#needdat

he listens while you rant about your evil landlord, he comes over to your place to kill spiders for you, and he even rocks you in his lap in the break room when you get a little sleepy. you try not to notice how the old man is hardening beneath you, and he doesn't acknowledge how your breath hitches when his hands tighten on your hips.

it's a slow night in the ER, and you're settled down to nap in an empty room when jack walks in, it's like he was following your scent. he looks around, a sly grin growing on his face. he's making sure the room's good and empty before he gets his hands on you.

"how's my sweetest little nightcrawler doin' tonight, hmm?" he asks as his strong arms wrap around you. he presses his chest against your back, nose buried in the nape of your neck where your scent is strongest.

and you're squirming and wriggling in his arms because you're sooo turned on... he kisses your forehead and murmurs how you're his "favourite little daughter" and "dad's best girl". craning his neck to nibble at your jaw, his grey stubble brushing against your smooth skin. his thick hands work their way up your scrub top, massaging slowly at your sides.

it's only when he's certain that he's teased you enough to make your brain go all fuzzy that he pulls away. "yeah, dad's got you all stupid now, huh? you're no use to your patients in this state..." he tuts, heading for the door.

Jack didn't need an invite though. After that fateful night where you had been caught, an unspoken invitation was thrown his way. You'd think after a heavy make out and him palming your wet panties, it wouldn't be that awkward between the two of you anymore.

It was definitely not that awkward.

When a private moment fell over the two of you in a trauma room, you both lingered longer than you should have. Leaning against a gurney, standing shoulder to shoulder. Getting into useless small talk. Talking about patients, the day, betting on how fast Shen would have to pee after drinking a whole Dunkin cup. 

Subtle brushes against hands and arms. He held the small of your back as he urged you to lean over a patient. Holding your shoulder with a small stroke of his thump while you present vitals.

There were  brief moments where he leaned down to whisper to you, telling you how perfect you looked today. Slid little notes to you at the hub, saying he needs to see you at the bar again. I want to see you in more action. 

This was at work, the ER, you didn’t hold the same bold composure as you did at the bar. Your face always burns hot with any moment with him. Wanting to pass out from how forward he was with you. 

That's not to say you weren’t reciprocating in your own ways. Sneaking him risqué pictures from the bar. Low cut tops, low waist line on whatever bottoms you wore. Exposed flesh all for his eyes to relish in. Cheeky text captions: ‘Missing you tn’ ‘Seat is always open for you’

You both wanted more, to give in further than you were able last time. He daydreamt about how your hips circled to the rhythm of any song that played. Running your hands through your hair as you felt the music within you. It kept him up at night, he hadn’t had wet dreams since he was in college. What the fuck were you doing to him. 

It was maddening, the crushes and pining were no secret. Someone just needed to act on it. 

You’d ask him if you’ll see him again soon, hinting to The Bottom Shelf. He’d tell you soon, but he was dedicated to his job. Always got swept up when Robby called him in to assist on days. Stayed longer for patients that needed the most attention. The days he did end up being free, those were the days you opted to work nights, or give yourself much needed self-care night.

The right time would have to appear. 

The room is damp, sweaty, almost musty. Rising heat from the outside made its way inside the bar through the masses of body heat in large crowds. Bodies bumping and colliding, very loud chatter and singing. The DJ was ruthless today with his playlist, watching guard for the same girls that would harass him to play Kpop. 

Slightly festive decorations adorned undisturbed surfaces. Red white n blue bras hung intentionally. Pathetic streamers long torn down with the wild crowd, some claiming it as an accessory. The fourth of July weekend always brought out the trashiest of people. Wanting to get hammered in the spirit of America.

Time is creeping into the peak of the shift. 12AM, the real witching hour. Drinks constantly poured, spilled, thrown, in places they really shouldn't have been. You have been here long enough to be ready to leave already. You were holding out hope that Jack would come again, like he had promised. Or maybe it was another case of bad timing.

"Hey, we need something a little extra tonight, we got stiffed this past week and rent is due." owner of The Bottom Shelf, Donna, prompted. She had been running this skeezy bar for years, would slit throats to keep it above water. You looked out into the crowd, unsure of how you were going to win over the wallets of everyone choosing to buy cheap liquor. 

Maybe you can convince your colleagues to spend more on the expensive shit. Make an excuse that we need to celebrate something. 

Just like clock work, the huddle of your colleagues walked through large wooden doors. Shen is giddy, excited to see all the commotion he had missed out last time.

Looped fingers to your lips, you whistled to them. Waving in their direction. Knowing smiles waved back, they dispersed into the crowd, knowing they would catch you later down the line.

Like a curtain, Jack was behind the huddle of them. White t-shirt clung to his biceps, familiar black cargo pants on his hips. Fuck this is a sight you will never ever get tired of. He smirked in response to your thrilled expression. You pointed him back to the same spot you had met at the first, the far edge of the bar.

The counter was still sticky and damp, little stains of alcohol and any possible body fluids. As if it was reserved for him, the bar stool was empty, you leaned on the counter in front of the spot.

Jack took in the gorgeous sight of you. Not a day goes by where it's like he's seeing you all over again. Smooth skin of exposed stomach that was growing a thin layer of sweat, legs crossed over one another accentuated the plush of your thighs. He missed seeing you like this, what was he thinking not coming back soon. A week wasn't long, it felt like a century.

If your last outfit sent him into an overload, this one could have made him pass out. Black leather halter vest, with a wide valley revealing your sternum and the inner curves of your bust, held together by buckled straps. Almost matching, back leather shorts that had a corseted tie running up your hips and barely the upper thigh. Exposing the skin of your hips and the subtle flash of blue panties. Still sporting the trusty black cowboy boots.

Clean up on aisle Abbot's pants.

A giddy smile was bitten on to your lips, learning forward to take in the sight of Jack Abbot outside of work scrubs for another time. 

"Hey there stranger"

"Nice to see you again sweetheart, like this." As if he didn't see you for 12 hours yesterday.

That same god damn flutter erupted in your belly. It urged you to press for more, let him take you here right now, in front of all these drunk people. You gripped the edge of the bar, trying to hold in the little whimper that was elicited from his pet names.

"I'm glad you were able to finally come! Do you want a drink? Maybe beer? I don’t know if you’d like our hard stuff, it tastes like piss." moving to reach for whatever he would ask of you.

That need to serve already whipped his attention. 

"A beer would be great, baby." He smiled.

A soft, coming right up, followed with a chilled bottle of beer. The same you had given him last time.

"Have you thought about my offer yet?" He questioned.

"About money? No I really can't. I'm a big girl Jack, I can work for my money all on my own. And after last time I'd think you'd enjoy the type of work I do here." You tease, pointing an accusatory finger at him. So much bolder compared to this morning.

Last time, oh god last time. His neck stiffened as he held in the will to say vile things to you.

Could have done more to that pretty little pussy last time if you weren't on the clock.

I've been rock hard for you all week kitty.

Get it together brother, he thought to himself. Not even 5 minutes into a conversation with you, he already felt his pants tightening. 

A deep chuckle emits from his chest, hands going up in surrender. A sound that was absolutely pussy soaking. "I may or may not be guilty. Can't help it though, have a constant need to help those in need."

"And that's why you're a great doctor, not my sugar daddy."

"Could be if you wanted to though. I don't even need any sex in exchange, I'd pay just to see you in outfits like this all the time." Half lidded eyes grazed up your body as he took a long swig from the bottle.

This was maddening, this type of teasing had been going on for days. With no time to act on it. You've attempted to settle your needs yourself, it wasn't enough. You need him, all of him.

The heat of the room didn't make it any better for either of you. A boiling desire for each other was magnified by the fact that no one made another move. His sweat was pricking at his hairline, yours dripping down the valley between your breasts. Longing gazes followed each other's small movement. You watched as his adams apple dipped in rhythm with a chug. He could notice the way your bust strained against the fabric when you bent forward. 

Pulled out of a lustful trance, a familiar blonde grabs at your upper arm. Daniella, who had so rudely interrupted you and Abbot last time. A bubbling smile, she links her arms with yours. "Come on babe, Donna wants us to shake it. You can have a visit with your doctor after." She sent a knowing wink in Jack's direction. A coy look as he tilted his head. He leaned his elbow, body weight moving with the lean, as he watched you walk towards the middle of the bar. 

As Daniella pulled you away, you turned to Jack, reaching an arm out to wave out to him. He raised his bottle as you got dragged away.

By random chance, Shen, Ellis, Santos and Whitaker reappeared behind him. "Crap we just missed her." Shen whined.

"Don't bother a working girl, she'll be back" Ellis said as she pinched his whining cheek.

You're brought back up to stage the gummy bar counter. Heels of your boots clicking as you walk around above the crowd. Anticipation stirring with a silent roar. Jack and co erupted with whistles to your direction.

Lost in the deep bass of blaring music, your body rolled with the rhythm. Picking up cash from anyone that offered, stuffing in your boots and pockets. Urging people to buy more drinks, picking up cups and making them chug. It's a surprise to your colleagues this was never rehearsed. You just moved with the body and vice of the bar. It's a deep thought in the back of your mind that you enjoyed this kind of attention. It was a dark little thought that you tried to play it up for Jack. Wanting to give him a reason to keep his eyes on you. 

Hips rolling and circling. Flipping your hair around, lip syncing and letting go. There's a brief moment Jack makes eye contact with you. Watching as you dance around for him, captivating. He fantasized pulling you into his room, making you dance around like this for him, just him. Finally able to run his large calloused hands over your skin. Peel away tiny fabric little by little while you grind your heat against his.

"$50 he won't be able to keep it in his pants tonight." Santos whispered to Ellis.

"You're on."

The lasered connection between your gazes was not hidden, the whole group could see it. It was like your needs were connected by a string, cutting it would have brought you both back to Earth.

And you were, dammit Daniella.

"Donna needs us to do something real, like right neow." She pushed, pointing to Donna at the far corner. Donna rolled her hands to motion to move on to more.

God it was too hot to do more than this, you need water.

You rarely had to think on your feet in the bar, usually going with a flow of the night. Your eyes catching a pitcher of water that spills, flooding the counter and soaking a poor girl's skirt.

Thank you universe for this divine sign.

You pick up the megaphone that hung on a supporting pillar sprouted from the bar. Clicking it on and speaking into the microphone.

"Alright freaks, it's really fucking hot in here, I think I need a few friends to help bring down this heat with me and Daniella!" words were followed by a surge of excitement and shouting, like believers at church. Men and women waving their hands, begging to get your attention.

Before you can act, Daniella pulls a separate megaphone to her mouth. A devious look in her eyes as she backed towards Jack and everyone. Please no, you pleaded through your eyes.

"I heard we have some doctors in the house that know a thing or two about making sure we keep cool. Ain't that right babe!"

You wanted to curl away at the possibility of what Daniella might be stirring up to fluster you. You told her too much about the flaring crush you had on Jack. She only begged to help fuel the fire more, but you told her to butt out. She never really said she would.

Against your will, she pulled up Jack, Shen, and Whitaker onto the high bar. You can tell Jack was short circuiting just like you, nowhere for him to run from the possiblities. Shen and Whitaker followed behind him, Dennis looking more mousey than usual, not used to this kind of attention. Shen is an attention whore, he was enjoying it too much.

Daniella motions you to keep going with your idea. Although now you're not so sure you want to anymore. The possibility of scarring Jack Abbot for the rest of his adult life wasn't nonexistent.

"W-Well... What doesn't get people more into the fourth of July spirit than a nice, friendly wet t-shirt contest!" You mused, picking up a pitcher of water.

The crowd bursts into more fits of excitement, raising glasses and jumping in eagerness. The DJ bumped the music louder, setting the perfect mood. Gimme More by Britney Spears, god bless DJ Jackson Wang for setting the mood. 

"Ok freaky people, open up those fucking wallets. You got 5 minutes, buy a pitcher of whatever so we can see who can get more soaked. I know you see this line up ladies, you know they're fine." A bellow of horny women agreed.

"You are not wrong, silver fox, tall n fit, and the cutest mousey eyes you ever did see." Daniella agreed. She grabbed Whitaker by his chin, squeezing cheeks and wiggling his face. "Look at this cutie, I'm paying for his first pitcher."

Within a heartbeat, fistfuls of cash pushed their way towards you. Waving and calling out vulgar nicknames for who they wanted to soak.

"THE HOT UNCLE"

"ASIAN BADDIE"

"THE VICTORIAN GHOST"

Ellis and Santos had long pulled out their phones to record this spectacle that was sure to never happen again. They had both pooled together enough to get all three of the men soaked. Paying extra for beer to be thrown in Whitaker's face.

Other bartenders took the cash and handed you and Daniella pitchers of cold water. Jack turned to look at you, arms having uncrossed. Open up to brace for the impact of water.

"Go easy on me sweetheart." He purred with a crook in his smile.

"Don't plan on it Dr Abbot." Thrusting the pitcher in his direction, the large splash of water collided with his chest. Soaking through the white fabric immediately. Sticking to his chest, showing the imprint of his tits, pectorals. A hint of his firm body.

You were sure your panties matched his shirt at this point.

The pitchers never ending, having to double fist as you threw water on Jack. It was uncomfortable in the beginning, being wet in general is. But he was egged on by your thirsty looks. Taking impure looks at his build. With each pitcher of water you gave to him, it was like his white t-shirt was disappearing.

If Jack was staring disrespectfully before, you were certainly not going to heaven today. You egged on the crowd for more water, pushing up the hem of his shirt to expose softened abs. Drunk women ate it up, throwing more money at the counter. Another pitcher, straight down his head as it soaked the rest of his body. He flexed his stomach, surprised at how warm your hands felt against the skin of his abs. It sent the best kind of shock straight to his dick.

“Flex, they’ll eat it up.” A warm whisper in his ear, a deep shiver trickling down his spine. The cold water was barely enough to keep his erection at bay. A couple lucky, sober ladies high five as they catch print. 

By they, you really meant yourself. Using these people’s money as an excuse to get Jack into a steamy state.

With a confident smirk, his arms stretch out. Clenching his fists as he squeezes up. The bulge of every arm muscle possible could have torn the fabric that sucked onto his freckled skin. The cries for him got louder. Jack looked over to you briefly. Biting down on your lip, it was just as much of a show for you. Graceful fingers grabbing onto the bicep and squeezing down, feeling the tensed muscle. Heaven on earth for both of you. Feeling each other up and showing off. 

Only one more pitcher in your hold. The last one had gone straight to his chest, splashing up onto his scruffy chin. 

“TIMES UP! Let’s see how ya’ll did.” Daniella motions for the DJ to lower the music, settling the crowd a bit.

The three doctors stood still, a bit of tipsy confidence. Shen and Whitaker were just as soaked, but grey and black shirts were not as forgiving. Shifting to Abbot, it was like his shirt had completely melted away. The thin white fabric was transparent as it clung to his skin. 

“I think we have a winner, everyone. DR SILVER FOX!” Daniella squealed, clapping and motioning towards Jack. 

Never have you seen an older man flush redder than he had in that moment. He managed to curl his lips into a satisfied smile. Hands on his hips as he shook his head to rid him of any loose water in his hair. A brief wave to the crowd that cheered for him. You didn’t even care about the money you needed to get for Donna, you glued your gaze to how stacked he is in this moment. 

As the room began to settle back to its normal volume, Jack took a steep step off the slippery counter. Immediately grabbing your hand to guide you down. You were stilled, in awe of how well he took all of that. Well, he would do anything to please you after all.

Daniella, the constant cock block that she is, pat both of your shoulders. “You are a very good sport doctor. You gotta come ‘round more often, we’ll make a fortune off you.” Giggling, she trailed away to the nearest group that wanted more alcohol. 

“I’m sorry she pulled you up there so suddenly. I didn’t think she’d try to make my life harder today.” A soft sigh leaving your lips.

“It wasn’t expected, yeah, but I didn’t mind since you were enjoying it.” His eyebrow cocked up, gaging your look. Stepping closer, thinning the gap between your bodies, “You were enjoying it too, right sweetheart?”

An air bubble caught in your throat, not letting out any coherent words. You were so bold to soak him, make him flex, where’d that same energy go?

“Yes, yeah, I did enjoy it, a lot.” words shake as your body breaks out in goose bumps. 

Jack reaches up to brush droplets of water off your cheek, an excuse to feel the warmth of your skin again. An indicator you were at your wits end. You needed him now, bad

“Why don’t you come on back, I can fish out some fuck ass shirt for you to change in. Get you dried up.” offering with a warm smile.

“Take me away baby.” 

Jack followed in your path as you led him to the back room. It was set up more like a dressing room. The left wall is lined with lighted vanities, parallel to lockers and cubbies. A set of arm chairs and a couch right in the middle. As both Jack and you stepped inside, you closed the heavy door. A small click, you locked the door. 

Jack took in the room, not much, getting a feel of his surroundings as he frequently makes a habit of. Boot heels clacking as you walk over to one of the cubbies, pulling out a few rolls of towels and a loose shirt. As you turned back around, Jack had taken a spot against the vanities, leaning his hips against the edge. 

“Alright, all I have in your size I think is a shirt that says ‘I bottomed at The Bottom Shelf’.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what that means, but I appreciate it baby.” He grabbed the dry shirt from your hands, placing it to his side on the vanity. Without skipping a beat, he pulled the soaked, white shirt off of his body. Lights in the vanity illuminated that he was still dripping with water. His hair darkened, damp and dark silver auburn. 

You had an ever better view of Jack’s body now. In all of its glory; a subtle farmer's tan cut through the middle of his bicep. Small cuts and scars, from his history in the military. The freckles on his arms traveled up higher on his arms, fizzling out as it reached his chest. He has tits for day, 

Another long, stark silence. 

“Close your mouth baby, don’t wanna catch a fly.” he grinned, stifling a chuckle as he dipped his head to meet your eyes. Eyes staring at his body for longer than needed. 

You didn’t realize your mouth had actually fallen open. Pressing your lips together, cheeks glowing pink. Your hand reaches out with the towels, waving for him to take them.

“Well since this was your doing, be a good girl and help me dry off.” The satisfied look in his eyes as he arms open to support his body against the vanity. There had to have been steam rising from your head, you were overheating. Nodding and stepping forward.

As close as you could, standing between his legs, barely any space between your bodies. Opening one towel in your hand and pressing it on his chest, over one pec. This must be some form of psychological torture. A plot to get you to break, forcing your mind to think of nothing but what he could do to man handle you right now. His eyes studied your face, watching the small movements to your lips, as you chewed on the inside of your lip. The towel moved down, patting more of the dampness away. Feeling up his softened abs. Not hard, they were well lived in, a sign of his age. You couldn’t help but push firmly, hand splayed out over the towel to feel as much of him as you could. You were no better than any man, feeling up Jack Abbot’s abs. 

“Enjoying yourself there? Don’t let your mind wander off too far now.” As he ducked to meet your gaze again, thumb and pointer finger picking up your chin to look him in the eyes. 

His touch pulls you in, his pelvis pressed against your lower half. Moving his legs so his thighs pressed against yours, locking you in place. The cool, wet fabric of his cargo pants made you shiver. You were lost for words, not knowing whether to pounce or freeze. 

“You’re so quiet now Baby, you were so bold early to get me all wet like this.” he questioned, even though he already has an answer.

“What can I say Jack, you are very easy on the eyes.” You say, breathlessly. 

“Mmm, good answer baby. You are winning me over day by day.” He smiled, tracing his thumb against the curve of your chin. Trailing up to press down on your bottom lip. 

Full on swooning, you would of passed out and fallen if he hadn’t got you so close to his body. 

His hand trickled up to the side of your head, lacing his fingers through your hair, feeling soft strands against his skin. It moved further, the crown of your head, down to the base of your neck. He can sense the heat that radiates off you. Not because of the fourth of July heat, the fierce sexual tension was getting you hot and bothered. The still quiet of the room amplified the sounds of your breathing, soft and light. A faint pull of his arm brought your face closer to his, chin moving up to look up to him. 

“I need you, I need this..” his voice low, not wanting to scare you away.

“I need you Jack, all of you..” you replied, holding in the whimper triggered by your dripping core.

“C’mere..” He brought you in to close the gap. Lips sealing together, perfect puzzle pieces. Moving in sync as your tongues licked at each other, wanting to deepen the kiss. 

Jack’s free hand rested at your hip, a brief pinch to soft skin. Then slipping down against smooth leather, resting his hand against the curve of your ass. Fit perfectly, like it belonged there. He gave in with a squeeze, feeling the clothed flesh mold to his large hand. Responding to him with a whimper into the kiss. You dropped that towel a long time ago, moving to feel his body. Hands running up and down, softly grabbing a squeeze onto this chest. 

Using his strength to turn you over, your back against the vanity, causing it to shake with the change. He loomed over you, using his weight and height to deepen the kiss, taking control of your mouth. Tongue licking against yours, catching it between his lips every so often. Jack’s hard on was very prominent now, poking right above your pelvis. Heat radiating off that area. Forcing you to acknowledge it. 

His hands reached up to unbuckled the straps that held your top together, kept you hidden. Not for him. The first one opens, tits spilling from the seams. The second buckle opens the top up completely. He pushes the top so it hangs on your forearms. Presenting yourself to him, like a present he go to finally open. 

“More Jack… I need more..”

Jack knows how to serve. Moving his hands to hook under your thighs. Picking you up like a feather and pushing you to sit on the vanity. An abrupt pull to get you closer, his boner even level to your heart. Making work of your shorts, pulling the buttons apart and tugging the fabric down your thighs. Exposing those blue panties that were taunting him earlier in the night. A deep blue, a lacey triangle with thin straps holding against your hips. Had he had less self control, his old man brain would have let him cum right in this moment. 

“God… what am I gonna do with you sweetheart. ‘S like you knew I was coming tonight.” drunk on the sight of you, he kneeled down, kissing the inner part of your thigh, working his way in.

“You left me hanging for so long Jack. Been waiting for you to come back all week.” You let out a soft moan, sensitive skin sending the electricity of his kisses right to your core. 

He groaned, closing his eyes to take a deep breath, needing to take this slow for a bit. Take you all in, savor this moment before it’s gone again. 

“Should have taken you when I had the chance last time. Or should I have bent you over in a trauma room, show you I’m here for any side of you. ” Your heart ached knowing he didn’t just want you for this racy job you had. 

His fingers loop around the thing straps, pulling them down to your knees. Kissing a trail down to your knees. Pulling off the boots, then shorts, then your panties. His favorite part, bringing the clearly soaked fabric to just below his nose. A deep huff with a shiver, before stuffing it in his pants pocket. 

If all the signs that Jack Abbot wanted to match your freak didn’t show before, the alarms were loud and clear now. 

Working his kisses back up to your inner thigh, settling in the joint of your left leg. Kissing, nipping, sucking to leave marks. Make you remember who you belong to when you wake up tomorrow morning. Jack wasted no time to shift his focus to your dripping pussy. Swollen for how long it had been weeping in anticipation of him. He used his thumbs to spread you open, relishing the sight. What he was about to claim. His tongue pressed down at the bottom of your slit, licking up slowly. 

You choked out moans you were trying to suppress. Not sure why when the music of the bar would be able to down you out. 

His lips locked onto your clit, enclosing on the sensitive bud. Sucking and licking, making work of pulling out every pretty moan from those plump lips he was obsessed with. His tongue circled around your clit before going back to paint long licks against your slit. Lapping up every drop of arousal on his tongue. Tasting the sweetness he had been longing for. 

You chanted his name, a manta, a prayer. Your voice urged him to do more, give in to everything that’s played in his head all this time. 

Jack stands himself back up, quick to force his buttons and zipper off. Pushing his cargos down, hooking his boxers in at the same time. Cock springing out, bumping against his pelvis before settling straight. 

“How the fuck is that gonna fit inside me?” Boy did he love that lack of filter you had. 

His smirk reappeared, leaning into meet your lips again. Tasting your own slick on his lips and tongue. “We’ll make it fit.”

“Just hold on to me sweetheart, won’t go too hard on ya’.. Yet.” His words make your eyes buldge. 

Holding on to the shaft, he lines himself up with your slit. Pushing the fat tip of cock against your clit, poking and flicking it. Your head leans back, eyes squeezed shut as your moans flow out. He pushes himself in, little by little. Veins on his shaft rubbing against your walls. When he bottoms out, he rests his head on your shoulder. It causes him to groan into your ear. Dizzy from how tight you felt around him. The walls of your pussy sucked him in, contracting around his pulse in response. You groan from the feeling, a small strain as he stretches you out.

“You’re doing so good for me baby, taking my cock so well.. Fuck I’m gonna rock this pussy..” He rambles into your skin, kissing up your neck, littering the exposed area with hickies. 

Jack couldn’t wait any longer, rolling his hips against yours as he made work to thrust in and out. Deep and hard; dragging out his cock, feeling how your walls flutter around his cock, then a sudden and forceful thrust back in. Jolting your body in tandem with his hips. Wandering hands moving to rest on his shoulders, bracing yourself against his impact. His hands go back to your thighs, a hard grip keeping you spread out for him. Deep grunts as he forces the thickness of his shaft past the tight lips. 

His hips began to snap against yours, rutting into you. The vanity gave a dull thud against the wall as he worked himself into your pussy. The juices from your pussy making squelching sounds. The pounding rhythm of his thrusts were easily masked by the deep base of background music. 

Knuckles white from how hard he was gripping you, reaching up to your hair, damp from sweat and all the splashed water. He grabbed a bundle in the back of your head, pulling to force your eyes to level with his. Picking up the pace, making sure you don’t go a second without feeling his thick cock inside you. Relentless pounding, forcing your legs open to keep you pliant.  

This is exactly everything you have dreamed about. 

Your moans are high, drawn out, consistent, filled with drool. Everything under the sun, that's what you felt in this moment. Your noises were borderline pornographic as you whimpered and mewled. Begging and whining.

“’S good Jack… ‘S good…” Your mind reduced to mush, stuck on a loop thanking him.

His half lidded eyes, deep with desire, bore into yours. Subconsciously forcing you to keep your eyes open, focused on him. 

“Good girl baby, what a good fucking girl.. Letting me use you like this… that’s why you wanted me to come back again? So I can see you, fuck you like the dirty girl you are, dancing up there, barely anything on…” His words were on the edge of insanity, he was drunk of the feeling of you. 

The coil in your belly that had been begging for attention all night was wound up. Getting tighter and tighter as his angled hips bullied the soft spot inside your pussy. You were ready to snap. The heat is flooding from your slit, fluids making the hair on his pelvis soak. 

Jack’s hips start to stutter, he can feel himself reach his limit, cock leaking precum inside you. Getting his last licks in before he releases himself to you. You were at the end of your rope too, floodgates ready to burst open.

“‘M gonna cum Jack… I can’t hold it..” You whine out for him, begging to be released. 

He peppers little kisses to your cheek, “Cum for me sweetheart, show me how good I make you feel.” 

You shatter beneath him. Stomach flexing as your core squeezes, forcing your orgasm to rip through your body. Jaw slacked open as you moan through the orgasm, ridding it out against him. Music to his ears, pushing him over the edge. A hard thrust that he holds deep, releasing a hot load deep within you. 

There's a silent pause. Both of you panting, catching up the breathing that had been long gone, replaced by moans and grunts. As he leaned his head on your shoulder, your body bent forward to lean against him. Looping your fingers into the small curls on his head. Playing with the damp hair as you both found you breath again. 

“I mean if you moved in with me we could kill two birds with one stone. You don’t gotta pay rent and I keep fuck you like this as much as we want.” He brings out another deep chuckle. 

You smile and jab at his shoulder. “I’m not taking your money, old man.”

“There was employee bias in this, I should have won!” Shen whined as Perlah, Princess, and Dana gathered around Santos’ phone. The video of the wet t-shirt contest being shared to anyone that would listen.

“You know they were basically just pimping you out right? There was no real prize.” Santos said flatly. 

“That middle aged lady spent a lot of money on me, she tried to frisk me when we were leaving…”

“At least they didn’t keep asking to spoon feed you like a Victorian boy..” Whitaker frowned, forever scarred from that night.

a/n: clean up in aisle my pants yall fr. let me know if you want more! requests are open to train my writing skills :D

And Jack couldn’t stop staring at you like he’d found the love of his life. His hazel eyes trailed along your body, and a deep blush painted across your face. You’d caught him staring across the ER, but instead of looking away, he kept eye contact while his hands moved across a tablet. In one blink, he was moving toward you like a man on a mission. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe under the weight of his gaze. 

In fewer than five steps, Jack closed in on you, and his hands lifted just to grip your hips and pull you into his orbit. Your breath hitched high in your throat at his closeness. Around you, the Pitt melted away, and all you could feel was Jack, Jack, Jack—

“Earth to Y/n!” 

A snap near your face had you leaning back away from your phone. Your eyes widened as you stared at your small friend group. Suddenly, the entire world around you came crashing down in overlapping voices and the distinct smell of mall food, an odd combination of Japanese, Pizza, and sub sandwiches. Your phone stayed open to the latest chapter of your favorite Jack Abbot fanfic, and now looking at your friends, you knew you’d been caught. You quickly shut off your phone and placed it face down on the sticky table. 

“Sorry,” you muttered. “What were you saying?” 

Your best friend, Sarah, rolled her eyes. “You’d know what we were saying if you weren’t nose first in your phone. What was it this time? One of those smutty fanfics you’re so into these days?” 

“It’s definitely one about that silver-haired doctor,” your other friend, Haley, chimed in. “What’s his name again? Jake?” 

“Jack,” you shot out before realizing your mistake. You’d come off too strong, and your friends ate it up like vultures. “I-I mean—” 

“You really need to get laid,” Sarah told you, voice dipping into a border-line condescending tone. “Your daddy issues are showing, babes.” 

“I don’t have daddy issues.” You rolled your eyes before taking a bite of your now-cooling food, slimy noodles sliding down your throat in one swallow. “And I don’t want to get laid. I’m perfectly content where I’m at; thank you very little.” 

Haley hummed. “You’re telling me that you’re happy reading hours and hours of fictional worlds while you could be out and about meeting new people. What if your future husband looks like this Jett?” 

“Jack,” you corrected—again. “And I don’t want a future husband unless he looks like Shawn Hatosy dressed in a SWAT uniform.” 

“You are so down bad for a fictional man. When was the last time you had an interest in someone who was actually . . . real?” 

You pursed your lips when no names came to mind. To get them off your back you could have mentioned the two-second crush you had on Luke Davis way back in ninth grade. But he had been eliminated from the list the moment you got back home and pulled out a Bucky Barnes fanfic where you found out you wouldn’t mind an older man calling you doll. And plus, ninth grade was almost fifteen years ago. Confessing that while currently being in grad school at the ripe age of 24 would have been more embarrassing than saying nothing at all. 

“A while,” you spat after settling on a response. “But the modern online dating field is not for me. Every time I try one of the apps, I either get insulted or an unsolicited 3-inch-dick pic like it’s supposed to impress me. Unless you two have a magical solution to find me the picture-perfect man, I’m perfectly okay spending my time reading fanfiction.” 

You went to spoon in another bite, but you noticed the way they glanced at each other. The corner of your lips tugged downward. “What? Why are you two looking at each other like that?” 

Sarah sucked in a breath. “We weren’t going to say anything but—” 

“But you look like you need it,” Haley finished the sentence before turning, hands already deep in her purse on the chair next to her. 

You tried to not be offended by her words, but an ugly feeling bloomed in your chest. You hated the way they judged you. Fanfiction had quickly become a paradise away from the ugly world you lived in. If a few chapters and one shots here and there helped your mental health stay regulated, you saw no harm in divulging into the world of fiction. It also helped that most of the fics you read were tagged with “x-reader;” the idea of getting to put your name mixed in with iconic characters kept you feeling alive. Authors let you live lives you could never do in the real world. How could you give up that kind of mental freedom? 

“Here,” Haley finally said as she pushed something towards you. 

You eyed the red and white packaging with the words One Wish Willow written in fun lettering along with two cartoon drawn people. Hesitantly, you grabbed it and brought it closer to read. 

“The guy at the store said they actually work,” Sarah explained. “You state a wish and break it, then tadaaaa your wish comes true.” 

Looking at it while spinning it in your hands, your nose crinkled. What Sarah just said sounded way too good to be true. 

“There’s no way,” you said, a bit awestruck. Your thumb ran across the words on the back of the package: Spark the middle and break in half. “I think you both got scammed.” You placed it back down on the table, but one look at the two of them gave you a sinking feeling in your stomach. “You two actually believe this shit?”   

“Look, Y/n, we just want to look out for you,” Sarah said slowly as if she were talking to a child. “And if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, but there’s no harm in trying. But we can’t sit here and let you go on like this. Before you know it, you’re going to be fifty, living alone, and still reading stories about fictional characters. I mean, look at yourself.” 

To your surprise, Haley nodded along. “Grad school is killing you. And you can’t say that you’ll find a man once you graduate. Because by then, you’re going to find another excuse.”

You eyed the thing as their words sank thorns into your soul, and for some odd reason, you felt compelled to pick it back up again. You don’t know if it was the idea that any wish you made would come true or the desire to prove them both wrong, but instead of leaving it there for them to take back, you grabbed it and pushed it deep in your purse. 

“Whatever. But when it doesn’t work, I’m totally rubbing it in both your faces,” you said. 

Finally, you shoved the last bite of your food into your mouth, but your mind was racing with the possibilities of what you could use the one wish willow for. Sure, Sarah and Haley wanted you to use it to get a boyfriend, but honestly, that seemed boring. The world, hypothetically, could be at your fingertips. What was stopping you from using it to become a millionaire, change everything you hated about yourself, stop world hunger. 

The possibilities seemed to endlessly swim around your brain while you drove back home from the mall, the sky already dimming the closer you got to your destination. You sighed in relief once you pulled into your driveway and leaned your head against the steering wheel, eyes flitting towards your bag. Your fingers itched to pull the One Wish Willow out, and you, against everything, obeyed them. You picked at the heavy paper packaging, and the branch slid out right into your palm. 

It was dark and hole-filled, and it barely weighed anything. You guessed that was necessary for easy breakage when you used it. You read over the instructions one more time before taking each end, holding it a few inches from your face. 

Outside, the night was quiet. There were no joggers, no late-night walkers, no one to witness what you were about to do. You inhaled sharply and lowered the branch. 

“This is stupid,” you mumbled to yourself. 

You almost put the branch back in the packaging, but your phone screen lighting up stopped you. You glanced over and caught the notification. A quick read told you that another author had updated a Jack Abbot series. Your heart panged. 

Were you truly going to be alone forever, stuck reading fanfiction well into your fifties while pretending you lived in a different universe?  

Before you could second guess yourself again, you took a hold of the branch. 

“I wish Jack Abbot was real and would love me and do anything for me like he does in fanfiction.”

The branch snapped in two. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, and your body tensed as you waited for something like a huge explosion to happen and for Jack to appear like some mythical genie. But when everything stayed quiet, you slowly opened your eyes. Frustrated tears welled in your lash line, and you threw the two pieces of the branch somewhere deep in your car. You jerked the door open and all but slammed it closed. Each step you took to your house reverberated into the concrete walkway. The automatic lights turned on while you unlocked the door with shaking hands, and the key missed twice before finally going in. With a harsh shove, the front door gave way into a dark home. By the looks of it, your mom probably wasn’t home, or every light inside would have been on. 

An eeriness crept over you, but through your glossy eyes and overwhelming feelings of loneliness, you brushed it off. The One Wish Willow was an absolute joke, and you knew you should have texted Sarah and Haley that it hadn’t worked. Your chest tightened once you realized exactly why you didn’t want to rub it in their faces right away. In the car, you’d given yourself the smallest morsel of hope that it would actually work. The idea of having your own Jack Abbot had taken over quicker than you would have liked. Even with all your constant reassurances to Sarah and Haley that you didn’t want a man, that you were happy with being alone, you were beginning to feel the crux of being the last single person in your friend group.  

Even the promise of a new chapter once you shuffled into bed wasn’t enough to lift your mood. But as you tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep, you reached for your phone in need of familiar comfort. Your thumb pressed on the white T icon, and you scrolled until one caught your eye. The tags used xreader, but as you scrolled, you couldn’t help but notice something peculiar. 

Instead of the normal “Y/n” whenever Jack would “say” the reader’s name, your actual name stared back at you in every paragraph. 

You blinked a few times, wondering if you’d gotten to the point where “Y/n” automatically became your given name. But when the words didn’t change, your brows pinched. You didn’t have any added mods, and the author stated that they hadn’t given the reader a special nickname or anything of the sorts. You scrolled up until the page refreshed. 

Surely there was a glitch you thought. 

However, after the loading symbol went away, your name continued to be written in the fic. On one hand, you knew you should have put the phone down; obviously you were tired and sad and currently hallucinating. Yet, you continued reading on, already sucked deep into the story. 

Jack didn’t know what to do; you’d disappeared on him after an argument. His calls went unanswered, his messages left unread. His heart raced below his sternum in a panicked rhythm. He couldn’t lose you, not after he already lost his wife. He refused to lose you. With a sharp inhale, he turned and faced an empty space to his right, hazel eyes boring into the reader’s—wait. 

You pulled your phone away from your face as you sat up. Had you read that correctly? 

—hazel eyes boring into the reader’s. He stood still, seemingly knowing that there was a presence he couldn’t see but could always feel. 

“I’ll be there soon, sweetheart,” Jack spoke to no one. “And when I find you, I’m going to make you so, so, so, so happy. I’m exactly what you need and want. I—”

Your phone screen went black after you pushed in the power button. The eerie feeling from earlier grew at the base of your skull, and your skin pricked with the sensation that someone was watching you. Your face whipped to the far corner of your room, the one that was always half-cast with a shadow after the sun went down. Logically, you knew no one was standing there, but you turned your flashlight on anyway. A quick scan around the room settled you some but not entirely. 

You slowly lowered back down into your bed and pulled the covers up to your chin. Thankfully, sleep was already licking at the edges of your mind. But as you lolled into its grasp, you couldn’t rid yourself of what the author made Jack say at the end. 

—I won’t hesitate to do anything to make you mine. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Two loud knocks at the front door followed by your mom screaming Y/n! Get your ass down here and answer the fucking door! had you shooting up from your bed. 

Without even looking at yourself, you scampered down the stairs in just a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. You had no time to even think about what the person on the other side could even want before you wrenched the door open, and all reminders to look through the peep hole first failed entirely. Sun spots swirled in your vision, but once they settled enough for you to see who had been knocking, you froze entirely. 

“There you are, sweetheart.”  

You knew that voice. You’d heard that voice clearly through your TV speakers. 

Your eyes widened, and a breath hitched high in your throat. You gripped the sides of the threshold with white knuckles. For a split-second, you wondered if you were still dreaming before wondering if you’d died in your sleep, because there was absolutely no fucking way the man standing on your doorstep was actually who you thought it would be. 

Your body jolted under a firm hand, and you whirled around to see your mother’s figure standing behind you. She eyed you carefully before putting on a smile that only you knew to be very fake. 

“Hi there,” she said loudly, voice too chipper for 8:15 am. “How can we help you?” 

The salt-and-pepper-curly-haired man smiled warmly, and his hazel eyes never left yours. “Baby, you didn’t tell your mom about me?” he chuckled like this was all some inside joke. 

Your mom glared at you from the side of her eye. “Baby?” 

“I really should have called beforehand that I was on my way over,” he explained before thrusting out his large hand. “Jack Abbot. It’s nice to meet my girl’s mom.” 

The way he said my girl had your heart racing for more than one reason. The main one being you’d never met this man in your entire life, unless you counted the multitude of fics you consumed to the point you felt like you did know him—Jack. But that was all fiction uploaded to multiple websites, yet the man standing less than a foot away from you looked real and not a figment of your wild imagination. Hell, even your mom saw him, so to some degree you knew you were hallucinating or weren’t dead upstairs.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Jack. I’m sorry you’ve seemed to slip my daughter’s mind,” she hissed the last bit out. “Come inside please.” She yanked you away from the door and whispered harshly in your ear, “You could have told me about this.” 

Your jaw dropped before snapping back shut when your mind refused to catch up to the situation. Jack—if you could even think of him as your beloved fictional character—stepped forward and placed a hand to the small of your back. His touch felt like electricity, white hot and zipping up your spine. He softly pushed you along until he fully got inside your hours. 

“Jack, let’s get you into the kitchen! I’m sure I can make a quick breakfast for us while Y/n changes upstairs,” your mom stated, but the suggestiveness in her gaze wasn’t as subtle as she thought it was. 

Jack clicked his tongue against his cheek. “That sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I already made plans with Y/n to go out for breakfast.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in like a rag doll. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart,” he cooed. 

As if a spell had been cast over you, you nodded numbly. “Yeah,” you managed to croak. “We’re going out for breakfast.” 

“Let’s get you changed, baby, and then we’ll get heading out,” he said. “It was nice meeting you.” With not another glance toward you mom, he walked you over to the staircase and motioned for you to go first. 

Once the two of you made it into your room, you closed the door before pushing your back against the grain to put some space between you and supposedly Jack Abbot.  

“Okay, what the fuck man,” you sneered. “Is this some stupid cosplay? Did Sarah and Haley put you up to this? Because coming to my house and pretending we know each other let alone dating is downright creepy and stalker behavior.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said while cocking his head to the side. “Did you hit your head? Should I look at it for you?” He stepped forward and raised his hands, but you were quick to shake your head. 

“No; I’m fine,” you said. “I’m just . . .” You closed your eyes. “I don’t know why you’re here. You don’t exist here.” 

Jack paused for a minute before laughing loudly. “Baby, are you taking the piss? Of course I exist here; you know I exist only for you.” This time, he walked until your fronts were almost pressing. The warm, spicy scent of his cologne hit your nose. His hands did not touch you, but the twitches in his fingers told you he wanted to. “I told you last night that I’d come find you, baby.” 

“Huh?” 

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? You asked for me last night after the mall. I know I’m old, but how could you forget so soon, baby?” 

His words hit you like an 18-wheeler to the stomach. 

The broken-in-two One Wish Willow that remained in your car filled your thoughts. You swore it hadn’t worked, because last night nothing had happened. And then you remembered one of the fine print warnings. 

*Wait up to 24 hours for your wish to come true.

It was as if it all made sense now. The fucking gimmick worked; you couldn’t rub it’s failure in Sarah and Haley’s faces anymore. Jack fucking Abbot was in your bedroom acting like the two of you were romantically together. 

Your wish—against all odds—had come true. 

Happiness washed over you like a tidal wave, and you stepped right into Jack’s orbit, arms coming up to wrap around his middle. You couldn’t believe the way you fit right into his chest, and you were elated to hear his heart beat so fast at your closeness. 

“There you go, pretty girl,” Jack whispered against your temple. His hand gently rested against the back of your head. “I’ve missed you so, so, so, so much. I’m yours forever; I’ll do anything for you.” 

In the throes of his whispered promises, you forgot about the smallest warning buried within the fine print of the One Wish Willow Packaging. 

*Side effects of a wish may include violent tendencies, self-mutilation, and unexpected behavior. Please wish responsibly. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Life with Jack was infinite bliss, and you’d be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He was the perfect man and exactly the type of person you’d been secretly wishing for the entire time. If you were truly honest with yourself, all the times you said you were happy were lies upon lies upon lies. You hated how Sarah and Haley went on double dates with their boyfriends all the time while leaving you behind. Their happiness just showed that if you didn’t have them, you had no one. 

No one to laugh with; no one to be around; no one to love. Jack filled in those spaces like glue holding your life together. Suddenly, you didn’t have to wonder who you’d take to the movies to see the latest film. You didn’t have to sit alone in your bed while hoping for someone to come along and sweep you off your feet like men did in stories. You didn’t even have to worry about feeling scared when you slept. Jack apparently had an affinity for watching you rest. 

When Jack was around—which was pretty much all the time—you were never alone. 

A few weeks after he showed up on your doorstep, you made plans to introduce him to Sarah and Haley at the local bar the three of you frequented. You’d been excited for them to see what had happened, to see how Jack made you happy. Jack seemed to be passive about it, but one smile his way had him melting to your every whim. 

“What makes you happy makes me happy,” he had told you before pressing his lips deeply against yours. “Do I make you happy, sweetheart?” 

“So much,” you had whispered back against his lips. 

However, now that you were seated next to Jack and their eyes were filled with skepticism and doubt, an ugly feeling settled inside your chest. You tried to focus on the game of Jenga, but the weight of their gaze pressed heavy on your mood that continued to sour the longer the night progressed. 

As you tried your best to shuffle another block out, Sarah leaned forward. 

“So . . . Jack . . . where do you work?” she asked. 

Jack rubbed at his jaw while he thought, and your focus shifted to the way his bicep bulged in the short-sleeved shirt he wore out. 

“I’m a senior attending at an ER up in Pittsburgh,” he stated.

Haley raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here? Surely your hospital keeps your leash a bit tight.” 

You pulled the block out successfully and held it up for Jack to see. He mouthed a good girl and winked, sending you into a blushy mess before answering. 

“I’m on a well-needed sabbatical right now. My girl needed me here, and I couldn’t think of being anywhere else.” His hand came to rest at your nape, and his fingers squeezed. 

“What happens when your sabbatical is up? Y/n’s in grad school right now, and I doubt she can do the long distance,” Sarah explained, and that ugly feeling roared inside your chest.  

Jack pursed his lips and sat back against the couch. “I’m sure that we’ll work something out when we cross that bridge. I’m not opposed to long distance, but I’m also not opposed to her moving close to me either.” 

Haley let out a soft scoff to which you looked at her strangely. 

“Do you have something to say, Haley?” you questioned. 

She looked like a deer caught in headlights. “I-I just think that moving in with someone you’ve been with for a few weeks is a bit fast.” 

“I’m not getting any younger,” you tried to joke, but the tone of your voice said that you were anything but joking. “And it wouldn’t be too terrible. After this semester I’m changing to online classes anyway.” 

Sarah’s face pinched tightly. “What happened to moving onto campus with us next semester?” 

You shrugged lazily. “The thought about moving was getting to be too stressful.” You linked your arm into Jack’s. “Jack suggested online classes, and it was like a weight lifted off my chest.” 

Your friends stared widely with their jaws unhinged. 

Sarah waved a hand around. “Hold on. Just because he told you to do something, you just did it without discussing it with anyone else? Y/n, we won’t be able to afford the deposit for the apartment if you pull out.”  

“Plus, what if he dumps you halfway through the year?” Haley suddenly asked in a stage whisper, not caring if Jack heard the question.  

Next to you, Jack’s entire body tensed. “I’m sorry—what?”

She at least had some decency to understand that her question was invasive. “Ya know . . . what if y’all have, like, a really bad argument or something? Some relationships don’t end up lasting long enough for a couple to live together. Plus, with your age gap it’s inevitable that—” 

Jack suddenly stood from the couch, and his towering body cast a shadow across the Jenga tower. He frowned deeply, and his darkening eyes narrowed down at your friends. His fists curled at his sides while his head tilted very slowly. 

“You don’t know anything about our relationship,” he hissed. “So I wouldn’t be so presumptuous if I were you.” 

Sarah leaned back enough to look him in the eye at an angle. “Dude, we’re just looking out for our friend.” 

“Yeah,” Haley said lightly. “No need to get so upset about it.” 

He ran his tongue along his teeth. “I’m upset because you had the gall to even think I’d break up with her.” He bent in slightly at the waist. “I’m in love with her; she is my everything. Whatever she asks me to do, I will do it without hesitation.” 

His voice rose with anger on every word, and soon, the entire bar was looking towards your small group. You nervously shifted on the couch, but the annoyance of their questions kept you seated and stopped you from pulling Jack back. 

Jack turned his head and spotted an empty beer bottle. He turned back to look at your friends, and without breaking eye contact, he grabbed the bottle. In one fluid motion, he swung it down, and the glass shattered against the side of the table. At the sound, you, Sarah, and Haley stood up. They backed away slightly while you stepped forward to be at Jack’s side. Yet, he paid no attention to you. 

“No one on this earth will ever comprehend what it feels like to love someone as much as I love her,” he said, timber dark and serious. It sent shockwaves through your soul. “I’d rather kill myself than ever hurt her or be without her. Every ounce of my blood that keeps my beating heart alive belongs to her and her alone.” 

Before you could do or say anything, Jack dragged the jagged edge of the broken bottle from his wrist and towards the inside of his elbow, and dark blood welled and dripped from the long gash. Sharp, surprised and horrified gasps rang through the air. 

When your eyes caught the red thick smear, you reached forward and yanked the bottle out of his hand. “Jack!” 

At the sound of your voice, Jack’s eyes softened instantly, and all tension in his body melted away. Any glimpse of the Jack moments ago was gone, but the damage had already been done. Everyone, including Sarah and Haley, watched on with scared eyes as you gently set the bottle down. You said nothing and grabbed your (Jack’s) jacket and purse. Your hand found Jack’s quickly, and without saying anything to your friends, you tugged him out of the bar and towards his car. Thankfully, he didn’t fight for the keys, and you took off, leaving the bar to turn into a speck in your rearview mirror. 

The ride back to your house was oddly quiet. Jack stared out the window the entire time, never once looking over at you. When you parked the car in the driveway, you shifted in your seat and turned to face him. 

“Jack,” you said softly. “Why’d you do that?” 

Not being on to deprive himself of your face, Jack turned too with hunched shoulders. “I’m sorry.” 

You rested a hand on his cheek. “I know you’re sorry, but you scared everyone. And you hurt yourself.” 

“I know. I don’t know why I did that, but I couldn’t let them keep talking about us—about you like that. I love you so much; that’s why I did it.” 

“Jack, I don’t need you to cut yourself because you love me, I—” 

“Do you love me?” he interrupted. 

You paused. “I do.” 

Jack leaned back into his seat. “You never say it like I do.” He sat up straight again in a jerky motion, and he placed his hands on your cheeks and held your face there. You watched his hazel hues melt into something darker. “Do you love me? Say you love me. I need to hear you say you love me, sweetheart.” 

Your throat bobbed in a thick swallow. “I love you, Jack.” 

Like at the bar, he all but melted back into his seat before leaning forward to kiss you. You let his lips languidly move against yours in sloppy motions. His hands tightened around your face, and with a small gasp, your mouth opened just enough for him to shove his hot tongue between your teeth. You moaned at the taste of him.

Before you could go any farther, he pulled back and licked his lips. “Are you going to listen to them?” 

Your head reeled at the sudden change of events. “Who?” 

“Your friends,” he spat bitterly. “They won’t change your mind about moving with me once I need to go back to work?” 

You hummed and tried to lean back in for another kiss, but Jack stopped your motion. His eyes bore into yours deeply in almost a pleading manner. 

“Tell me you want to move with me. I can’t be without you, baby. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d rather kill myself than not be with you. Do you want me to kill myself? I’ll tell you how I’d do it. Instead of my wrists, I’d take one of my scalpels and drag it along my throat.” 

Your heart beat wildly at his words, and concern corroded any love you felt for Jack in that moment. 

He looked at you through lidded eyes. “Is that what you want? You want me to die? Want me to commit suicide just to show you how much I’m obsessed with you?” 

You shook your head between his hands. 

He grinned stretched impossibly wide, but his eyes stayed dead and unmoving. “Then say what I want to hear, sweetheart. It’ll all be so, so, so much better when you say it.” 

“I want to move with you Jack. I want to follow you to Pittsburgh or wherever you go after this.” 

You were rewarded with another deep, invasive kiss that left you gasping for air. Instead of fully pulling back, Jack breathed heavily while his nose nuzzled into your face. 

“Maybe it’ll be good when I don’t have to listen to Sarah and Haley anymore,” you softly mentioned. 

Jack froze near your hairline but didn’t say anything. 

“They were kind of rude at the bar. To think they were the ones who wanted to push me to get a boyfriend in the first place. Like, imagine if you hadn’t shown up.” 

“You’re no one else’s but mine,” he growled, chest beginning to heave at the thought of you with someone who wasn’t him, kissing someone who wasn’t him, fucking someone who wasn’t him. “I’m never going to leave you.” His eyes fluttered closed. “I’m going to make sure your friends have no impact on your life again. I promise.” 

You giggled, not fully knowing the meaning of his words. “We’ll be in Pittsburgh. I’m sure they won’t want to make the drive. Don’t worry about them putting any more unsolicited input into our relationship.” 

Soon after Jack gave you one more kiss, you slipped into your house knowing Jack would be back in the morning to pick you up for another breakfast date. You paid no mind to the sound of Jack pulling away from your house or the way his car suddenly passed by in the opposite direction moments later. 

Because if you had, you would have realized he wasn’t driving to his house, oh no, he was driving back in the direction of the bar to make sure he kept his promise. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Waking up during the night wasn’t uncommon. 

Most times, you never fully managed to sleep deep enough to stay asleep for more than four hours, always having to get up for a drink of water or a bathroom break. But tonight, you woke up for a completely different reason. From the corner of your room, a noise reached you through a deep dream in a wet, continual plat, plat, plat, plat. 

With bleary eyes, you looked around the room through barely slotted eyelids. Nothing seemed to jump out at you until you glanced at the shadowed corner. There, someone stood, their outline barely visible against the black background. You blinked rapidly in a desperate attempt to get your eyes focused. 

A sigh of relief wheezed through your chest when you realized that the person was just Jack; although you were confused as to why he picked the corner when you had already set up a chair near your bed the first time you found him watching you sleep. You knew he liked to take his prosthesis off after dark to give his limb a break. The least you could do was make sure he was comfortable. 

“Jack?” you called out, voice scratchy and slurry with sleep. “What’re you doin’ in the corner?” 

When he failed to answer, you pushed yourself up halfway with your arm. You reached for the lamp on your bedside table, but the floor creaking beneath his weight made you stop. 

Plat, plat, plat, plat, plat. 

“Don’t turn on the light,” he whispered. 

You slung your legs over the side of the bed and reached out a hand. “Could you at least come and sit down? Your leg must be killing you.” By now, your eyes had adjusted to the dark atmosphere, and you peered over at him when you noticed something splashed on his face. “Did you get mud on you?” 

Jack took a step forward, and his shoes squished against your hardwood floors. He stopped a few feet away from you, and that’s when a thick, metallic waft hit your senses. You urgently rubbed at the skin between your lip and the bottom of your nose in an attempt to disrupt the onslaught of iron. Your brows pinched as you looked up at him with utter confusion. 

Plat, plat, plat, plat, plat. 

“What are you covered in, baby?” You reached out to touch a large stain on the hem of his shirt. Your fingers game back slick. “What the fuck,” you whispered. Jack’s words be damned; you reached over and turned on the lamp.

As the light drenched the room, horror seized your chest with large hands at the sight in front of you. The noise that had awakened you from your sleep was the steady drip of blood that trickled from Jack’s pant leg. The stain you’d touched was larger under the light, and the lower half of his shirt was drenched in the bodily fluid. His arms that were normally tanned and freckled were covered in blood like cleaning gloves, a harsh line of red cutting around his bicep. 

Bile rose from deep in your stomach, and the acrid taste coated your tongue. 

“Jack,” you whispered in terror. Sleep’s effect had been ripped from you the moment you realized what he was covered in. “W-why are you . . . covered in blood?” 

Jack’s mouth twisted in an elated smile as he looked down at his lower half. “Do you not like it, sweetheart?” Despite his leg, he kneeled between your legs, and his dripping hands rested against your thighs. He looked up at your face with a pinched expression, similar to one you’d see on a sad puppy. “Do you not like it?” 

“It’s blood, Jack. Why are you covered in blood?” 

“Not like I don’t deal with blood on the daily.” He licked his lips. “You should be asking whose blood it is I’m covered in, baby.” He leaned in closer to your face, and your eyes burned with the smell. “C’mon; ask me.” 

You swallowed a frustrated groan before whispering, “Whose blood are you covered in?” 

His head lolled to the side. “Remember when I promised you that no one would ever speak out against us again?” Jack moved in closer and pressed his cheek against yours so that his lips were right near your ear. “Let’s just say I made sure that wouldn’t ever happen again . . . permanently.” 

It felt like all the blood drained from your face in an icy instant; a complete contrast from the way Jack licked a hot strip up from your pressure point to your ear. Your mouth dried up completely. 

“Don’t worry, baby. Those girls are never going to bother us ever again.” 

“Jack,” you whimpered, suddenly scared of the man between your legs. 

He hushed you softly. “And I made sure that your mother was also removed from the picture. I couldn’t have her waking up to find me like this.” 

Your shoulders caved in, and the smallest whimper pressed through your lips. At the sound, Jack lurched back to look at your face. Within three breaths, all emotions washed from his face as he realized that you were scared—scared of him. 

Now, he couldn’t have that, could he? 

His hand rushed up to your face, and his fingers crushed your cheeks together. He stood to his feet, but his face stayed close to yours, his warm breath fanning across your nose and lips. 

“There’s nothing for you to be afraid of,” he said calmly as if he hadn’t just implied that he’d killed your best friends and your mother. “Besides, isn’t this what you wished for?” 

Even with his strength, you managed a small shake of your head. 

He pouted. “No? But I could have sworn you said I wish Jack Abbot would love me and do anything for me.” 

“I d-didn’t ask for you to kill my friends and mom,” you cried through smushed lips. 

Jack nodded along like he agreed with you before barking out a laugh. “But you said it’d be good when you wouldn’t have to listen to them anymore. That’s what you said!” his voice thundered in your face. “I did exactly what you told me to, so why don’t you FUCKING LOVE ME?” 

You tried to jerk your face out his hand, but his hold tightened, fingers digging into your teeth through your cheeks. Your eyes shut closed, but that did little to appease Jack’s anger. This wasn’t what you wanted; you never wanted your wish to turn into him harming people for you. 

“I-I do-do love you, Jack,” you cried while tears traced down your cheeks. 

He frowned intensely, lips forming an upside-down u. “I don’t believe you.” His unoccupied left hand gripped onto the pudge at your hipbone. “I can feel you shaking like a leaf. It’s okay, baby. I would never hurt you.” 

Somehow, you knew he was telling the truth, though it didn’t help you feel less scared. Your thighs rubbed against each other in a nervous manner, and Jack’s eyes tracked the movement. However, he thought it was for a different reason. 

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes widening at the idea formulating in his sick, twisted head. “You want to show me that you love me? Is that it, sweetness?” 

His left hand released your hip and trailed lower and toward the right, and you inhaled sharply when he pressed his fingers to your core. You reached out and gripped his wrist, halting any other movement from his appendage.  

“No,” you stated. “Jack, this isn’t-this isn’t normal.” 

He pressed his hard chest forward, and the cooled blood began soaking through your sleep shirt. You cringed and shuddered when the wet fabric clung to your skin. 

“Your heart is racing,” he whispered in awe. “For me? Is your heart racing for me, sweetheart?” He dropped to his knees this time and pressed his ear right to your heart. He exhaled breathily at the sound. “Yeah; that’s for me.” His next inhale was sharp. “I can smell you. You’re utterly dripping.”

“I’m not,” you argued. “I’m—” A wince turned whine cut you off after Jack squeezed your sides painfully. 

“You know better than to lie to me.” His matted curls pushed against his forehead as he twisted his face to look downward. “Remember,” he muttered, “you wished for this.” 

His hand planted itself in the middle of your chest and pushed you down to your bed, your spine hitting your mattress so hard it pushed out a small oomph.  

“Wait- stop-”

Jack shushed you, his hands, still covered in blood, yanked the sleep shorts you’d been wearing down your legs. Your legs kicked and twisted, trying in vain to stop him, but he had them down and hanging off one ankle despite your efforts.

“You just need to remember why you love me,” those big, calloused hands pushed your thighs apart, keeping them pinned open despite your efforts to close them. His hot breath against your core shocked you, your wiggling and writhing halting for a moment. He licked a stripe through your folds, humming in satisfaction. “No one can make you feel as good as I can. No one.”

“Jack please!” Your hands were pushing at his head, trying to get him away from you, but he barely budged, not even acknowledging your efforts.

“Already begging for me and I’ve barely touched you,” his chuckle vibrated through your traitorous body as he laid kisses over your mound. “I told you, you love me.”

“You have to stop! I don’t want this!”

“Yes you do,” Jack wrapped both of your wrists in one of his hands, holding them down against your stomach to keep you pinned. “You want this. I don’t know why you’re trying to lie to me when your cunt is being so honest, sweetheart.”

Humiliatingly, he was right. You could feel how wet you were, practically dripping down onto the bedsheets below you, your hole clenching and begging for something deep inside it. But you didn’t want this. Right? No, of course you didn’t. This was the man who had just admitted to killing your mother and best friends. Their blood was still on the hands that held you open and in place as his mouth descended on you.

But it was hard to stop the whine you let out when his tongue began tracing around your clit. The pressure was firm and insistent, sending bursts of pleasure coursing through you against your will.

You fought through the sensations, trying to focus on wiggling out of his grip, but inevitably your focus was drawn back between your legs. Jack was unrelenting, repeating the motions and keeping a steady pace, like he knew exactly how to push your buttons. You supposed he did, having been created by some sick force of nature just for you.

Belatedly, you realised exactly what his tongue was spelling out against you:

J-A-C-K A-B-B-O-T

His own name, again and again, all at the same speed and intensity. 

Gradually, your desperate attempts to flee were being tempered by the pleasure rocketing up your spine. Your twisting and writhing to get away had turned into rocking and grinding against his face, using his bruising grip on your wrists as leverage. But while your body betrayed you, your mind didn’t.

Through the gasps and whines and moans he was yanking out of you, you tried your best to keep up the protests. Your increasingly weak protests of “No!” and “Please stop!” fell on deaf ears, until, right as you neared your peak and, fearing what the impending orgasm might do to your psyche, you got through to him. But not in the way that you’d hoped.

“Stop! Stop, Jack, or I’ll never love you!”

He froze, pulling his face away from your folds but keeping his hold on you firm. You were gasping for air, eyes firmly shut. You were afraid to look at him, afraid he’d see just how close he was to breaking you.

“You want me to kill myself?” His grip around your wrists tightened even more and his fingers holding your thigh open tensed, nails digging into your skin. He didn’t let up, despite the yelp that left your lips. “Is that what you want? You want to watch me slit my fucking wrists right now? Wanna watch me bleed out all over you? Because I will. I love you more than anything - more than life itself - and you are breaking my heart.”

“Jack, I-”

“Do you want that?” His voice raised, eyes wide and manic. “I’m all you need, baby. If I die, you have nothing. You made me kill your mom, your friends, and if I’m gone, what do you have left? You need me just like I need you.”

“No, no I didn’t make you-”

“You said you didn’t want to have to listen to them anymore,” Jack stood from the floor, his blood stained figure looming over you as you cowered back against the mattress. “I did exactly what you asked for, and now you don’t have to listen to them anymore.”

You were shaking, trying to look away, trying not to think about how everyone you loved had died because of a poor choice of words and Jack’s instability.

Jack’s hand grabbed your chin, forcing your eyes on his. His expression had softened, the lines on his face deepening as he stared down at you.

“Don’t make me kill myself because I did what you wanted,” he was begging, the whiplash from his rapid change in demeanor taking a moment to register in your mind. “Don’t make me, please.”

“I-I won’t,” you swallowed around the lump forming in your throat. “I won’t make you kill yourself, Jack. Please don’t do that.”

“Then tell me you love me,” his eyes darkened again and the frown fell from his face. 

“Jack-”

“Tell me,” the tone of his voice dropped, practically growling at you as his fingers tightened against your jaw. “You love me.”

“I…”

The words stuck in your throat. The love you’d felt for him from before was still there, but your terror and grief was overshadowing it, making it impossible to verbalize.

Jack sighed, his expression once again changing, this time to disappointment. He tutted at you, like you were a small child failing to follow directions.

“I guess I just have to remind you how much you love me.”

There was no time for you to question what that meant, but you found out quickly. Jack’s hands wrapped around your waist. Before you could even gasp at the rapid change, his thighs were straddling yours, his palm planted between your shoulder blades to hold you down.

“I’m going to make you tell me you love me,” you could hear clinking and shuffling behind you, but it took a moment for it to connect that he was undoing his belt.

“Wait, Jack!” Bucking your hips and trying to push yourself up was futile, his weight and the strength of the muscles cording his arm simply too much for you to fight back against. This wasn’t what you wanted for your first time. You’d been hoping for a romantic dinner with him, followed by sweet, slow sex, not him covered in your loved ones blood as he took you by force. “Jack please, I’m a virgin!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” the heat of his chest, pressing against your back as he leaned down, was scalding. His fingers gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his lips pressing a kiss against your cheek. You didn’t realize you’d been crying until his tongue darted out to lick up the droplet. “Don’t worry. I’m all you need. I’ll be the only man to ever have you like this. I’ll take such good care of you.”

And then he was sliding in, stretching your traitorously wet walls around his length. Fuck, he was thick. You felt every ridge and vein as he sunk into you as deep as he could, until the tip was pressing against your cervix. It was impossible to stop the moan you let out, the noise mixing with his grunt as he ground against your ass.

“Jack, please…”

“You feel so good around me, baby,” He let more of his weight fall against you, pushing you even further into the crumpled sheets. One of his big arms slid around your neck, pressing your throat into the crook of his elbow. 

“You need to sto-”

You choked on your words when Jack’s arm tightened, his bicep and forearm cutting off  your air supply.

“The only thing I need,” his voice was low and gravely, his lips pressed against the shell of your ear. “Is for you to stop pretending this doesn’t feel good, and let me make love to the love of my life.”

Your whole body tensed, walls trying to push him out, as he began to withdraw slowly.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he was panting against your ear now. His little groans and sighs rattled around in your head, clouding your already conflicted senses. “Squeeze me just like that.”

You felt yourself flutter involuntarily around him as his thick cock bullied its way back inside of you. Fighting against his hold to get air into your lungs, your own breathing picked up in pace, each exhale forcibly pushed out when he sunk in. 

Jack’s pace was slow. Each thrust was long, pausing to grind against you when he bottomed out, his head pushing hard into the deepest parts of you. You’d never considered yourself a masochist before, but the little jolts of pain mingled with the pleasure, pushing you even higher. The confusing signals sent to your brain were sapping your willpower. You needed to fight him off, needed him to get away from you, but your body was tightening around him, pulling him in.

God, it felt good, but you had to hold out. You still needed to find a way to break free and to get rid of him.

But it was growing increasingly hard to focus on anything other than the sensations between your legs when your head grew fuzzy from the lack of air and your clit was dragging against the sheets as every move he made rocked your body. He’d gotten you close before with his mouth, but now the dizzying pleasure of his cock had your eyes crossing.

“You’re doing so good, my sweet girl,” his words were whispered into your hair as his pace gradually increased. He never fully withdrew, but his hips were bouncing against your ass as his slow, grinding rhythm transitioned into hard and fast thrusts. “Doing so good for me. I can feel how close you are, I want you to tell me you love me when you cum, ok?”

You tried to shake your head no, trying your hardest to beat back the ever rising pressure of your impending orgasm, but Jack’s hold around your neck stopped you from moving. The only noises you could squeeze out through his hold were little whines and whimpers.

“You’re going to say it,” he pulled you in tighter, leaning all of his weight onto you. His hand not around your neck slipped between you and the sheet. “Say it, say it, say it.”

The first brush of his fingers against your clit was all it took for you to shatter in his arms. You spasmed and clenched around him, your eyes rolling back into your head. Your trembling hands scrambled for a hold on the sheets when he pinched the little bundle of nerves between his fingers. It was overwhelming, the intensity of your orgasm squeezing you so tightly around him that you nearly pushed him out.

Jack responded by thrusting even harder inside of you, all the while mumbling, “say it, say it, say it.”

But you didn’t. You weren’t sure if it was your willpower that kept the words from falling from your lips, or the debilitating pleasure that was rendering your mind nearly blank, but you didn’t say it.

Jack roared in frustration as the last waves of your orgasm faded, leaving you shaking beneath him. You were unprepared for him to rip himself away from you, leaving you completely free of him for just a moment. Your brain cleared slightly without his skin on yours. There was only about a second for you to try to will your still trembling body to get up and run, but you ran out of time. 

He flipped you over onto your back, spreading your legs wide and forcing himself between them before you could snap them shut. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving with every breath.

And, for the first time, you saw his cock, pointing up and out of where his jeans were just barely pulled down. He was big, even bigger than you’d pictured when he’d first slid inside you. Long and thick, flushed red and dripping with your juices. In any other situation, you’d be reaching for him, eager to get your hands on him. Even despite the position you found yourself in, against your will, you felt your mouth water and hands itching to reach out and touch him. 

But you managed to hold back, trying to squirm away from him up the bed. He stopped you before you could put any meaningful distance between you, though, his hands found the back of your thighs, pushing them up and pressing them down, folding you in half.

“I gave you everything,” Jack looked close to tears, but you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or sadness. “I would do anything for you. Why don’t you love me?”

You didn’t have an answer for him. How do you answer when the man confessing his undying love to you killed your family and then took your virginity against your will? What do you say to the man taking off his shirt, revealing the bloody mess of his chest, slashes covering the skin on his left pec?

There were certainly no words to be found when it clicked that those lines were your initials, carved into the skin over his heart. They weren’t bleeding anymore, but the skin was red and angry, blood still smeared over his skin. The more you looked, the more you realized the incisions were much more precise than you’d realized. Jack specialized in trauma procedures, of course the self inflicted modification he’d given himself would be perfect.

Your first instinct was awe, quickly followed by disgust at yourself and fear at the sight of his dedication to you. But you couldn’t help tracing your eyes over the split skin, admiring the clean lines. It sparked something deep inside you, to see him declare your ownership over him so blatantly on his skin, despite the fact that you still told yourself that you didn’t want to hold his leash.

“All I want is to be yours, sweetheart,” Jack’s intensity hadn’t dimmed, but his anger seemed to be gone for the moment. He sounded miserable, literally begging on his knees before you “Please let me be yours.”

“Jack . . ..”

“Please,” he still had your knees pressed to your chest, his fingers flexing and digging into your flesh.

You didn’t know if  it was the pathetic way he was begging for your love or the devotion in his eyes that broke you. You could tell yourself that you were playing along, trying to go along with it to get away from him, but you didn’t know if that was true. 

“Ok.”

Jack lit up immediately, all traces of his despair disappearing in an instant. The wide and handsome smile that split his face was at odds with the blood still smeared across his body. The juxtaposition was jarring, adding to the warring feelings rising in you.

“Can you say it for me?”

“I love you,” your voice was barely above a whisper. You didn’t know if you meant it - you weren’t sure you wanted to know, either - but Jack took you at your word.

“I love you, too.”

And then he was sliding back in, pushing through your folds and sinking into you up to the hilt. With your legs still folded up and resting over your shoulders as he bent forward, he felt even bigger than he had before, filling you completely to the brim. You swore you could feel him in your throat.

When he pressed fully into you, he leant down, his lips connecting to yours. You didn’t bother to fight him, returning the kiss as he fell into a rhythm. His tongue pushed between your lips as his hips pulled back from yours.

Jack sheathed himself back inside you, thrusting hard and punching a broken sound out of your mouth. He swallowed the noise, continuing to devour you as he continued. Every slow withdrawal was followed by a brutal thrust in.

“I love you,” Jack broke the kiss. His lips traveled down over your cheek until they reached your neck. His teeth scraped over a spot just below your jaw that had you keening, arching up into him.

He continued to work the spot, kissing and sucking and biting until he was satisfied with the blooming bruise before he was moving onto another, unblemished section of skin. It hurt, your skin burning from the contact of his lips, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything besides cry and moan. 

“Fuck!”

You couldn’t help the expletive when his hips shifted, his thrust pushing directly against a spot inside you that had your back arching into him. It shot sparks through you, the sensation tightening into a knot in your stomach. Jack adjusted his angle to hit that spot head on again and again. A strangled groan vibrated through Jack when you clenched around him as a result.

“Take me so well,” Jack disconnected from your neck. His forehead rested against your shoulder, looking down to where you were connected, but the bulk of his body blocked your view. 

Jack pushed back, sitting up to kneel between your legs. His large hands kept your legs over his shoulders, holding you in place, even though you weren’t sure you’d be strong enough to get away from him, even if you wanted to. He felt too good buried deep inside you.

Your brain felt foggy, the combination of sensations washing away your self preservation and critical thinking. When Jack had you on your stomach, you were being taken, but here, you felt like you were being worshipped. There was still fear simmering under your skin, but it was taking a backseat to the orgasm rising in your gut.

“God, look at you,” Jack was panting, his pace increasing and his eyes focused down between your legs. You didn’t realize what he was looking at until one of his hands let go of your thigh to press down on your stomach against the visible outline of his cock. “Can see how much I'm stretching you out.”

Your body seized, the breath flying out of your lungs. That added pressure made him feel even bigger. It triggered your orgasm, pleasure crashing through you unexpectedly. It caught you off guard and unprepared. Your head lolled back, eyes fluttering as your mind went blank. Jack kept his hand there, pinning you down as he kept thrusting into you, his rhythm faltering slightly as he battled his way through the continued clenching of your walls. He wasn’t letting you come down, giving you no reprieve from the waves of pleasure wracking your shaking body beneath his.

“Oh, fuck,” Jack finally took his hand away from your lower stomach, but you still didn’t get a moment to breath. His fingers found your clit again, rapidly circling the small bud. “One more, baby, one more.”

“No, Jack, no,” you started to try to wiggle away. Through your addled brain, deja vu struck you. It made you almost want to laugh. You didn’t want to get away from him out of fear - although fear was certainly still there - no, instead you were trying to get away from the rapidly building overstimulation. “I can’t, not again!”

“Yes you can,” his rhythm picked up, hips moving even faster against you. The squelching and slapping sounds filling the room were obscene. “I know what’s best for you. Trust me.”

You were chanting; “No, no, no!” even as your core tightened, the rapid build up of your third orgasm contradicting with your words. You were sure Jack could feel it, too. The way your walls clenched and fluttered around him was telling.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” sweat was beading on his chest, mixing with the blood on his skin and dripping onto you, leaving small splatters on your stomach. “Cum for me and I’ll cum for you.”

“Jack!”

You broke. This orgasm hit you like a truck. You felt it physically snap inside of you, the tension releasing a flood of endorphins into your blood. Through the haze wiping your mind blank, you heard Jack cry out, hips stuttering and pushing into the hilt. You could feel the heat as he spilled deep inside of you. It felt like a brand, burning you from the inside out and soaking your depths in him.

The waves of pleasure mounted, consuming you until you couldn’t take it anymore. Your eyes rolled back into your head and everything went black.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Jack had fallen asleep, and you were far from turning over and snuggling into his side after you'd been ripped from the consuming darkness. 

You ached in ways you didn’t know were possible. Every limb felt heavy like you’d been shacked to a ball and chain, and you knew every step would be agony. The bruises he’d left behind would mottle your skin for weeks as reminders of what he did to you, to your friends, to your mom. Staying next to him in bed would ease the pain, but you needed to get up. The thought of waking Jack sent your heart into a panicked rhythm, and you were sure the sound alone would wake him up. Soft snores and grunts sounded from his lips every few seconds. 

Centimeter by centimeter, you pushed up from your lying position. You thanked anyone who was listening for the fact that he hadn’t slung an arm around your waist to hold you down further. Instead of your normal wake-up routine, ten minutes must have passed by the time you stood from your bed. You could not let Jack wake up under any circumstances. You took another glance back at Jack. 

Still asleep. 

Gingerly, you grabbed your phone off the side table and began to shuffle towards your bathroom. You held back the urge to throw up when your foot slid through a puddle of thickened, coagulated blood. With trembling hands, you closed the bathroom door, mentally cursing yourself when it gave off the tiniest click. You held your breath and listened and listened and listened for any sign that Jack had woken up. When you caught another puff of steady air, you pushed in the small lock carefully. Not daring to turn on the light, you powered on your phone and Googled “One Wish Willow Customer Service” and clicked the first number that showed up. 

Your phone rang quietly three times before a bored voice filled your ear. “Hello.” 

“I need to cancel a wish . . . please,” you pleaded in a whisper. 

“I’m sorry, we don’t really do that.” 

Your stomach dropped, and the room tilted. “Please; you have to do something. I need my wish to go away.” Your mouth pooled with bile-tasting saliva. 

“If you had read the back of the box, you would see that wishes can’t be canceled or altered. It’s all in the fine print.” 

A whimper slipped through your lips. “He killed people, don’t you understand? And I’m scared he’ll kill me eventually.” 

Static crackled from the speaker before the guy on the other line sighed heavily. “The only way a wish can go away is if the wisher or the wished-upon passes. Sorry, but I can’t do anything else for you.” 

The call ended, and all you were left to do was stare at your phone. 

A flash of pills or your razor against your wrists crossed your mind briefly, but that meant Jack would still be in your world. And there was no telling what he’d do if you died. You could practically envision the city drenched in red and violence. But not doing something wasn’t an option. You couldn’t force yourself to go back into the room, get back into bed, and sleep like your world was perfect. 

Your guilt wouldn’t silence enough for that. 

With a tight chest, you called a second number and waited. 

It wasn’t long before you heard the sirens wail down your street, and you pressed your back against the door. By now, you were certain Jack was either close to waking up or he was now fully awake. You didn’t know which terrified you more. 

“Sweetheart?” Jack called out, and your lungs seized. “Where’d you go, baby?” His tone was soft and gentle for now. 

You wondered if the blue and red flashing lights poured through your blinds and illuminated his enraged face. Besides the sirens, your bedroom and bathroom were silent. On the other side of the door, Jack made no movements that caused any sound. It was as if he had disappeared, giving you an opportunity to think about opening the door. The golden knob felt cool against your palm and– 

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! 

You squealed loudly in terror and backed away immediately from the door only stopping when the backs of your legs hit the side of the tub. 

“What did you do, sweetheart?” Jack’s loud voice carried through the door in a hollow manner. “Y/nnnnnn,” he drew out your name. “WHAT DID YOU FUCKING DO?” 

Downstairs, another blam! sounded and was followed by many footsteps and cries of Police! and We’re coming up! 

A glimmer of hope raced through your chest, however panic engulfed it when Jack began rattling the door so hard you feared he’d take it off its hinges. 

“You think you’re so smart? You think the boys in blue will keep me away from you?” Jack screamed through a raw throat. “You’re so dead wrong, baby. I’ll never be apart from you. You’re mine for the rest of your life. I—” 

His voice cut off from the slam of your bedroom door. Following, grunts, the Miranda rights, and the sound of struggle echoed into the bathroom. You attempted to block it out with both hands on your ears, but Jack was too loud, too impossible to suppress. All went quiet a few moments later until his empty laugh began to stutter out in broken barks. 

You were going to be sick. 

“We aren’t over, sweetheart!” he continued, though his voice was waning. “I’ll find you again soon enough! We’re going to be together until the end of time! We—” 

“Ma’am, it’s safe to come out,” another male’s voice covered the rest of Jack’s taunts. 

You ripped the door open and a sob of relief sputtered from your lips. You stepped back through the smeared blood–a result of Jack’s struggle–and sat back down on your bed. Your spine bent as you hunched forward in an attempt of self-comfort. You gripped your arms with white knuckles, and the bruises Jack left behind didn’t even compute through your twisted emotions. 

One of the officers stepped close to your knees. “I know this has been very traumatic for you, but when you’re ready, we’ll need to take you down to the station to get your statement.” 

You nodded wordlessly. 

Two officers stood in the corner where Jack dripped the most blood while he stood watching you. 

“What the fuck happened in here,” one of them whispered, but without much other conversation, you heard him clear as day. 

“I wish I knew, man,” the other responded. 

Your soul tensed at his wording and the way he tossed it out so casually. Because you’d wished for something you thought to be so trivial, and now look at where it got you. 

Alone and traumatized where you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. 

Be careful what you wish for. 

Muscle memory takes over. Coffee beans. Machine. Grinding. Hot cup of coffee. He pours himself a cup before he finds himself wandering back to his bedroom, towards his drawers. He only freezes when he's staring at black scrubs and remembering he's technically on sabbatical. The pit in his chest yawns wider.

It takes another heavy step to make his way back to his living room, with the intent to deposit his body onto the couch in hopes to attempt a stab at normalcy, but the beeping of a van bleeds through his walls from next door. He grunts and pushes the front door open to lean against the porch columns to see a large moving van in the driveway besides his, teeming with men that's already sweating out of their shirts despite the early hour.

They've all got their hands full, drawers and tables and chairs filing out of the van and into the home next door.

"Where d'ya want this, ma'am?" One man with a handlebar mustache grunts, holding a large painting with a gilded frame that looks so laughably ornate in the midst of mismatched chairs.

You appear at your front door, probably from somewhere inside your home, with a frazzled smile. It's barely seven and you look as though you've lived through half the day already.

"Center of the east wall, please!" You chirp, hovering behind the burly man and you disappear inside. Robby finds himself smiling against the rim of his mug before he forces his attention elsewhere. The copious amounts of paintings and decor makes his walls look so empty.

Time slips away from him and lunch time is fast approaching. Cooking something feels a little bit like getting his life together so he throws a quick stir-fry dish together. He's just about to plate when he hears a quiet knock on his door.

"Can I help you?"

When he opens the door, he didn't expect you to stand on his porch with a bowl of peaches in your hands. The oddness of it all takes him aback.

"Um— maybe. I'm your new neighbor, I live right next door. Sorry again for the ruckus, I didn't think moving in would be so loud!" You offer a smile and Robby finds him smiling despite himself. "Peaches as an apology and a request for a favor all in one?"

He chuckles and leans against his doorframe, taking the bowl out of your hands. When he gives his name, you give yours. "So what's this favor?"

"Ah. One of the movers must've gotten lazy and left one of my cabinets crooked? I tried moving it myself but it's a vintage and those things are heavy," you explain with a little laugh.

Robby nods and sets the bowl aside. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."

Entering your space feels a bit surreal. The layout should be similar to his, considering the whole block of homes here were developed in one season, and yet how you've decorated makes your home look far more different than his.

"Which cabinet—?"

You lead him towards the small room tucked beside the kitchen, something he uses for storage but what you've turned it into resembles a small studio space. An easel is folded in the corner, unused canvases leaning onto the wall beside it. On the opposite end of the room is a large, vintage brown cabinet that's placed diagonally off the wall.

"I know it's silly but the thing nearly tipped over when I tried pushing and the last thing I need is a hole in my wall," you say with a soft sigh, watching Robby push the cabinet with ease until it's flush against the wall. "Thanks, that would've bothered me all day."

"You're welcome. Anything else?" He asks and he finds himself wanting to stick around longer.

You turn slowly where you stand before giving him a smile he doesn't know how to interpret. "I think I might've smelled something cooking in your kitchen. Any chance you got an extra plate to share?"

The next day, he stares at his Bonneville in his garage and digs deep to see if he still has that urge to ride and… ride 'til he stops. He lets out a heavy sigh and steps out. Like clockwork, his head swivels to your porch and something in his chest twists at the sight of you curled up on a chair with a book in hand. Cozy.

"Good morning, Michael."

A short laugh escapes him. "Morning, Peaches."

Your eyes roll halfheartedly before you wave him over with a delicate hand. "You never told me what you do."

"Neither have you." He leans against the porch railing, trying to steal a glimpse of your book.

"I'm an art history professor," you offer first. "Now you."

"I'm… a senior attending at PTMC." He doesn't know why it feels like pulling teeth admitting it out loud, like his life prior to the sabbatical feels like sacrilege mixing it with meeting you.

"Impressive." You whistle lowly before you give him a little grin. "I'm a doctor, too. Not in the way my mom wanted for me but hey, at least she can call me Doctor Peaches. Any reason why you aren't in a hospital, Doctor Robinavitch? I thought you attendings are utter workaholics."

He crosses his arms as he leans against the porch column, a half grin that you're slowly becoming obsessed with. "We are. It's why nearly my entire workstaff had me on this sabbatical…"

"Sweet workstaff." You offer him a cookie which he takes. "Any big plans for your sabbatical?"

"A road trip, but—" he shrugs and looks around. He can't seem to maintain eye contact. "I thought it'd be better to stay home for a bit. And a good thing, too. How else would you have moved that cabinet of yours?"

"You're right. I'd be stuck working with a meathead mover rather than a handsome doctor."

"Oh, you think I'm handsome?"

"Well, I'm not blind, Michael."

"So you can also see I'm a bit too old for you."

"I'm thirty-one, I'm hardly too young for you."

He's got nothing to say to that, just fixes you with an incredulous look before his face lines with a bright laugh.

"You're trouble, Peaches."

The next month, he's become a regular guest in your home, fixing things that should be easily covered by any other professional but you've been deadset on knocking on his door. Leaky faucets, creaking door hinges, and even screwing a lightbulb in the spare bedroom where the roof is just a bit too high to reach even with a stepladder.

The conversations get longer and he stays a little later. Soon, coffee breaks turn into lunches and dinners.

"Michael," you hum as you approach from the kitchen, both hands holding a mug of tea before you join him on your couch. The evening's taken on a softer hue, something gentler that he's scared to disrupt. He cooked for you, you poured wine, and he played footsy with you beneath the table.

And now he's lifting an arm for you to tuck yourself into, your head tucked beneath his chin so he can turn his head to kiss the top of your hair. "Thanks, sweetheart. What're we watching?"

You chuckle and take a sip of your tea. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It's about a couple who broke up and decided to wipe their memories of each other only to fall in love over again."

"Hm."

You lightly swat his chest. "Don't be such a cynic, Michael. It's romantic."

"I didn't say anything," he laughs but he runs a hand up and down your sides, holding you closer. "Just thought it's an interesting plot."

"You hate it."

"I don't hate it, sweetheart. I'll watch the whole thing for you."

And true enough, he does. Michael Robinavitch sits through the entire film without falling asleep, his tea finished and his arms around you. His hand skims your skin beneath your sleep shirt and when you don't shy away, he lets himself get bolder. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel his fingertips coast along the underside of your breast.

"Mikey," you whisper and that stupid little nickname elicits a fond chuckle anyways, his grip tightening as he uses his free hand to guide your chin up for a kiss. "The movie—"

"The credits are rolling…" he murmurs, lips ghosting above yours in silent request. You grant permission by surging upwards, closing the distance before clambering onto his lap. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and feeling his hardness beneath you elicits a moan so loud you'd be embarrassed if it isn't for your insatiable need for his touch. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

A whimper spills from your lips, your knees bracketing his hips. Your greedy hands run down his chest, along that soft tummy that you've steadily grown obsessed with for weeks now. "Michael, I need you."

Something darkens within him, that selfish ache that's spread like a disease, parasitical in nature. You're young, not so young that he'd truly be disgusted of himself, but enough that you two have been drawing looks whenever his hands wound wander a little too low on your hips in public.

"Tell me what you want," he coaxes, a gutteral noise building in his chest when your lips find his, your nails scratching along his scruffy beard. Your resounding reply is another needy moan, your hips grinding along his until his large hands are tugging your shirt up and off before he could kiss down your neck. He revels in your sweet gasps, sugar-spun and delicate while his teeth and tongue graze along your flesh before he's burrowing his face in the valley of your tits.

"Michael—!" You squeal, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck. His low moans send shivers down your spine, teeth grazing along sensitive flesh before his lips latch onto your nipple. A string of expletives spill past your kiss-swollen lips when he bites, rolling the pert nub around before switching to the other.

He paints a myriad of lovebites along your chest, possessive and obsessive in the way he meticulously places it just above the usual cut of your tops; not enough to be lewd but a hint to show that you've got him to take care of you.

"Stop teasing…" Your voice hitches higher when he sucks a harsh bite onto your jugular before he rucks up your skirt to slide his middle and ring finger across your soaked panties. His chuckles are low and mean as he rubs your clit through the fabric. "Mm, fuck…!"

"You sound so sweet for me, baby," he murmurs against your heated skin before he impatiently tugs the fabric aside to plunge his knobby fingers into your dripping cunt. He hisses at the warmth, pulling just far back enough to see the way your pretty features tighten in arousal as he fucks you nice and deep with his index and middle finger. "Your little pussy's just sucking me in, how's my cock gonna fit inside you, hm?"

He's so mean like this, so condescending that you nearly cry out in frustration if it weren't for the fact that you could feel his own thickening erection against your inner thighs; he's just as affected as you are, if not more. If you aren't so preoccupied with his large fingers inside you, you would've noticed the way there's a streak of need underlying every syllable, the way his eyes track your every movement to heighten your arousal. It only adds onto what you know about him, attentive and determined with a dry sense of humor that carries into mocking condescension into bed.

"Mikey, please— need your cock in me," you mewl pathetically, nearly riding his hand before he pulls out right before you could tip over to the edge. An indignant whine escapes you before he sucks his fingers clean, the pink muscle laving along his knuckles to clean up your slick. His eyes are shut, looking utterly blissed out at the taste of you.

"I got you, sweetheart," he shushes you gently with another mocking coo, reaching between you to tug out his cock from his sweatpants. He brings up his hand to your mouth and without hesitating, you spit into his waiting palm before he uses that hand to stroke his thick length. You brace yourself with both hands on his shoulders, lifting your hips up to grind your folds along his swollen tip. "Think you can make it fit, hm?"

You nod eagerly—desperately—and slowly lower yourself onto his cock while your walls adjust to his size. When a quiet whimper threatens to spill, he closes the distance to swallow your breathy moans. It's messy, open-mouthed, and sloppy but it's enough that once you're seated completely, his first thrust within you elicits more pleasure than pain.

"Feels so fuckin' good for me, sweetheart," he praises and there isn't a trace of that condescension left as he picks up the pace, holding your hips steady so he can do all the work for you. Each thrust punches out a string of staccato moans, mingling with his own breathy grunts. It's heady and destructive, flaying away layers from both of you as his eyes meet yours. Your hands find his jawline, cradling his face in reverence as he brings you closer and closer to your climax.

"Nngh… 'm close—" you gasp against his mouth, eyes shut as your lips drag along his cheek as you ride him in tandem to his thrusts.

His grip tightens around your hips as he plants his feet into the bed for leverage, fucking you with a brutal pace that has you hurtling over the edge with a scream of his name. He's quick to follow but he's got enough wherewithal to pull out just in time to paint your lower abdomen in his release.

Your chest is heaving as he sits you back on his thighs, his hand slowly stroking his cock 'til he shudders and lets the afterglow of his orgasm settle in.

"Whoa." His gaze resettles on you as he falls back against the back of the couch, carefully pulling you down to settle beside him with an arm around your shoulders. His free hand reaches to the side table by the couch to grab some tissues, gently wiping you down before offering a wordless apology by kiss to your temple. You toss your legs across his lap, curling into him as close as possible.

"You alright, Peaches?"

Your sigh is quiet but content, nuzzling into his chest with an arm thrown atop his abdomen. "Peachy keen, Michael."

His resounding laugh rumbles beneath you as he tips your chin up with a finger to plant a kiss onto your lips. "That's comforting."

"Take me to bed?"

"Sure, sweetheart—"

"Then stay with me?"

"… Of course."

He brings the covers up where you tuck them beneath your armpit to fight the chill of your bedroom before he hauls you closer to hold his arm around your shoulders. Your skin is warm, your chest still steadily rising and falling as you catch your breath with your head upon his pec.

He presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head as he lays out, humming while you play with the curls of hair that smatters along his chest. He responds with tracing shapes along your shoulders.

"So… a three month sabbatical," you begin curiously, eyes still shut as you bask in the afterglow. "Is that a build up of PTO or the perk of being the chief of attending?"

He stiffens beneath you and you look up, surprised to see the warm expressions you've been used to seeing completely fade. He's looking at the ceiling but his jaw is tense.

"Hey." Your hand gently takes his scruffy jaw. "You don't owe me answers, Michael. You don't have to tell me your darkest backstories… but you do owe yourself to tell someone if it has you feeling like that."

Something dislodges in his chest when you pull yourself up to kiss the edge of his beard, his nose, then his lips. He melts beneath your touch and his strong hands grip your hip, as though he's afraid you'll disappear.

"It's a lot. Not your problem," he mutters against your lips.

You smile as you kiss back. "I know, but I wanna help. That's what happens when you get attached to scruffy old doctors."

Dr. Grumpy: Alive. Stop calling.

Adrenaline Junkie: Had to make sure. It's been a month, can't blame your best friend from worrying.

Dr. Grumpy: Who said you're my best friend?

Adrenaline Junkie: Well it sure as hell isn't Dana.

Dr. Grumpy: Could be. Now leave me alone, I still got two months left.

"Michael, you can't wear a hoodie."

He laughs, mid-zip, as he leans against the doorway of your bedroom where you're sat by your vanity. "And why not? I thought museums didn't have a dress code."

You meet his gaze through the reflection of your mirror, your grin playful. "They don't but I do if you're gonna be my date, Robinavich. So lose the hoodie."

He steps further into your bedroom to stand behind where you're seated, a hand on your shoulder before he leans down. His lips catch your hairline; he knows better than to kiss you before your setting spray.

"Yes, ma'am."

He's grown used to the feeling of your hand around the crook of his elbow. From little walks after dinner around the neighborhood to perusing the grocery aisles for a recipe you've found on Tiktok. Whenever he's with you, you've got your hand on his arm like he'd disappear if you let go.

He likes it.

"You're not even looking at the paintings, Michael."

He barks out a laugh and tugs you in to kiss your hair again. You're right, of course. He's been stealing glances at you the entire time at the museum rather than the paintings you've been so excited to show him. "I've got my eye on something prettier."

"Not the smartest thing to say to an art history professor, Doctor Robinavitch," you say dryly before tugging him to stop in front of one of your favorites. When he gives the confirmation that he's listening, you happily begin to discuss the history and techniques applied.

He listens, dear god does he fucking try to listen, but you look so pretty that he can't help but let his mind wander. You look younger than you actually are but even so, the age gap between you two is enough to make even himself secondguess his choices.

But you're clever and charming, burrowing your way beneath the walls he's been building for decades now. Even now, sharing your expertise displays your intellect and maturity as well as the passion you hold a doctorate in.

"Alright, I'm calling it. Is it time for dinner?" You cut through his thoughts with a light tug to his sleeve. He glances down and nods.

"Sure, but I thought there was another exhibit you wanted to see?" His free hand comes up to cover yours, the one holding onto the crook of his elbow, to pat gently.

Your smile is sardonic but the light in your eyes cuts through any kind of genuine annoyance. "It can wait. My old man's attention is wandering."

His bright laugh would've shocked him if it hadn't been for the fact that you've been eliciting more of it lately. "Old man, huh? Alright, sweetheart, dinner it is."

There's something convenient in being neighbors with the woman that's been making a home in a heart that he didn't realize still beat. It makes the short walk in the mornings after spending the night a lot less shameful.

Could one be too old for the walk of shame?

Regardless, there's nothing shameful about being able to share a bed with you, to wake up to your feather-light kisses before you reluctantly get ready to head to campus for your early morning classes.

("Stay a few minutes longer…"

"Mikey, I have a 9:00 AM—!"

"It's the summer, sweetheart, let the kids have a break."

"Summer sessions for universities are a thing, Michael.")

It's become a routine now, either he wakes in your bed and he watches you get ready or you wake in his and you scrounge around something in his closet you could steal and style into an outfit that's passable for your usual style.

Today, he gets to wake up in his own bed to you stealing one of his old, faded band tees that you tuck into a spare pair of jeans you've left behind in one of his drawers. You spritz on a bit of perfume you've left in the nightstand on your side of the bed (he tries not to let himself dwell on it too much, you having a space in his drawers and having your own side of the bed) before you lower yourself to kiss his forehead.

"Running late, I'll be staying on campus for longer office hours to make it up to my students," you murmur against his temple. Before you can get too far, his arm reaches out to tug you in by your waist for a proper morning kiss.

"What if I bring you lunch?"

"Yeah?" The smile you give him is near blinding, something that steals his breath away.

He chuckles and nods, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Yeah. How about sandwiches from Primanti's?"

"Mm, my favorite. That's perfect, Mikey," you sigh and steal one more kiss. "Alright, I'll see you later."

He watches your retreating figure with a dopey little smile and nearly groans when his phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through his blissful start of the day.

Adrenaline Junkie: How's Buffalo?

Dr. Grumpy: Wouldn't know.

Adrenaline Junkie: You didn't go?

Dr. Grumpy: Something else came up.

Adrenaline Junkie: ??? Read at 8:54 AM.

He exits out of the messaging app as his eyes snag on the date.

It's been nine weeks since he's met you, eight since he's realized he likes you more than being a friendly neighbor.

He sets the phone down and lays onto his back, zoning out. The gossip in the pitt is as virulent as any other disease — he isn't unaware of the rumors circulating him, his so-called seven week itch. How Dr. Robby can't seem to find a woman interesting any longer than seven weeks. It didn't really matter much to him, he's too old to pursue the nuclear family route, what's wrong with a little fun despite his age?

But time goes by quickly when he's with you and the idea of being bored with you is absurd. How can he be when he's constantly seeking you out, eager to see you?

University of Pittsburgh is a sprawling campus of old and new buildings, interlacing pathways that seek to lead to nowhere, but Robby is a man on a mission and he'd rather throw himself off the hospital roof if the sandwiches he bought for both of you get limp and soggy by the time he arrives at your office.

He finds the building soon enough, sunglasses low on his nose when he enters. He garners a few looks but they must've found nothing of importance because the students go back to what they're doing. The elevator brings him up to the third floor and a long hallway greets him.

Your office is situated near the far end on the left side and he knocks on the door before entering. "Hey, Peaches," he greets before he falters. While you're seated behind your desk, you have four students across from you with notebooks and questions scrawled all over it.

Unlike the students he initially passed by on the first floor, these students look up with shit-eating grins before they turn their attention back to you. One of them, a young woman with electric blue hair and copious facial piercings, speaks up first.

"Doctor Peaches?"

The other one, a stout young man with a patchy beard that didn't quite match his face that's yet to drop his baby fat, interjects, "I think it's a cute nickname."

"Look what you've done," you sigh dramatically as you shut your laptop to give your best students a withering glare. They giggle amongst themselves. "Michael, these are my most rambunctious students. Francine," the blue haired girl's grin widens, "Carmen, Richie," the two inconspicious ones in the middle give a wave in perfect unison, "and Neil," the one that defends you gives Robby his best smile. "My sweeties, this is Dr. Robinavitch."

He gives them all an awkward wave before he steps closer to set the takeout bag down. "If I knew you had company, I would've bought more."

"Don't feed them, then they'll never let you go," you snark but you ruffle Neil's head before you circle around your desk to greet him with a kiss. "Thanks for coming, Mikey."

He should've known being with you is too good to be true.

The night had been derailed the moment his traitorous brain had hooked him back to that fateful night, the crushing grief that resettled into his chest when he remembers Adamson's body hooked up to the ECMO machine after days. While he didn't spiral the way he did in Peds in front of Whitaker, his mind shuts down and cruelty becomes an instinctive defensive response.

You didn't see him during the days leading up to his sabbatical, never witnessed how easy it had been for him to tear down his most brightest residents all to put his rage somewhere.

But as he lets you into his home after dinner (at the restaurant you had been raving about), he begs desperately to try and change the subject, to return back to the normalcy you brought to his life. The door slams behind him and something creeps up, like a cold hand slowly wrapping digit by digit around his windpipe.

"Just talk to me, what happened in there?" You beg, your throat raw from the building argument in the drive back.

"Stop- just stop. This isn't something you can fix-"

"I'm not trying to fix you, Michael!"

"Jesus Christ, yes you are!" He laughs humorlessly, large hands rubbing at his lined face. "Do you know how fucking useless I feel when my own goddamned girlfriend thinks I'm something to be fixed?!"

"Listen to yourself, you're too busy thinking I'll bolt the moment you show a modicum of weakness. Do you think that low of me?"

"I don't know what to think of you anymore, sweetheart."

You rear back like you've been slapped. "What does that fucking mean?"

"It's…" He takes another sigh, heavy and exhausted like you're another burden to the load of issues he refuses to show you. "You're young, you don't know—"

"Don't you dare. Don't bring my age into this, Michael," you hiss. "Don't patronize me, I'm not a fucking child. I know when someone doesn't want help but I didn't think it was a crime to want to help you."

"It isn't your job."

"Loving you isn't a job, Michael."

The culmination of the fight didn't really explode in the way he had expected it to. There hadn't been any slammed doors, screaming matches that wakes the neighbors. It had been you, a silent retreat and a short but solemn walk home without a kiss goodbye.

Your anger would've been difficult to swallow but your disappointment feels like a leaden weight on his chest, pinning him to the middle of his living room floor to face the way you've crept into his life. Your scarf is strewn across the back of his couch. He can see a spare set of sneakers by the door, small and clearly yours. If he opens his fridge, your favorite snacks would be nestled beside his.

You've made a home in his heart and he had shut the door in your face.

However, his pride is a prickly thing, demanding that you break this cruel cold war rather than him reaching out first, except he seems to be the only one fighting. A day has passed and you haven't done anything he thinks he deserves. No demands of your items back or any returns of his possessions. No ultimatums or cruel break-up monologues. Just silence.

You still sit outside on your porch reading, never gone out of your way to avoid him. When he lets himself stare a few seconds more, he notices you have two mugs out — as if you're still expecting him to join you. His traitorous heart beats wildly, demands him to close the distance, but he turns back around and lets you read in peace.

A few more days pass and the realization comes in like a tide crashing onto a shoreline. You aren't icing him out, didn't shut him out the way he expects you to. The ball's in his court now, his move, but there isn't an overarching pressure to act quickly. You've always been gentle and patient, coaxing out love from him when he had held it so closely to his chest. You're the type to love in slow motion.

He chews over his probable opening sentences, turns over phrases and greetings in his head until the words no longer sound like english, when he receives a knock on his door. His heart leaps into his throat as he quickly rushes to open it.

—

Worry for Michael Robinavitch sits beneath Jack Abbot's skin like an extra layer. It keeps him warm at night, he thinks, when he's tossing and turning and his mind whips back to his troubled brother in arms and his stupid decisions. Knowing he didn't end up going on his hare-brained plan for a roadtrip (on that deathtrap, no less) did calm his nerves somewhat but the radio silence is still unsettling at best.

So he parks across the road of Robby's place, markedly notices the empty house beside his friend's seems to finally be occupied, and swiftly crosses the street. As he does so, a woman exits her vehicle and nearly drops the armful of groceries she's got blocking her view.

"Hey, careful now—" Jack instinctively steadies the paper bag in her arms before peeking around it to show his face. She's pretty, maybe a little down, but charming as she gives him a half grin. "You got it, stranger?"

"Absolutely. Thanks for the assist." She carefully jostles the groceries before lowering it just enough to angle it slightly towards Jack. "Wanna grab a peach for your chivalry?"

Jack catches the dry tone and plucks a peach from the top before depositing it in the front of his jacket pocket. "Thanks. You need help gettin' anywhere?"

"No, I'm just right here. But thanks!" She points to the house beside Robby's before she disappears behind her front door.

With a fond shake of his head, he turns back to head up Robby's steps to knock on his door. When the man in question opens it with the most hopeful light in his eyes only for it to deflate when he sees him, Jack chortles. "Well, don't look too excited now. Were you waiting for doordash or something?"

Robby scowls and steps away, opens the door wide enough for his friend before he retreats back inside. "What do you want? Is this a welfare check?"

"Do you need a welfare check?" Jack raises a brow, shutting the door behind him. He follows Robby further into the kitchen and pointedly ignores the traces of a woman that's infiltrated his best friend's space.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" He shoots back sardonically, large hands bracing onto the marble countertop of his kitchen island. Jack settles across from him, arms crossed with a weighted look that it even has Robby giving in with a sigh. "I'm fine. Would you believe if I told you it's relationship troubles?"

Now that takes Jack aback; that might've been the last thing he would've expected leave Robby's mouth. "Is this about Noelle?"

"No," Robby shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "Definitely not. It's my neighbor."

"The one next door?"

"That's the one."

When Robby doesn't elaborate, Jack chuckles. Recalls your easy smile and your cute outfit. He still has the peach in his hoodie pocket. "She's pretty."

"She is."

"… she's young."

"She's not that young," Robby blusters, tossing over a beer can. "She's an art history professor."

"Young and educated."

"Get out of my house, Abbot."

An amused laugh follows, shaking his head. "Not until you dish out every dirty detail, brother. Come on, is this all her stuff?"

Robby circles the island to return back to the living room, pops the tab on his beer, with a shake of his head. Jack follows and settles onto the couch beside him, legs propped up onto the coffee table. Beside his feet sits a copy of your favorite novel, tattered and well-worn and wholly loved with the broken spine. Under it is a ring-stain from where you've left your iced coffee a little too long on his overpriced table.

"Yeah," Robby mutters as he leans his head backwards where he gets a whiff of your perfume. His head rolls to the side to see your scarf draped along the back. "Yeah, it's hers."

"Did you two have a fight?"

The question is well-meaning, he knows this. He knows Jack cares, that every question and query comes from a place of concern. And yet—

"We did not have a fight," he blurts out anyways, his walls rebuilding themselves in seconds before he remembers he's with a friend. Jack waits, frustratingly patient. "… okay, we had a fight. It was a pathetic excuse of a fight because she didn't even yell, she just… she took it."

Robby leans forward, sets the beer down beside the stupid ringstain and rests his elbows onto his knees. Jack still doesn't say a word and the silence would've been frustrating if it hadn't been for the fact that he now realizes that it isn't because his feelings are a burden but rather the space to work through his own thoughts.

"Looking back on it, what she was asking wasn't difficult. It shouldn't have been difficult," he mutters as he scrubs a palm across his face. "She just wanted me to talk. Except I clammed up and I did that thing where I yelled—"

"You yelled at her?" Jack interrupts with a slightly scandalized expression. But perhaps he shouldn't be as shocked; Robby's yelled at the kindest souls just for being collateral in his warpath and the sweet professor next door isn't any different. Except—

"I yelled at her and I shut down when she didn't yell back."

Except Robby doesn't feel guilt when he's so far up in his rage and heartache, he feels defensive and those walls are drawn up just as fast as anyone could blink. But this time, he didn't build those walls, just lets himself feel the hurt and the pain that he's caused you, lets Jack see how it's killing him from the inside.

"So what are you gonna do now?"

Robby peeks up at his friend who still lacks any judgment although wholly deserved for being a companion to someone like him. "I don't know."

"I'll tell you what you're going to do, now that you seem to be… receptive to advice that'll actually help you in the long run," Jack grins and the eagerness in his eyes sets something off inside Robby.

"Hold on. How long have you been waiting for this moment?"

"For awhile now. Now listen up, Robinavitch— I need you to take your head out of your ass and go apologize to that woman. Two, make sure you grovel like a motherfucker. She seems like a nice girl and she must've done something right if you're letting her leave her shit around like she owns the place," Jack says, his voice dry and leaves no room for any kind of nonsense.

"Alright, alright," Robby manages to cut in with a quiet laugh. "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."

"Thank me if you'll actually use it, Robby."

Robby might've overdone it with the flowers. Although he couldn't be fully blamed by it, the florist had seemed overeager to put together an 'I'm sorry' bouquet. Maybe cruelly giddy given the sharp smiles that's been sent his way as he hovers by the counter to pay because rather than an assortment of flowers, he's given a dense and large bouquet of 150 deep, red roses that ultimately costed him half a grand.

But there's no time to regret it now as he rings your doorbell, feeling like a complete asshole with his extravagant 'I'm sorry' bouquet.

The door swings open and a startled noise escapes you when the first thing you see is red. "Michael?"

It's only been a few days since the fight but hearing you call his name — especially when he realizes you're the only one that calls him Michael — feels like coming home.

"Hi, Peaches," he greets, a tentative smile on his lips. "These are for you."

You take the bouquet with a smile you don't bother hiding. The sight of it brings a sense of ease for him; at least you like the flowers. "Thank you. Do you want to come in?"

At least you aren't slamming the door in his face.

He follows you inside and shuts the door behind him. Muscle memory has him stepping over the pair of rain boots you leave by the door, recalling the time he had nearly faceplanted because of them. As he looks around, something warm nestles in his chest at the sight of his own items strewn about, very much like yours in his home—

"Is that mine?"

A pretty blush dusts across your cheeks when he points out his navy blue hoodie draped along the armchair of the couch. "Yeah. I wear it when I read," you admit and the intimacy of it nearly floors him. He's grown accustomed to your little habits and routines, knows that after eight pm, you like to settle down with a novel with minimal conversation. The first time around, he had offered to leave but you gave him a pout so deep that he hauled you into his embrace where you could read to him instead.

Knowing that you attempted to continue with his hoodie as a placeholder has him striding towards you with hurried, determined steps.

"Michael—?"

He drops to his knees before you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, desperation bleeding into his gravelly tone as he clutches at the hem of your shirt. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me, I'm so fucking sorry, sweetheart."

"Michael, please—"

He chokes on the shallowed breaths he fights for, desperate and shameless as he clings to you. Pride be damned, he presses his face against you, nuzzling you as if you're his lifeline.

"Please, baby, I can't— I can't lose you. You're so fucking good and I know you deserve better, you do, but I need you. Christ, I need you, I didn't realize it 'til you left and it all felt so goddamn empty— I think I've known it for awhile now but I didn't see what I needed fixing until you gave me those fucking peaches…" he lets out a shaking sob, squeezing you tighter. "Give me another chance, sweetheart, please, I'll do better, I promise. I can be better. For us—"

Your hands drop down to his shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of his head when he hides his face into your stomach. "Baby, breathe for me," you whisper, taken aback by the raw vulnerability that he's letting you see. It's rare for him to be so open, so exposed. And you know that this is a genuine moment he's giving you, a piece of him he's kept to himself.

The term of endearment nearly sets him off and you can tell the sharp prickling sensation at the back of his eyes are prompting him to hide. Despite your gentle hands trying to guide his gaze upwards, it's there taunting him to retreat and give up and keep himself from the scorn he fears from you. Instead he takes a deep breath and wills his heartrate to slow down. His hand encircles your wrist gently, counting your pulse points to match the beat.

"No, I need to say this," he lifts his head from the warmth of your stomach to meet your eyes. His beard rasps against your skin and his eyelids flutter close when your thumb sweeps across the space beneath his lash line. "Before you, I was a goddamn mess."

You try to interject but he shakes his head. "No, listen. I was a fuckin' wreck and there isn't any changing that. It's— I'm glad you didn't meet me then, sweetheart, you would've never knocked on my door for help. I didn't deserve you then, and I sure as shit don't deserve you now. But I swear to fuckin' God, I'm gonna spend the rest of my fuckin' life trying to earn you back. because you're you and you make me… Look, the bad shit doesn't disappear, it's never gonna disappear, but it doesn't feel as heavy as it was. And that's," he swallows, staring up at you as if you hung the moon. "That's because of you."

Your hand travels up his cheekbone, cradling the side of his head before you're bending over to lay a kiss on his forehead. "It's because you're finally letting me in, Michael, you don't have to carry it all on your own."

For a moment, he stares up at you in bewilderment. He shakes his head and averts his eyes, pressing his forehead against your naval. "You're letting me off too easy, sweetheart." His voice is gruff, broken in his disbelief that you'd forgive him so easily. You aren't sure of what he's looking for, what more he could want. So you break the thick clouds that's hanging over the both of you with a gentle smile.

"Oh no, you're not out of the woods yet, Robinavitch," you chuckle lowly, a gentle hand tipping his chin back up. "I just don't want you to think that you're unforgivable. Because you aren't, not when you feel guilt far more than you could ever admit out loud."

"I do, it's— some days it feels like I'm drowning," he admits and with his face still angled up towards yours, his eyes close not to avoid your reaction but to rest. To set down the walls he's been trying desperately to rebuild the moment he had lost his temper a few days ago because he doesn't need them anymore.

You gently scratch at his beard, centering him into the moment. "I've been throwing you a lifeline, Michael, I'm just happy you're taking it. Just… don't let me go."

"Never," he vows. A newfound sense of determination fortifies his spine as he gazes up at you. He's still on his knees but in supplication rather than desperation.

"I'm yours, sweetheart. For as long as you'll have me."

The roar of a familiar Bonneville steals the attention of Ahmad and a couple of nurses near the ambulance bay. Larry and Antoine let out an impressed whistle before they're being called back in by Lena to finish up handoffs but Dana raises a brow, puts her cigarette out, and watches Robby climb off his motorcycle—

With a helmet on.

"You're about a month and a half late from your sabbatical, Robinavitch. Didja get lost on your way back from Alberta?" Dana quips and the bright smile she receives in greeting nearly floors her. She hasn't seen that smile since Adamson.

"Never went." Robby throws over his shoulder before he shoulders his way into the locker room. When the door swings shut behind him, Dana's left staring in utter befuddlement.

The rest of the shift brings its usual chaos and little by little, the staff that had initially tiptied around Robby are now staring in blatant bewilderment. Robby's levelheaded, efficient and not as likely to snap at a resident that has a misstep. When he pulls Dr. Al-Hashimi into a spare exam room, Princess hovers to try and catch traces of their conversation.

"… behavior was unprofessional. I did not handle it well and I deeply apologize for my conduct."

"Clearly," Baran replies coolly and a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle follows from Robby. But the other attending places a warm hand on his shoulder. "But it looks like the sabbatical did you good."

"It did. I truly am sorry," he adds with a touch of sincerity that shines through.

Dr. Al-Hashimi gives him a soft smile. "You've been less… volatile. I see that. Maybe keep those temper tantrums for the higher-ups, yes?"

A surprised laugh escapes Robby. "You got it."

The door slides open and Princess quickly makes herself busy, giving both doctors a smile before relaying what she heard to Perlah in rapid-fire Tagalog. The two attendings share a knowing look before separating off to continue checking in on their residents.

In North Five, a young woman sits, relaying her pain around her head after a minor collision of her e-bike against her dorm building.

"I just lost control," she explains to Santos who's carefully examining the laceration on her chin. Her bright blue hair is tied back. "The brakes didn't work and I think there was a rock I didn't see— oh! Dr. Robby? This is your hospital?"

Santos looks over her shoulder to see her attending by the door, his large hands rubbing in the sanitizer. He frowns slightly before realization kicks in. "You two know each other?" Santos asks.

He snaps his fingers as he recalls the student that had been the first to tease you about the nickname he'd given you. "Natalie— right?" At her nod, he offers her a little grin of his own. "We met a few weeks ago, she's an art major. Did you tell your professor you're not coming to class, kid?"

"I did, I shot her an email when I was in the waiting room," Natalie confirms. Such dad behavior, she thinks to herself.

Santos' head moves back and forth in absolute confusion but decides it isn't her place to figure out the connection between the two; she'll just ask Princess or Perlah later.

"Good," Robby nods and starts to retreat, gives a nod of acknowledgment towards his resident. "Dr. Santos will take good care of you. I'll be at Central if you need anything."

The cacophany of the emergency room floods in when Robby opens the door to leave. When the door shuts and envelops them in silence, Santos turns to Natalie. "How do you know him?"

"He's dating my professor."

"I'm sorry, what—?"

News travel fast in the pitt and soon, Ahmad's got a new betting pool drawn up before noon:

Doctor

Doctor (at PTMC)

Nurse

Nurse (at PTMC)

Teacher

Lawyer

In between patients, Santos makes her way over to the security station and hands over a twenty while ensuring her poker face is on. "Put me down for art history professor."

Ahmad gives her a suspicious look. "You know something."

"I have a hunch."

The security guard takes the twenty without breaking contact, scrawls her name down on a bright post-it before slapping it onto the board.

By late afternoon, a woman walks through the ambulance bay. Gravity seems to shift, the space of the emergency department rearranging to center her. Heads turn as she walks by, gazes linger.

"How can I help you, hon?" Dana asks, peering above her glasses while balancing a clipboard against her hip. "Do you have family in here?"

You shake your head and when you smile, it's infectious. Jesus, Dana thinks, you're like sunshine incarnate. "No, I'm here for Michael— sorry, Dr. Robinavitch?"

Surprise paints itself onto the charge nurse's features, brows flying up as a wicked grin curls onto her lips. "Oh, yeah? He's with a patient right now, but I'm sure he'll be right out. You wanna wait in the break room?"

You shake your head with a sheepish laugh. "I'm on a lunch break but I have his wallet, could you give it to him when you get the chance—?"

"Sweetheart, what're you doin' here? Is everything alright?"

Robby's imposing figure cuts through the staff of the emergency department, instinct having everyone part like the red sea as he makes his way towards you. The intense weight of concern and worry in his gaze nearly floors you so you're quick to reassure him with a smile, a hand on his chest. "I'm fine, you worrywart. You left your wallet on my dresser," you chuckle as you retrieve his tri-fold from your purse.

In the background, the entire department almost goes still — or rather, as still as the pitt could be — as they watch the entire scene unfold. Even Joy's mouth is agape, staring at the grumpy old attending nearly buckle under your sweet attention.

"Thanks, Peaches," he chuckles and pockets the wallet before his hand finds your waist. It sates the need to be closer to you but he has enough sense to keep himself from kissing you in front of his colleagues and subordinates. "I'll see you at home?"

"Mhm, I'll see you tonight, Michael. Don't forget your helmet, alright?"

"You got it," he promises, then gives in to drop a fleeting kiss to your hair. When you exit, Ahmad snaps to attention and rushes out with the most important question of the day.

"What's your occupation?"

You pause and look over your shoulder, an incredulous chuckle spilling from your lips. "Art history professor. Why?"

He only groans in response, waving away your questions as he trudges back inside. Before you walk off, you hear a woman cheer in utter triumph.

"Oh, fuck yeah—!"

"Language, Santos."

Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.  

That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience. 

You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it? 

Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming? 

83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her. 

You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created. 

You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.  

You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest. 

You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?” 

You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department. 

Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room. 

You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.  

And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. 

It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong. 

You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.  

But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station. 

“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.” 

You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine. 

“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that. 

The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out. 

His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.  

You couldn’t get out of there sooner. 

It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible. 

You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare. 

You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears. 

But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.

You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all. 

You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird. 

“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station. 

“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime. 

There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.  

“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head. 

“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.” 

He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused. 

“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through. 

Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night. 

You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out. 

He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket. 

“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact. 

There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over. 

“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving. 

He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.” 

Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.

You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.  

“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator. 

The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs. 

“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman. 

You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head. 

You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements. 

By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.

The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill. 

You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way. 

And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance. 

It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body. 

You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central. 

“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips. 

And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again. 

He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”  

“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him. 

He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”

You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack. 

“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.” 

Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried. 

You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you. 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale. 

He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in. 

“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you. 

You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there. 

Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had. 

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician. 

Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak. 

You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.

“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in. 

“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded. 

“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?” 

Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”   

Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times. 

It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could. 

It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.  

He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling. 

He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.

And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up. 

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.  

“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.

The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that. 

You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue. 

You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor. 

Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you. 

You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break. 

That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?” 

Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory. 

And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now. 

His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now. 

You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions. 

He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office. 

Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.  

It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock. 

“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy. 

The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?  

It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you. 

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing. 

You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.” 

He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.” 

Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.  

He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.” 

You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk. 

He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it. 

“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips. 

He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.” 

You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.    

“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?” 

You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.” 

He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology. 

Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway. 

It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam,  caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth. 

You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time. 

It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up. 

You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through. 

Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later? 

Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it. 

You: sounds great, see you later :) 

You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.

It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office. 

“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.” 

You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him. 

It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend. 

But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop. 

“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?” 

“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.” 

“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”

“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.

“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.” 

You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.  

“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly. 

He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”   

Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.” 

You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you. 

“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”  

You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.” 

Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.

“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”  

You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones. 

You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul. 

But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him. 

You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door. 

“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow. 

Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing. 

He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk. 

You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly. 

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away. 

You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.  

He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–

CLANG! 

The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.  

You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise. 

A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it. 

“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.  

He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.

“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back. 

You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.” 

He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out. 

“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.  

You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.

You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak. 

You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously. 

You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face. 

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought. 

“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously. 

“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.  

“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.” 

“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.” 

“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.” 

You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force. 

Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind. 

You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always. 

But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel. 

And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure. 

You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork. 

“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate. 

“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break. 

He looked skeptical, but didn’t push. 

“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient. 

You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you? 

Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will. 

He just doesn’t know how to let her down.

He probably feels guilty.

Her fawning over him is not cute.

You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say. 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.  

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” 

You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.” 

Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you. 

He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish. 

“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back? 

He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing. 

“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.” 

You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?” 

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words. 

“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?

“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color. 

“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.” 

You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to. 

“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again. 

“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked. 

“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,” 

“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively. 

He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday. 

“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek. 

You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in. 

His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.

He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss. 

He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was. 

You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate. 

When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach. 

He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” 

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him. 

He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw. 

You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you. 

“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?” 

“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.” 

A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job