, his tongue greedily exploring your mouth. You can feel the bulge in his jeans as his thick body cages you in.
If you weren't certain about how you ended up kissing him in the stadium, you have no clue how you get into his apartment. But you're making out on his bed now. Your denim jacket discarded in the hallway, his Carhartt jacket long gone now. His hands snake up your jersey, splaying over your stomach as if he worried to touch anywhere else.
"We don't gotta do anything else," you whisper as you pull away to get some air. "I haven't made out in so long."
Langdon pauses for a second and shakes his head.
"Oh, baby, I really wanna do more," he growls, nipping at your collarbone. "I just...well I haven't since..."
Since his divorce.
"I haven't in a long time either," you promise as he pull his jersey off his head. Your hands trail over his chest and down his stomach. "But I really wanna with you."
He grins and takes that as all the permission he needs to pull your jeans off and kissing up your thighs.
"Fuck, I've been dreaming about this for so long," he groans against your still clothed pussy. "Way too long."
You just whimper under him. Fuck...he hasn't even touched you, not properly and you're already a mess. All the evidence of how turned on you are is on display as he pulls your panties down your legs.
"Fuck, baby, you're soaked," he growls before press a kiss to your mound. "Can I taste?"
Your brain has officially turned off and all you can do is nod your head. That's all Langdon needs before he lips trail down to your pussy. He peppers you with kisses, not quite touching the spots that you need, not quite getting the friction you crave. His eyes flick up to yours as you let out an annoyed little noise.
Finally, his tongue presses against your folds and you gasp out in pleasure. And Langdon is nothing if not diligent. He focuses on your clit, making obscene noises as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he pulls an orgasm from you.
"Oh fuck, Frank!" you scream as you cum, and when he pulls away, you know it's not the last time you'll be doing that tonight.
You pounce on him, hands going to undo his pants and push his boxers off. You need him. You're so desperate for him, you don't care. He catches your lips once again in a deep kiss. You groan at the taste of yourself. He only pulls away to take your jersey off and then unclips your bra in record time.
You gasp out as his lips immediately find your nipple. You thought he'd want to fuck you now. But he's taking his time with you. He presses you back down on the bed, his lips never leaving your tits. His hand slids between your legs, pressing two fingers easily inside you. Your head falls back against his pillows as you moan out his name over and over, with each thrust of his fingers. He's playing with you and you don't object. Your back arches off the bed as his thumb brushes over your clit. His fingers moving in and out of you in time with his mouth on your tits. You gasp out as a second orgasm washes over you.
Then and only then does Frank seem satisified with the fucked out state you're in to start pumping his thick cock. It's leaking with pre-cum and you reach out to touch him. But he swats your hand away.
"'S'okay, baby," he breathes as he positions himself over you.
He sinks into you with one slow thrust and you cry out in pure pleasure. Despite working you over for the better part of an hour, there is still a slight burn when he presses into you. Your legs immediately hook around his back. He grips your thigh; his other hand is pressed into the mattress next to your head.
He lets out soft grunts as he moves in and out of you with long thrusts. And you feel like you're seeing stars...it might be because you've been so overstimulated by him. But maybe it's because you're right where you're meant to be. Your moans match his, and the room is filled with the sound of pleasure.
"Baby, 'm not gonna last," he breathes, his hair, that damn hair, falling into his eyes.
You nod your head, feeling your third orgasm of the night starting to build. His thrusts grow faster, sloppier and just the idea of him cumming because of you, have you cumming first.
"Fuck!" he hisses as he follows you over the edge.
He collapses against you, both of you trying to catch your breath and rearrange your thoughts. Finally, he pulls out of you and unsteadily leaves to get a wet cloth to clean you up. You don't speak, letting him clean you in silence. You let him climb into bed beside you and you both fall asleep within seconds.
"And then he told you that he wanted to try to work things out with his ex-wife?" your friend asks at the bar.
You groan and nod your head.
Yes, when you woke up the next morning after sleeping with Dr Frank Langdon, he was nowhere to be found. You finally find him sitting on the balcony.
"Abby text," he tells you.
You cock your head to the side. You're wearing one of his shirts and nothing else as he tells you that she feels like they should try to reconcile for their kids' sakes.
"Penny is so small," he says...as if that makes everything okay.
You look at your friend as you realise your glass is empty. Fuck, you need to fix that.
"It's not fair that he literally gave me the best orgasms of my life and then told me that he wanted to get back with Abby!" you cry out.
You have no idea that another one of your co-workers, Jack Abbot, is in the corner of the bar.
Jack usually works nights. You've run into him a few times and he's always been so kind to you. After Langdon he has definitely been your favourite ED doctor to deal with. Well, now Langdon isn't an option to work with. You've been sending your colleagues down when you know he's on shift. You refuse to bump into him.
Hell, you can't even watch a Penguins game anymore. Asshole ruined that too!
You also have no idea that Jack has been harbouring some wicked fantasies about the new psyche doctor. He hasn't even mentioned it to his therapist, it's too twisted. But fuck, he wonders what you'd sound like crying out his name instead of Langdon's.
Jack had never been jealous of the younger man, not until he noticed how close you two were. How you would, more often than not, leave together. How you would sometimes come in together. No one ever said that you and Langdon were an item, but Jack presumed. He just guessed you didn't want to bother with HR bullshit. But hearing you share (with the entire bar) that Langdon had fucked up, he couldn't help the smirk that covered his face.
"Dr Abbot!" you greet as he practically meets you at the elevator doors. He's called you down for a consult. "You're eager!"
You laugh at the last statement, but Jack isn't laughing. He looks like a man possessed.
"Sorry, it's actually an issue up the eighth floor," he tells you as he ushers you back into the elevator.
"Oh?" you say in confusion. "Should we call for some help?"
Jack gives you a half smirk and shakes his head, "Nah, kid. Just me and you should do."
"How was your weekend?" you ask him, making the same boring small talk you usually do.
"Oh great. I was out at that new bar a few blocks over," he tells you, meeting your eyes.
You don't know why his gaze makes you blush, but it does. And you duck your face to break eye contact.
"I heard some interesting gossip, actually," he says as the elevator doors open and he leads you down the hallway. "I overheard a young doctor say that one of the ED doctors had given her the best orgasms of her life."
You stop dead in your tracks. You realise, firstly, he's brought you to the abandoned wing of the hospital and, secondly, he overheard you in the bar...talking about Langdon.
"Dr Abbot, I really apologise you heard that. I had no idea you were there but also I just-"
He cuts you off with a hard kiss. You gasp against his lips. You certainly weren't expecting this. But your back is suddenly against the wall and Jack Abbot's tongue is pressing into your mouth. His hands drag up from your hips straight to your breasts. He gives them a squeeze before he rips your blouse open. Buttons scatter over the tiles.
"Whoops," he says before tugging your bra down and leaving hickey after hickey on your tits.
He bites and nips at your nipples. Where Langdon is sweet, Abbot is rough. He takes. He manages to manoeuvre you from the wall in the hallway into one of the abandoned rooms. There is a bed, but that doesn't seem to interest Jack too much. He kisses you hard again, nipping at your bottom lip. You moan out trying to pull him closer, but his rough hands are on your hips and he pushes you down on the bed. You've never been so happy that you wore a skirt that day. Your shoes fall off your feet as he pushes your skirt up around your waist and all put rips your panties off you.
"So wet for me, babygirl," he growls as he kneels in front of you.
He grabs your thighs and drags you down the bed, until your ass is hanging off the edge. You gasp as he dives into your folds and eats you out like a man starved. The noises he's making are sinful and the hand that isn't supporting your weight snakes up your body to pluck at your nipple. It doesn't take long before you're cumming, screaming his name. Your voice echoes around the halls but you can't seem to care. It's all too good.
He gives you a cocky smirk as he stands. He grips your hips once more and flips you onto your stomach. Your feet find the floor just in time to hear the rustle of his scrub bottoms. He's pressing into you without warning and you gasp out in pure pleasure.
His hand goes to your hair to pull your face up from the mattress.
"Wanna hear you, babygirl," he growls as he starts fucking you with piston-like speed.
Your hands grapple with the sheets as he fucks you hard and fast. You're not sure you'll be able to walk afterwards.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Jack! My pussy!" you gasp out, as your brain begins to short-circuit.
"Who's pussy?" he growls, slamming into you. "Who owns this pussy?"
"Fuck!" you scream. "You. You own my pussy."
"Good girl. That pussy belongs to me. You belong to me. And now that little pussy is gonna cum on my cock," he growls in your eye.
And you can't deny him. Your go cross-eyed as your orgasm crashes into you. Your vision goes white at the intensity of it. It's so good, you barely feel Abbot fill you up. He releases rope after rope of cum inside you.
"Now who's given you the best orgasm of your life?" he growls in your ear before pulling out of you.
You take a second to gather yourself.
"I can't go back down like this," you remind him.
He's ripped your blouse. He gives you a cocky grin (and he deserves it) before he pulls his scrub top off and hands it to you. You take off your blouse and put it on. It smells like him and it goes straight to your core. Fuck you need to control yourself.
"Where are my panties?" you ask as you look around the room.
Jack tuts and shakes his head, "They belong to me, babygirl."
He pulls you up for another kiss.
"Langdon's a fuckin' idiot to let you slip through his fingers," he breathes, gripping your ass in his rough hand.
You wonder about a round two, but you both know you need to get back downstairs. You need to get a proper pair of scrubs now and you need to make up a good excuse.
"So was this a one time thing?" you ask as you ride the elevator with Abbot.
He cocks his head to you and smirks, "Oh not a chance. I meant it when I said you belong to me."
The elevator doors open and Frank Langdon is standing in front of you. You jump away from Abbot, who has gotten a lot closer than you remember. Despite trying to look presentable, you look thoroughly fucked. And there's no hiding, especially from Langdon, what has just happened.
You scurry out of the elevator towards a fake patient. Jack just sizes up Frank.
"Hope Abby's well," he says as he claps him on the shoulder and follows after you.
a/n: thanks for reading! sorry for disappearing for a while! I hope you enjoyed!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming