Dia

Stupid.

That’s the only word you’ve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.

So stupid it hurts.

You’re gripping the lip of your bathroom sink hard enough to ache just to ground yourself to some semblance of reality as you try to convince yourself not to call off work. This is a stupid reason to call off work. It’s a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. You’re being stupid, stupid, stupid. You wash your face robotically, scrubbing hard enough to roughen your cheeks until they sting, and wipe your skin harshly with an old towel. You’re trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like it’s been since Friday night.

Digging through your dirty laundry, you find the most acceptable pair of Figs you can, maroon from last Thursday, and tug them on. You didn’t do your laundry this weekend. Couldn’t. The scrubs barely cover the bruises at the tops of your arms, a fading reminder of when you still had hope for a new dynamic that could give you what you want. Need. If you’re being honest. You imagine in excruciating detail someone at work catching you with bruises. Fuck, is that a hickey above your neckline? Dammit, you told the guy not to do that. Stupid, desperate, useless – and in med school. Good work, Lefty.

Turtleneck it is.

The whole bus ride over – you miss the first one, of course – you’re just trying not to cry. Eyes burning, breaths shallow, little old ladies glancing your way with concern on their faces. You fidget with your sleeves, pick at your hang nails, anything to avoid checking your phone for the billionth time to see if he’s messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence that’s had you questioning yourself every second of every day since he left you in your bed.

Pushing into the hospital, you take a few deep breaths and try to let the familiar sterile smell steady you. The clock in the locker room nags at you for being half an hour late. The tears nip at your waterline again and you focus on the deep breaths, giving yourself mental orders to keep your head on straight. Open your locker. Put your bag away. Clip on your badge. Head to the nurse’s station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you say as you check in with Dana. “I missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-”

“Save it, kid, we need you working ASAP.”

She hands off your clipboard with notes from the day shift and you pore over it as quickly as you can. With embarrassment burning your lungs, you mumble, “Right. Of course. Thank you.”

You turn around – and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.

“There’s my favorite fourth year,” he sighs sharply. “Late and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.”

“Sorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-”

“Can it. We’ve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.”

You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you can’t breathe all of a sudden. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“From you?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I won’t.”

It cuts you deep. Frank’s been sharp with you for years now and usually it slides right off your back; most nights, you can even match him and reach a point where he borders on respecting you. But not tonight. Tonight, you take the charts from him and walk away, meek as a mouse. Your heart’s pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like you’re stupid.

Because you are.

And everyone knows it.

The universe apparently can’t even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into – shoulders bumping too hard – is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Oh god. You can’t look at Dr. Abbot right now. Sweet, intense, gorgeous Dr. Abbot. His eyes are always too sharp, seeing right through you, with that edge of paternal kindness that makes your knees weak. With your eyes anywhere but his face, you grimace and reply, “All good. Don’t worry.”

I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, “It’s good to see you, ace. Didn’t see your check-in on the shift board earlier.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. You miss the first half of the greeting, of course, brushing past anything nice anyone could have to see about you because it couldn’t be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. “Fuck, I know, I’m sorry, it was just a really slow start to the day and I was running for the bus and I missed it by like thirty seconds and…”

As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, “And?”

He’s the first person so far who hasn’t interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what would’ve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. “Nothing. Just a hard weekend. But, y’know, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so I’m getting back on the horse.”

He shakes his head. “Hand those off to Javadi; we’ve got an MVC coming in.”

You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. “Dr. Abbot, I, um, I think I’d like to keep Dr. Langdon’s patients instead. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. “Are you sure? I’m guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.”

“No, I- I don’t mind.” Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, “I’m, um, I’m kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.”

Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll page Javadi.”

Relief floods you.

The last thing you need right now is pressure. A life in your hands.

Precisely why it was stupid of you to take a risk like you did on Friday. You can’t act like this in emergency medicine and you know it. You know it but you still decided to be selfish and desperate and pathetic and-

“I can see you overthinking something from here.” Jack’s hand goes to your shoulder and your eyes snap upwards at the interruption to your derailing train of thought. Suddenly his tone lowers and he takes one small step closer to you. You smell his sharp aftershave. Then he says in that perfectly gravelly voice of his, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, “Of course. Thank you.”

But he doesn’t move his hand. And he doesn’t drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and it’s too much for you to cope with. You need to be small, invisible, a crack in the wall he walks past without paying attention to. But he goes on, “I mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.”

His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isn’t an off day. This isn’t a normal med student having a normal slip in their composure. This is your own fault and you just have to get through it. So you try to muster your courage and assure him, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t always have to be,” he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You don’t catch him cursing under his breath as if the incoming trauma is nothing more than a distraction from being able to talk to you first and foremost. Finally his hand leaves your arm and he repeats, “Find me if you need me, okay?”

With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. “Okay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.”

And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.

For once, you’re thankful that Langdon was being a dick. He’s pawned off two incredibly easy cases to you, which means you can breathe and calm down as you check on them. You definitely give too much attention to the nervous, heavily pregnant patient who has nothing wrong with her but needs reassurance. And you listen to every single concern from the man whose wife took a fall and broke her wrist. She’s healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but there’s something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist that’s been driving him crazy with fear for hours on end. You manage to make it all the way to your lunch break without being snatched into any life-or-death situations, hiding in the comfortable shadows of scut and stitches.

Meanwhile, in every quiet moment of supervising the trauma, Jack replays your conversation. Something about your expression felt too familiar to him. The darting of your slightly glassy eyes, stuck on a skipping record going between thoughtlessness and overthinking a million times a second. Too far away but also claustrophobically close. One hand twitching at your side while the other gripped the chart for dear life. Too many contradictions to fit inside your precious, shallow-breathing body.

As soon as both his patients are stabilized and headed up to surgery, Jack’s scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. He’s done two full laps before deciding concretely that you aren’t with any patients and you aren’t handling any traumas. He finds you in one of the breakrooms, standing with the fridge door open and your brows furrowed.

Just to start the conversation, Jack puts on a soft lilt and tries a joke first. “Whitaker forget his leftovers in there again? You’re mean-mugging the shelves.”

Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, “I thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didn’t.”

He doesn’t miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that you’re trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.

That’s when Jack realizes.

The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way you’re speaking.

You’re dropping.

Well, more accurately, you’ve dropped. You’re in the middle of it now.

Jack’s been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, he’s always putting out fires that someone else started. When he’s with a sub, he gets to break someone down and build them back up, to make the decisions and get the rewards that come from them, to be the center of someone’s universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he would’ve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.

He’d had suspicions about you before. How you puff up your chest at the slightest praise, how you crave rules and rewards in equal measure, how you’re always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily – but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you can’t find, the details are slotting into place.

With you still frozen in place, Jack takes his own lunchbox from the fridge. Then he touches the small of your back, nods at the nearby table, and tells you firmly,  “Sit with me. Have half my sandwich and we’ll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.”

You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. “That’s okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- It’s alright. I’ll order something to the hospital.”

“You won’t,” he counters. Soft. Certain. You’re lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you won’t be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, “Sit.”

It’s uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.

Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jack’s decisive, simple instruction feels like a map to get out.

So you sit.

He sits with you.

You try to argue again when he cuts the sandwich in half on the diagonal, but a single look from him quiets it. He slides it over on a hospital paper plate and asks, “Where’s your water bottle?”

Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich – Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmer’s market fillings – with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, “I left it in my locker. I’ll go and grab it in a minute.”

He shakes his head and stands. “I’ll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?”

The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, “I forgot to put it on this morning.”

Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your personal life – if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake – but he knows a good partner wouldn’t leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just ‘one of those days.’ Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You can’t push through this on your own. You need someone else to put you back together.

Not wanting to overstep or push prematurely, he gently touches the top of your head and says, “Just eat. I’ll be right back.”

Jack swears he’s never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he can’t outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you haven’t touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you haven’t had a full meal since…whenever this started. He saw you at work on Friday, so sometime this weekend. He sits down across from you and hands over your water bottle. “Here. Drink some.”

You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs you’re creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows you’re putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You don’t want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesn’t push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.

Before you know it, you’ve actually finished eating. You hadn’t felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.

Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. “Good job. I’m proud of you.”

The words open up a dusty window in your chest. A touch of warmth and light breaks through the mildew and cobwebs. Objectively, you know it’s silly. Proud of you for…eating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But that’s not what your brain’s saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, “Thank you.”

Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. He’s not sure if he should bring it up to you. That he knows. It would seismically shift the dynamic of your relationship. If he plays it wrong – makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid – then you’re never going to see him as anything but a dom and you as a sub, a permanent power imbalance that goes far deeper than mentor and student ever could. You’ll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesn’t handle your drop correctly.

While he decides whether or not to reveal his hand, he resolves to help you in a way he knows only he can. Sure, you could go to Dana the way you often do when you need something. You can vent to Whitaker or lean on Ellis. But there are ways he can support you that are unique. That’s what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal he’s kept for his past subs, writing out his observations about your current state and how he thinks he can address it. He always makes sure to keep himself in order first and foremost. If he brings his best self to you, he’ll inherently help more than if he didn’t dedicate time to it.

He resolves to guide you as much as he reassures you, to praise you twice as often as he corrects you, to watch out for you and shield you. And he’ll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and don’t push yourself too hard. That’s what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If he’s careful, you won’t even notice the role he’s going to step into until you’re sure on your feet again.

He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. That this isn’t an admission of the feelings for you that he’s been shoving deep down for – if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by – years. You’re older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way it’s made you vulnerable. He needs that in his life, a compliment to his closed-off brashness. You bring out his ability to be open with patients and softer with his doctors.

So helping you through this certainly isn’t about his feelings. It’s for the good of the night shift and the hospital as a whole, really.

Really.

After another shit day of sleep and half-finished breakfast, you’re more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least you’re on time today, so there aren’t any jabs about your arrival – which is good, considering you’re ready to bite the head off anyone who bothers you. You felt it before you even fell asleep this morning, restless and sweaty. Your racing thoughts have stopped pulling you under and now they’re just pissing you off. You’re fidgety and annoyed with fingers that flutter absently at your side and a jumpy heart rate that leaps when anything catches you off guard.

While you flip through the charts left by the day shift, Jack strolls into the ED with two boxes of donuts from a shop he knows you like. He breezes past, giving you a warm smile, and takes them straight to the breakroom. Unsurprisingly, a row of ducklings follows him to snag their favorite ones. You don’t bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. You’d made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best you’ve done on your own since Friday.

But, as you start to put together an order of operations for the first half of the shift, Jack approaches you with his hands behind his back. “Morning, ace.”

“Evening, Dr. Abbot,” you reply without looking up.

“Just wanted to make sure I let you know how good of a job you did yesterday with Mrs. Jacobs yesterday. The pregnant patient with anxiety. She filled out a patient satisfaction survey-” which Jack had personally asked her to do “-and you got tens across the board.”

That perks you up slightly. “Really?”

He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You don’t notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, “‘When I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. It’s the most validated I’ve felt by a medical professional in a long time.’” Jack’s smile is affectionate. Proud. Like he’s really seeing you for who you are. “Great work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.”

Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, “Thank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didn’t screw everything up yesterday.”

Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, “You didn’t screw up anything.”

“But I didn’t help with that car crash and-”

He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it – maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that he’s slowing down your inner monologue – makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever he’s going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, “Being a good emergency medicine doctor is about more than scrubbing in for complicated, impressive procedures and saving lives with beating hearts in your hand. Your notes were perfect, you cared about your patients, and you showed up. It’s the beginning of your career; I’d say that’s damn good.”

After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. “You’re being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.”

“I’m always nice,” he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, “What’s your go-to?”

Grimacing, you reply, “I usually get a bear claw, actually.”

“I’m glad I remembered correctly.” Jack takes the smaller box he’d set down and opens it to flourish a big, fluffy, thickly-glazed bear claw like a proud magician, holding it out to you with wax paper. “Got one for you special.”

Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, it’s with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like it’s an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, “You remembered my favorite pastry?”

He chuckles, “The gray adds ten years; my mind’s not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming I’m ancient.”

You giggle, “No, the gray is sexy.”

You only realize you’re saying it when it’s already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jack’s cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, you’re so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word that’s been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, “Sorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- I’m sorry. I’m still, um, waking up.”

Then he reaches forward and tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is way too intimate for standing in the middle of the ED, but the world has just narrowed in to the two of you and nothing else, so you don’t care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. They’re smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When he’s satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, “Don’t apologize. Eat.”

There’s no way out of eating the hearty pastry – it’s not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him – so, even though your brain is still screaming that you don’t deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesn’t move and you can tell it’s a silent order, like when he ate lunch with you yesterday. So you force yourself to take another bite and then another. When you finish it, you lick the sugary glaze from your fingers and Jack prays you don’t notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.

After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, “Good job. We can get going now. You’re shadowing me today.” Nodding in another direction, he informs you, “We’re starting off rounds in trauma four.”

He didn’t offer you any other options, so you can’t go searching for them. The thousand directions your day could’ve gone in fizzle away into one path: You’re shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind. 

You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.

Things make more sense when you’re under Jack’s direct supervision instead of Langdon’s or even Dana’s. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know there’s a second pair waiting in case you fail. Any time he lets you take the lead on a minor procedure, even something as simple as sutures, he places a hand on your back or your waist or your arm, never holding you too close or too hard to be suspicious. It doesn’t melt you; it builds you. He’s scaffolding.

You’re just starting to feel like your feet are firm beneath you when all the attendings are pulled into a major trauma, leaving you unmoored without the north star of Jack for you to follow. You’re taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdon’s voice a few rooms down.”

“Lefty, get in here!” He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. He’s tying on your gown before you’ve even gotten a look at the patient. “You’ve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?”

Gloving up, you nod and confirm, “A handful – supervised.”

He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. There’s a lot of blood around her head and neck; you can’t tell what’s wrong. But Langdon focuses you: “OB’s on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. She’s nearly crowning; we’ve gotta get the baby out.”

Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones you’ve both observed and assisted. “How far apart are contractions? Where’s she at?”

“Two and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.” He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. “Should be simple.”

“Got it.” You take your position in front of the stirrups, checking over the equipment that a nurse has prepared for you. After checking the fetal vitals and taking a second to compose yourself, you guide the mother through the next contraction. Despite her obvious exhaustion and pain, she’s able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdon’s gruff grunting, “Head is out. You’re doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and we’ll be done and you’ll both be on the road to recovery.”

She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard she’s fighting it, you can tell she’s tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.

You watch the next contraction wash over her – and the baby’s head doesn’t move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, “Doctor, I think I’m seeing shoulder dystocia.”

Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, “You’re going to need to deliver the posterior arm.”

The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you aren’t even sure which one that is. You haven’t done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, “Should I go and get-”

The patient slips out of consciousness before the question’s out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, “Just pull!”

“No, that’s-”

He’s not listening to you.

He’s not listening to you and the baby can’t take a breath yet.

I know that’s not the right thing to do. That’s not the right thing to do. But what the fuck is the right thing to do?

You know the situation requires very specific maneuvers that you just can’t do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. “Dr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-”

Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, “Shut up and let me focus.”

You nod. Try to steady yourself. As careful as you can be, one shaky hand slips to your pager on your waist while the other desperately tries to stay in place. Your mind races. The baby’s face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know there’s time. But that time is ticking by fast.

You know it’s more dangerous for you to try something you’ve never been trained in than to find someone else to take over, even if it uses up the sixty seconds you have before things get serious. So you look at the baby’s straining face and whisper, “It’s okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbot’s gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.”

After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, “Dr. Langdon, I don’t know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I can’t move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-”

Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. “You don’t need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!”

The door shoves open behind you, cold air rushing into the claustrophobic space. Jack storms in, grabbing his gown and gloves and moving superhero comic book fast. “What the hell is going on that I’m getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?”

Langdon’s hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, “Seriously, Lefty? You paged our-”

You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, “Baby’s presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I can’t do this. I don’t know how.”

Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdon’s doing procedures you could’ve handled while other help came, he barks, “Langdon, why the hell haven’t you switched with her?”

“Because I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-”

“She’s a fucking student, Frank!” Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, “You can let go, ace. I’ve got him now in plenty of time.” You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heart’s pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, “Go get some air. You did the right thing. I’ll find you after.”

It’s another half hour before Jack’s able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he would’ve expected you to bounce back, take a quick break, and jump to another patient, probably seeking out Shen to get your hands on something interesting from the ambulance bay. But not this week. Definitely not this week. Jack knows a handful of your usual hiding places, so he scouts through them going from the closest to the patient's room out, using his last break of the night for you.

He finds you in a far, seldom-used stairwell, underneath the first set of steps so you’re completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesn’t startle you. He’s met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. “Dr. Abbot?”

Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. You’re sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You haven’t stopped crying since you left the delivery; he’s sure of it. “Hey, ace.”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.” Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, “How are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?”

“Baby’s up to the NICU for monitoring, mom’s in surgery.” Jack sighs – heavier than you’ve ever heard – and tells you, “Langdon shouldn’t have put you in a position like that knowing full well you’re a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick could’ve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. I’m filing a report.”

You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. “I should’ve-”

“Should’ve what? Ripped a baby’s arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that you’ll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, “You did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to listen, you called for help. Langdon’s gonna take it poorly because he’s an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.” He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, “Makes me even more certain you’re going to be a great doctor.”

You can’t even say thank you. Your throat’s too thick with how badly you needed to hear his sweet and true affirmation after Langdon shouting at you and making you second-guess everything you’ve been taught. The problem, though, is that your brain keeps pushing back against it. Your lungs are hot and tight as you struggle to even breathe. Jack’s eyes are just too warm, too kind, too lovely for you to possibly deserve. You hang your head and try to focus on breathing as your thoughts move too fast for you to even get a look at them.

Seeing you falling apart beneath the praise, Jack touches your chin to make eye contact. There are a thousand questions on his lips, but ultimately he asks the simplest one: “Can I hug you?”

It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.

Then you nod. It’s tiny, meek, hesitant.

But when he wraps his arms around you, strong and steady, you break. The sobs come hard and fast and frantic as a child lost in a store. You’re weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jack’s shirt and heave out wicked, fast tears so intense they make you want to throw up. Everything shakes like the chase scene in a horror movie. It hurts.

With his arms absolutely locked around you, Jack orders, stern but soft, “Match your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.”

You keep sobbing and shaking against his chest, but he stays steady. His chest rises and falls. His breaths are warm and slow against your ear. And eventually the rhythm pulls you out of the fear and the doubt and the panic. Your breaths are trembling and hiccuping, but you manage to force them to calm down.

As you begin to come down, Jack rubs your back and murmurs, “Good. That’s good.”

“Jesus, this is so stupid.” You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like they’re parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. He’d never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, “Sorry for being so – I don’t know– ridiculous the last few days. This isn’t- I promise I’ll be better. This is- It’s a temporary thing. I promise.”

Jack takes your face between two hands. They’re calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, “I’m here for you – even if it isn’t.”

You’re silent for a long time. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the vents in the stairwell, the cinderblock walls insulating all the chaos of the ED. Realizing slowly that Jack is still holding you close, you whimper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Jack almost scoffs. “Because you deserve it.”

The response is so immediate you have to believe it: “I don’t.”

Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, “Who made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?”

You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but you’re spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. “I- I had this date on Friday night and he- We were having a really good time- What I expected. And then I needed- I needed him to stay but he- he left. And I was alone and I know that doesn’t make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how I’ve been acting but-”

“It doesn’t sound crazy.” He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. He’s treating you like gossamer. “I understand.”

Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, “You don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so you’re pressed against the wall.

Placing one hand on the side of your head, he rakes you over with a gaze that burns.

In one look, your whole body turns to melting wax and drifting smoke, burned to the bones by how completely and totally dominant he looks in this moment. It’s not frightening and you can tell he’s not even trying to be as sexy as he is. Which is very, very sexy. His biceps push against his short sleeves and his jawline is tight and you’ve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years – protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash – you’ve seen a flash of how he’s looking at you right now.

But you never realized what it is.

Then he repeats, “I understand.”

And it’s clear as day after a long night shift.

“I’m here for you, ace, because I understand completely.” He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, “Until you’re through this, I’m here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?”

The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isn’t your dom, he still sees the truth of what’s happening. That’s enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath – no shaking – and give a tiny smile. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” he corrects gently. “I want you to call me Jack from now on.”

Dr. Abbot – Jack – wipes your tears, leads you through a few more breaths, and then guides you back to the ED and through the rest of your shift. He makes it perfectly clear that, until you feel back to normal, your job is to stick to him like glue, only leaving his line of sight if absolutely necessary. With that order in your mind, the night ends easily. Your charts are immaculate, your notes clear, your sutures straight as an arrow. All because Jack sees you. Every layer of you.

As you’re collecting your backpack from the locker room – you haven’t been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body – Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frank’s shadow eclipses your light.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. Quickly. Like it’s a shameful secret. “I was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. I’m gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, y’know, first steps. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, doctor,” you reply, barely above a whisper. “I understand.”

“Alright, good. We’re cool, then. Great.” He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, “See you tomorrow, Lefty.”

You sigh and force a smile. “Bye, Dr. Langdon.”

As Langdon heads out, not even able to look at Abbot, Jack nods for you to join him. You fall into step on the way to the staff entrance and he asks, “Why do they call you that anyway? You’re right-handed, yeah? Must’ve started on day shift; I never heard the story.”

The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you can’t shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, “Langdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I don’t think it’s funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I don’t think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.” You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, “Lefty. Because I can’t do anything right.”

Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.

Rage shreds his ribs apart.

He doesn’t exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon – having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his ‘no groveling to Robby’ rule – but he knows one thing for certain: Nobody’s calling you that in his ED again. Nobody’s going to make you feel small. Not while he’s dedicating himself to building you back up.

Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, “Come on, let’s go to the skills lab. I’ll get us food after. I’m gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.”

You don’t freeze because you’re in Jack’s orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, “What? Why?”

Jack doesn’t even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, “Because you’re not fucking stupid.”

By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? You’re doing it because you know that Jack’s going to glow with pride when you tell him. Stepping off the bus and into the light, you feel most of the way to being a person. Being yourself.

Jack’s waiting at your bus stop.

You hop into his field of vision and laugh. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

“Thought you could use some company for your walk,” he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. “Weather’s gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.”

You can’t contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, “Anything in particular we need to check in about?”

He starts simple: “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.”

Jack nods, making a mental note. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Eggs on toast,” you tell him. The way it feels like you’re reporting back to a teacher about finishing your homework helps your brain get itself in order for the day ahead. Wanting your gold star sticker, you tell him, “And I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.”

“Good job. Really good job.” He gives you a smile that’s nothing short of hunky. “I know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?”

You shake your head meekly. “I was way too tired. I didn’t shower before my shift, either.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yeah, and flossed.”

“That’s enough for today,” he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, “Have any plans for your week off besides R&R?”

“I think I should probably take it easy,” you admit with a sad little sigh. “I want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.”

“That sounds like a plan. I’m off, too; we can call when you need accountability.”

You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he can’t see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. “Perfect. Thank you.”

He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. “It’s no trouble, ace.”

The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesn’t mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. He’s too human to let you fall. The two of you put your bags and lunches away. You fall into step behind him as usual, following him like a puppy to the nurse’s station where he goes through handoff with Robby. You listen intently as he gives orders to everyone, catching up on patients and procedures that need to be tended to.

Once the ED starts churning for the night shift, you go to check on one of your patients from yesterday who’s still admitted. At the same time, Langdon’s approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. “Evening, Lefty, ready to-”

Jack’s bark – from more than ten feet away at the nurse’s station – interrupts him: “Langdon, c’mere a second.” Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurse’s station. You follow slightly behind, curious. Jack was listening to Langdon with borderline military skill, trained in on a conversation far on the periphery just because you were in it. When Langdon’s close, Jack says, short and direct, “I don’t want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Job’s hard enough as it is.”

Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jack’s shit list when he’s already deep in it. “Aw, but Lefty doesn’t mind, do you?”

Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, “If I hear you call her that one more time, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

You try to squeak out, “It’s okay.”

When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. There’s nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. “It’s not. It’s really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.” After you scamper away, headed back to your intended patient (suppressing a smile because you know Jack is about to ream Langdon on your behalf), Jack tugs Langdon close by his scrub top. Frank’s never seen his eyes so dark. “Don’t say it again. Or you’re gonna be ‘Righty.’”

Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. “And what’s that mean, gramps?”

“You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.” Jack lets go of Langdon’s shirt and shoves the center of his chest. “Better yet? Stay away from her. Until HR’s reviewed your case from yesterday, I don’t want you within six feet of her.”

“I think that’s a little bit of an overreaction to-”

“You don’t want to see me overreacting,” Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. “Do your job. That’s it.”

The shift is a killer. The kind you’ve been dreading all week. It’s non-stop energy. As a med student, you spend the whole night running around from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse, jumping in wherever they need you and clearing up paperwork and doing all kinds of scut. The flow is intoxicating and stressful at once, both rejuvenating and draining. You feel your adrenaline spike every time the exhaustion threatens.

But, every step of the way, there’s Jack. He’s a whirlwind, but he’s always there. A touch to your waist, a quick word of affirmation, maybe just a brief moment of eye contact to ground you. Even when he’s not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. You’ve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jack’s been the scaffolding, but you’re still the structure he’s been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jack’s healing, you’ve remembered that you’re worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that can’t truly be taken from you.

You’re so deep in the rhythm of the shift that you barely notice the night passing. By the time Dana taps your shoulder to remind you to take your last break, you’re practically glowing because you’re so proud of yourself for getting through emergency after emergency without breaking down. With your Gatorade and granola bar in hand, you peek around for Jack and frown when he isn’t in any of the usual spots. Because it’s become commonplace, you shoot him a text: i cant find you anywhere :(

His text back is almost instant. Just enough time to take his phone from his pocket and type. Roof.

You’re in the elevator within seconds. The ride up feels ten times as long as usual and the final set of stairs to the roof access is even worse.

Jack’s right where you expect. Where he often is this time of night. Watching the sunrise over the city. His silver hair is illuminated by glowing pink and orange, making him positively radiant as he smiles at you. “Good morning, ace.”

You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. “Morning, Jack.”

His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, “You’re smiling again.”

“I’m happy,” you hum in return. “I did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.”

Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. He’s been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. “I’m sure you were. That’s my girl.”

Those two words reverberate around your chest, warm and cozy. The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a minute, you finishing off your granola bar and him admiring either you or the city depending on if you’re at risk of catching him staring or not. As you tuck your trash in your pocket, you nibble your lip a moment and then tell him, “It’s been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.”

Eyes linked with yours, he assures, “The feeling’s mutual.”

You want to ask if that’s the only feeling that’s mutual.

But you can’t bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you can’t imagine blowing it and losing the foundation you’ve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, “You really don’t think it’s kind of, I don’t know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?”

Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. “Pathetic?” He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, “When you open yourself up like that to a partner, it’s sacred. It means everything. You’re saying, ‘hey, here’s all of me,’ even if it’s new. For someone – anyone – to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back up…” He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “Honestly, that makes me fucking sick. You’re not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.”

You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. “Sounds like I might need to raise my standards.”

“If the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, I’d definitely agree.” He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, “Where do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?”

“FetLife.”

“Figures.” Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like it’s a beer. “He block you on everything right after?”

You cringe and confirm, “Mhmm.”

“What a dirtbag.” 

“Mostly I’m just mad at myself,” you admit sheepishly. “I was being-” at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording “-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasn’t as thorough as I’ve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-”

You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesn’t need to know how that sentence was going to end.

It still goes straight to his cock.

Because he knows.

I really need to be hurt.

I really need to be punished.

I really need to be worshiped.

I really need to be dominated.

Spanked, slapped, bruised, beaten, adored, ordered around, tied up, kissed, devoured, owned.

Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how he’d give it to you. But this isn’t the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, “We’ve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.”

You giggle at the idea. “You’ve made some reckless kinky decisions?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he laughs. “Last one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.”

Your eyes widen. Jack’s being playful with you. It’s…everything. “Seriously?”

“Ended up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.” He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. “I had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.”

Your brain’s positively tingling. “You’re a switch?”

“No,” he confirms, saying it like the idea’s ridiculous, “but I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I don’t screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.”

Fuck, that’s hot.

You want to drop to your knees.

He can taste it in the air.

Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, “So stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; that’s all you can do.” Then he opens up his arms and offers, “C’mere.”

It’s impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jack’s warmth counteracts everything. Your hands settle just below his ribs; you can feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt where you fist your fingers in the fabric. He sighs into the hug, deepening it with his breath, and you just breathe together like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. In, out. Jack, you.

“You’ve done such a good job this week. It’s so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,” he murmurs against your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

Sweet and placid as soothing chemicals bristle through your body, a mix of lightness and laughing and desire, you coo against his impossibly broad chest, “Thank you, daddy.”

The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like you’ve been shot. Anxiety strangles you. All of the calm, earned confidence of the previous moment sloughs off and sheds at your feet, leaving you raw and exposed. “Oh god- Oh god I- I’m so sorry. That wasn’t- I don’t know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck I’m so-”

“Don’t you dare,” he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything that’s ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. “Don’t you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress you’ve made this week.”

Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like you’d feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating now. You can’t bear to look at him, the shame too hot and too alive, so he bends down, catches your eyes, wipes your tears. He pulls you into an embrace and kisses your hair, over and over, until you realize he’s not shutting you down but letting you in.

When he feels you shaking from the intensity of your vulnerability, he rests his chin on your head, creating a cocoon with his body, and breathes, “My sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that you’ve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.” Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, “Would you let me take care of you?”

Your heart’s fast-beating in your throat.

The sun’s risen now and the sky is blue.

The sky is blue.

Jack’s pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesn’t move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, “I need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?”

“I think-” You swallow hard and try to tamp down the butterflies whirling around inside of you at a thousand miles a minute. Deep breath. You bite your lower lip a minute, then smile, then nod. “I think I’d like that, Jack.”

He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like he’s breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. “Wait by my car at the end of your shift.”

It’s actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you jog up to his truck with a bashful smile. Sweat clings to your hairline from the last few tasks of the night and your scrubs are rumpled and you know you look like hell, but Jack’s gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, “You still okay with this?”

“Completely and totally,” you confirm – but your voice shakes a bit. It’s a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you don’t even have words for.

Jack notices. Of course he does. He makes sure nobody can see the two of you around his truck and then leans in, hand going gingerly to the side of your face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m nervous,” you admit, biting your lip for a moment.

Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. “We need to work on that habit.”

Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. “We?”

He gives you a cute, sly smirk. “I have a funny feeling that I’m going to be holding you accountable very soon.” Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passenger’s side, opens the door for you, and then goes back to slide in next to you on the bench seat. Turning over the engine and heading out of the parking lot with his arm slung behind your shoulders, he urges, “Tell me what you’re nervous about.”

It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jack’s arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy it’s hard to think straight. When you’ve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, “I just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, y’know, something big. Something good and important and- and real.”

His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. “And that makes you nervous.”

“Yeah.” You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. “Really nervous.”

His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your arm, and to your thigh. Even through your scrubs, the touch sparks with electricity. “I’m sure I can fix that in no time.”

Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. “Touching my thigh certainly isn’t helping with the nerves.”

“Your nerves aren’t a bad thing,” he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. “That just means you care about how this goes. You’ll feel better the more comfortable you get and you’ll get more comfortable when you realize I’m not going anywhere.” Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, “I’m nervous too, if that helps.”

You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. “What could you possibly be nervous about? You’re the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. I’ve seen enough Grey’s to know where that gets you.”

He eyes you and chuckles. “Brain dead due to a delayed CT scan?”

“I meant more ‘able to fuck any med student you want,’ but I’m absolutely thrilled to know you’ve seen the show.”

As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house you’ve ever seen, he replies modestly, “Well, I’ve never wanted to fuck a student before.”

Giggling so that you don’t have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, “I don’t believe you for a second.”

Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. “Cross my heart.”

He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When you’re on your feet, he grabs your backpack and shoulders it along with his own. Then he leads you inside the front door, which opens into a living room outfitted in soft fabrics and neutral tones. You’d pegged Jack for being modern and industrial, lots of leathers and woods, but the reality is far more intimate and endearing.

Like he can read your mind, Jack mutters, “Don’t be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.”

“It’s nice,” you say, really only speaking so that you don’t retreat back into your nerves.

He nods toward the nearby couch – plush boucle like a cloud – and says, “Sit down; I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes.”

He sets both your bags on the floor and says, “I’ll grab you something of mine to wear.”

Once you’re sitting on the couch, your posture a little too stiff, Jack kneels in front of you. He methodically unties each of your shoes and then slides them off your feet to set by the door where he’s abandoned his. Your heart stutters. He’s so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, “Just relax for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

As he leaves the living room for the adjacent kitchen, you try to get comfortable. You imagine Jack curled up here with a book or his laptop, walking up the nearby stairs to his bedroom, which has a lofted split-level balcony overlooking the living room. Fuck, his bedroom. You’re going to find out what Jack Abbot’s bedroom looks like. Does he have a soft mattress or a firm one? Does he sleep on one side or in the center? Does he make his bed before work? Shit, of course he does. That’s obvious from, well, everything  about him.

Jack returns with two steaming plates of fried rice and orange chicken, already apologizing as he sits by your side. “Not the sexiest meal I could’ve offered, but I didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight.”

“Leftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,” you assure him, digging in right away. After you’re satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, “Didn’t think we’d be doing it tonight or didn’t think we’d be doing it at all?”

“Tonight,” he replies. Blunt. Immediate. “I didn’t want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasn’t going to let you go home thinking you’d made a mistake by calling me-”

“Don’t say it,” you blurt out. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“I’m not allowed to say it?” Mischief lights up his eyes and he turns his body properly towards you, setting his plate on the coffee table. Then he says, way too sexy for his own good when he’s being torturously cutesy, “Daddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.”

You shriek, hands flying over your face. “Jack, please!”

“Oooh, I love that one,” he purrs, pouncing on you like a leopard. You lean onto your back as he cages you between his arms. A grin splits your lips open even if you’re way too exposed to meet his eyes. His knee slots between your legs, right against your core, and delight bubbles up in your core. He nips up your neck and teases mercilessly, “Please, daddy, stop it, daddy, I’m so embarrassed, daddy, it’s too much, daddy.”

Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jack’s lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. “Fine, fine! It’s not embarrassing, you win!”

Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, “I liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasn’t for the last time.”

And then you’re kissing him.

You physically can’t stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. You’ll forever remember the way he laughs into that first kiss, bright and vibrant, not shying away from being as silly with you as he is sweet and stern. When you pull back, a little breathless, you insist, “It definitely wasn’t the last time.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Tongue gentle but insistent. Hand on your waist, over your stomach, in your hair. Against your lips, he murmurs, “Good girl.”

And you know you’re done for. You’re soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. He’s got you. Hook. Line. Sinker.

Jack maneuvers himself off of you, shaking his head and laughing under his breath one more time.

The two of you finish eating in a charged but comfortable silence, legs brushing, smiles threatening, everything becoming easy. Your nerves are still beyond present but they’re hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You don’t dread; you want.

After clearing your plates – he insists that you don’t need to do anything – Jack offers you his hand and says, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”

You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to Jack. Neither of you ever mentions this being an out-of-bounds relationship, whether because of age or status, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack’s hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.

It’s perfectly neat, which you’d expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. It’s his sanctuary. The books on his shelves downstairs are neat and new; the ones in here are dog-eared and leafed through time and time again. Elbow crutches lean against the wall next to the bed. On the nightstand, there’s a pair of reading glasses, a folded plug-in heating pad, a small black Moleskine notebook, and an old-school analog alarm clock.

Jack opens up the door to the spacious en suite bathroom and the closet before telling you, “Have a shower. I’ll use one of the guest bathrooms.” He throws a wink at you and adds, “Figured you’d like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.”

You scrunch up your face. “Okay, you’re not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Don’t make things harder for yourself for me.”

“You’re so considerate,” he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, “You’re so fucking special; you have no idea.” After another beat, he goes on, “All the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too – lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I don’t have to strain, voice-activated lights so I don’t have to move. New construction perks.”

“That’s awesome,” you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, “I’ll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.”

He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say ‘just stay here with me whenever you want,’ he’s grateful for your thoughtfulness. You’ll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, he’d tease you unrelentingly for how you’re ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought you’re having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, “Shower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You nod obediently, feeling yourself slipping into a soft headspace with Jack watching out for you every step of the way. He gives you one more soft kiss before leaving you alone. Since he invited you to, you decide to do just a little snooping. The bathroom is categorically boring. There’s supplies for caring for his residual limb, a perfectly organized skincare routine that impresses you, and a medicine cabinet that screams of order. Medication labels facing out – an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising – next to a pill case that’s clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.

Showering with Jack’s products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. You’re wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a lover’s touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. It’s built for showering together. God, you’ve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isn’t even in the room.

After your shower, it’s time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring – how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? – but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. There’s so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. He’s also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he must’ve spent a few years dirtbagging following bands around. Green Day, Nirvana, Oasis, Blink-182. You tug on a Rage Against the Machine one, worn and soft, and some heather gray boxer briefs.

Once you’re dressed, you discover an entire dresser in his closet dedicated to kink gear, neatly organized and methodically maintained. Ropes in different colors and materials, sets of restraints from cuffs to straps, implements you only recognize from the couple of clubs you’ve visited where more experienced people did scenes for everyone. Crops in more than one size, a bamboo paddle full of holes, a many-tailed flogger, a fiberglass cane. An entire range of sensations waiting to be inflicted. A ball gag, a bone bit gag, a ring gag with a large opening. The toy collection is particularly impressive. Dizzying almost. A flight of butt plugs in different sizes alongside small and large beads, different clit-sucking toys, vibrating wands from pocket-sized to plug-in beasts. Your nightstand drawer pales in comparison, even with your blindfold and bunny tail plug at the ready.

Your whole body’s tingling with anticipation.

Suddenly Jack’s voice behind you snaps you back into reality. “Snoop to your heart’s content?”

You turn to him, eyes widening when you see him still shirtless, gray sweats slung low, the outline of his soft cock mouthwatering. You give a sheepish smile and admit, “I absolutely did.”

He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. “Find anything you like?”

“Mhmm.”

“Want to share with the class?”

You shake your head and giggle, “Uh-uh.”

“Keeping your cards close to your chest I see.” He smirks and closes the distance between you, hands going to your waist. Discovering the slope of your hips. His thumbs rub circles along yours sides. His eyes devour you. He runs his fingers lightly beneath the hem of the tee, checking to see which one you’re wearing, and praises, “You look good in my clothes.”

“You look good. Period.” Finally, you let yourself touch him. Careful. Your fingertips on his stomach. You can feel the strength of his stomach beneath a soft layer of comfy middle age fat. His chest hair is wispy and silver. Freckles dust his shoulders, sparkling down his chest and arms. You dip down and kiss a few particularly enticing clusters, just needing to taste his skin, clean and yielding. He hisses in a breath when your lips make contact with his collarbones. You feel his abs flex beneath your hands like he’s holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, “You’re really beautiful, Jack.”

“And you’re exceptionally sweet,” he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, “How are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?”

You shake your head and nudge up onto your toes so your lips are even with each other. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, give him a soft kiss, and murmur, “Horny.”

As he chuckles – you’re getting addicted to his low raspy laugh – you deepen the kiss and press yourself against him. The warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms. His hands go to your waist and then they part, one going to loop around to your lower back and the other cradling the back of your head. Embracing you. Cradling you. Cherishing you.

You feel his cock hardening against your hip and try not to smile too self-satisfactorially. Honestly, it boosts your ego a bit to know you get him as worked up as he gets you. You reach down to palm him through the sweats with a hungry little moan when you feel how thick he is.

Then Jack’s hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, “Not today, baby.”

Your eyes water immediately. Your headspace is so vulnerable that rejection feels unbearably heavy, especially from Jack. Blinking back the tears that make you feel pathetic, you manage to whimper out, “You don’t want me?”

Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, “I want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.” Touch as soft as if he were handling a Fabergé egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, “But I’m not going to fuck you today. Right now, you don’t need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.”

Hope and gratitude pools inside you. “From now on?”

He smiles at you, so warm it’s like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. “This week I’ve realized I can’t go on pretending I don’t want you to be mine – and only mine.”

You repeat gently, “Yours.”

“Mine.” His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. “If you’ll have me.”

You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, “I need you. I want you.”

“Then I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when – because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.”

As you start melting beneath his intense, owning gaze, he positions you in the center of the room. Trying not to squirm under his gaze, you ask, “If you’re not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?”

Jack’s lips trace the tendons of your neck. The only contact between you. He places feather-soft kisses that make your toes curl. When his lips reach your pulse point, just beneath your ear, he breathes out, “I’m going to worship you.”

“Jack, I-” You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he replies easily. You can tell he’s being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, “Let me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?”

Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, “I’ll try.”

“That’ll do for now,” he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, “I’m going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?”

“Very okay,” you confirm breathily. The word ‘toy’ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. “And you don’t have to ask permission.”

“I do,” he corrects, eyes roving along your limbs instead of meeting yours. Though you can see the lust plain as day in the pink of his cheeks and the quickening of his breath, his gaze is more scrutinizing than desiring. Clinical. Doctor Jack Abbot. “Until we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, I’m always going to ask when I start something new. You’re in charge here.”

Even though you nod, you definitely don’t feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture he’s thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. It’s borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. That’s what you feel like. A possession. His hand-selected treasure to keep and cherish and know. When the air conditioning perks up your nipples, your breaths get heavier and you squirm, shifting your weight eagerly from foot to foot just to get some friction against your clit.

In that gravelly voice of his, he orders,“Be good.”

God, he’s reading your mind.

Then he lifts one of your arms, turning your hand over to expose your pulse, where he places a kiss that embeds itself into your veins and pumps straight to your heart. Then he lifts your arm with one hand and drags the other down your side, tracing the entire length of you from fingertip to hip, stopping only at the waistband of your underwear. When he grazes the side of your breast, not paying attention to the sensitive skin but just skating by, you can literally feel wetness pooling between your legs. Which is new. You usually have to use lube or a hell of a lot of foreplay with a new partner, but you have a feeling that getting you wet isn’t going to be an issue for Jack.

And he’s noticed.

Of course he has.

On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, “Widen your stance.”

Once you do, his fingers drag up the damp center of his own gray boxer briefs, darkened with your wetness, eyes locked to your face to memorize every reaction. He bends down to kiss your stomach and then over your hip, tongue writing in cursive along the stretch marks you’ve had since puberty. He runs his index finger underneath the waistband of the underwear, still refusing to touch you anywhere that you really crave. He smiles, almost to himself, and coos, “You’re already being so good for me, baby. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Breathily, you moan, “Jack, if you’re not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.”

His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to get you off.”

You whimper. Literally whimper.

Jack tugs down the underwear, carefully sliding them down your legs and then helping you step out of them. His hands roam all along your legs, bristling every single hair follicle and goosebump and nerve, the whole time he’s talking. Unrelenting touch. “Look, baby, sometime soon – very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it – we’re going to sit down and have a good long talk. I’m going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. You’re going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. You’ll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want – no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And I’m going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom you’ve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.”

With your breaths speeding up and shallowing, Jack finally touches your nipples. One thumb on each. So gentle. So fucking stupidly awfully gentle. Barely more than a ghosting breath. Somehow that’s way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know he’s craving. His self control is honey.

Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, “Until then – until I know everything I need to know – you have to be good and take what I’ll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. You’re still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; I’m not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And I’m always intense when I’m fucking.” His eyes own yours and he goes on, “I’m just gonna get you off enough times to know you’ll sleep well in your new daddy’s bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?”

You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.

Jack tuts, the sort of sound you’d make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, “You have to use your words with me. You’re gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but I’m big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.”

You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. You’re so desperate for him that you’re stupid all of a sudden – stupid in the best way. Not the ‘stupid’ you’ve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. It’s anticipation and toes curling and trust. You’ve never had a dom place so much focus on you. Not just tossing you around and calling you names but getting inside of your head and making you viscerally present in the moment. It has you tongue-tied and wide-eyed.

Jack crosses his arms over his chest and insists, “I’ll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.”

You match your breathing with his for a minute, one thing that always makes you calm down. He notices, slowing his breaths, guiding you without saying a word. When you can finally come up with the words, they’re so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: “Touch me, daddy.”

Pure want blows Jack’s pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.

“There’s my good girl,” he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. “On the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable – don’t try to pose yourself for me. I promise you’re always going to look sexiest when you’re not overthinking it. Understood?”

With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bed’s silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, “Understood.”

He gives you an approving nod – so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until you’re fully supported and relaxed. Legs spread. His eyes are locked onto your glistening pussy, so inviting to him it might as well be his drug of choice. He sits in front of you on the bed and breathes, “Jesus, your body is…fucking perfect. No other way to say it. I’ve imagined this so many times I can’t believe you’re even more gorgeous than I pictured.”

“You’ve pictured me naked?”

Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, “Absolutely. I’ve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.”

Jack bends down and drags his teeth over your sensitive flesh. His canines dig in just slightly, clearly testing the waters, learning your sensitivity. He lets up only when you let out a sharp cry, nowhere near your personal limit but enough to discover your first pain threshold.

“And your hips,” he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you can’t help imagining how good that exact grip would feel wrapped around your neck while he pounds into you. As his thumbs rub circles into your waist, he sighs, “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.”

Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. He’s looking at your body like you’re a piece of meat. You never understood that phrase until now; Jack Abbot looks like he wants to devour you. Stone-cold serious, he nods and remarks, “These may be the prettiest nipples I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.”

You let out a self-conscious laugh. “That’s your medical opinion?”

“Purely objective, I assure you,” he replies, wearing that sexy smirk of his. Then he bends down, one palm by your head, and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. The way his eyes flutter shut spikes your confidence like little else ever has. He’s positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you would’ve let yourself dare believe. When he sucks hard, he pinches and rolls the other side between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, your legs snap up to wrap around his hips as you gasp. With a satisfied groan, he lets up and confirms, “Yup, the best. Objectively the best.”

Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, “Only thing better is this pretty face of yours.” His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. “I’m going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.”

You believe him.

You believe him.

In response, you open your lips further and take his thumb into your mouth. When you swirl your tongue around the digit, he fights to suppress a moan. You see it in the flex of his stomach and the setting of his jaw. He admires the shape of your lips wrapped around him, imagining how lovely it’ll be to watch them stretch around his cock. Soon, he reminds himself so that he can stay calm. As he withdraws his thumb slowly, he poses, “Fuck, you’re gonna take care of me, too, aren’t you?”

You nod, all mischievous and coy. “I’m gonna be your new favorite hobby.”

“I don’t have a single doubt about it,” he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more – your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair – he orders, “Now look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.”

He knows you’re fucking soaked, so there’s no question of whether or not you can happily and comfortable take his two fingers sliding into your entrance. As he gradually pushes them inside, you let out a sound that starts as a moan and turns into a squeaky, pathetic little thing that lights Jack’s brain on fire with need. Your eyes start to roll back from finally getting the attention you need, but Jack grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your face to center. “I said look at me.”

Your doe eyes lock onto his.

He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, and your mouth falls open with pleasure and need. His thumb moves upward to find your clit effortlessly, adding firm pressure. You nearly weep out, “Thank you, daddy.”

Jack smiles in earnest. “You’re welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.”

You half-giggle/half-moan, “Yes, sir.”

Jack snickers. “Mmm. That’s what I like to hear, pretty girl.”

Then the time for talking and flirting is over. Jack shifts his weight so he can focus completely on getting you off. He twists his wrist so that you feel the full thickness of his two middle fingers as he works them in and out of you, not so much thrusting as massaging. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand replace his thumb, adding more precise pressure around your clit in methodical circles. You go between watching Jack’s rapt face, locked on your swollen pussy, and closing your eyes, lost in the way his fingers stretch you and please you.

You feel the orgasm building for a hell of a long time before Jack finally lets you fall over the precipice into pleasure. It’s slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide you’re ready to cum – you’re grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas – it’s champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jack’s greedy hand and wrist.

The whole time, there’s his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, that’s it, right there, huh? Joining you all the way through. Never letting you get lost. When you open your eyes at the peak, you find his hazels staring back at you. His tousled hair. His freckles. His everything.

When you’ve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesn’t. He leans forward and replaces one of his hands with his mouth, tongue effervescent on your over-sensitive clit. You whine out his name and he just grunts into your pussy, making it perfectly clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. Not until he’s satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. It’s an ego high like no other to have you losing yourself all over his tongue. His high-strung, deeply competent student turned into nothing but babbles and whines like a needy toddler.

With you falling – no, leaping – into that perfectly simple headspace where nothing exists but the bliss between your legs, Jack lets himself get drunk on your taste. Bitter and sweet, creamy and sharp, like a custom cocktail of summertime and holidays. He’s finding himself dipping in deeper, nose on your clit, tongue deep in your cunt, just chasing the high  of you.

He feels a fresh wave of wetness and your pussy fluttering around his fingers and he knows you’re close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. You’re relaxing into him now – no hiding, no acting, just pure admission of need. He can feel you becoming his as surely as he can feel the muscles of your thighs tightening around his ears and neck. No better accessory than a woman getting off. Jack focuses his tongue’s attention on your clit, staying firm and strong against it, while his fingers speed up and grow more intense. Curling. Insistent. Fuck, his forearms look so good when he’s pumping his hand like this. When he adds a third finger to your hungry cunt, your whole body shudders, back arching, thighs clamping, fingers in Jack’s hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jack’s ears.

You cum again and think that has to be it – you’ve never even been together before, for Christ’s sake – but Jack doesn’t let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but you’re the exact opposite – bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, “Too much, Jack. I- I can’t-”

Because it’s new and you’re at where you’re at, Jack listens. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside of you, licks them clean, and moves up the bed. On top of you not, propped on his hands, he plants blooming kisses over your face, your warm cheeks and your sweat-sheen forehead. In between gentle kisses, he asks you, “Think you can do one more for me, baby girl?”

Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, “I- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.”

He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, “The good kind of ‘dunno anything’ or the bad kind?”

“Good kind,” you giggle back, all bashful and sweet as you nudge up to catch another kiss. Then you nuzzle into his shoulder, pulling him down to embrace you and breathing in his scent. “Feel really good, Jackie.”

“Jackie,” he repeats with a chuckle. “Been a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.”

You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. “Is that okay?”

He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, “Honey, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as you’re mine. You’re too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.”

You give him a silly grin. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” He turns you both onto your sides and asks, “Now, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?”

You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, and murmur, “You pick.”

“Uh-uh,” he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, “Not this time. We’re not skipping any steps here; I can’t learn what you need when you need it if you don’t know and tell me first.”

You go still for a minute and then look at him with something close to anxiety in your eyes. Jack clocks it: Fear of rejection. “I think I’m ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?”

Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. “You are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where I’m making all the decisions and you’re just my dumb little slut following orders, you’re safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.”

You poke him in the chest and giggle again, “You’re whipped already, Dr. Abbot.”

“Yeah, I am,” he admits freely. “All I want is to be yours.”

Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like it’s no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong. 

He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, “Open your mouth, sweetheart.” You do so without question and get met with another lovely ‘good girl’ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that you’re coming down. Jack’s brow furrows in concentration like he’s performing a complex procedure as he brushes your teeth, covering each quadrant with military precision. His free hand holds your chin carefully so he can tilt your head based on the teeth he’s cleaning.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, “Swish and spit.”

Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jack’s guidance is so natural for you. It’s easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, that’s worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, “You don’t have to do all that.”

“I’m going to,” he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, “I take care of what’s mine. When you’re with me, you don’t have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.” He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. “I always tend to my pet.”

When she reached him she leaned on his chest, pressing her stomach to his and wrapping her arms around his waist, melting into him. This was one of her favorite things, just standing with him.

And normally it was his too.

But this time he went ridged underneath her hands, spine ramrod straight. He tried to pull in his stomach, praying that she wouldn't notice his odd behavior. Praying that she wouldn't notice anything.

Unfortunately for him, his wife noticed everything about him.

"Simon," she pulled back slowly, just enough that she could see his face but still held him in her arms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, dove." He cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

She eyed him suspiciously, then sank back into the hug, watching him in the mirror. "Okay."

He exhaled, glad that she was gonna drop it. At least, that's what he thought.

She slowly unwrapped her arms, sliding her hands to meet his soft sides. Simon tensed back up, reaching to grab her hands and gently put them back around him.

"What're you doing baby?" She asked, closely observing his expression.

"Just really love hugging you, 'sall." He murmured into her hair, still avoiding her eyes.

Y/N pulled away again, cradling his face in one hand and running her fingers through his hair with the other. Simon sighed, closing his eyes and sinking into her touch.

"Well I'm flattered Si," she whispered, "But I know that's not quite the whole reason."

He froze, still not opening his eyes.

"Talk to me," she pressed a kiss to his cheek, "Let me carry this with you."

Simon could feel his resolve melting away with every time her hands ran through his hair. Maybe he would share this with her, as embarrassing as it may be. His sweet wife had never been the type to make fun of him.

He opened his eyes and stood up straight, keeping his arms wrapped around her but watching himself closely in the mirror.

"Do you, uh-" he cleared his throat. "Do you think I've gotten too soft since retiring?"

She tilted her head up at him, "What do you mean?"

Simon pulled away from her fully and gestured to his gut.

"Look at me, when we got together I was damn near bloody chiselled, and now," he took to squishing his stomach, then turning to look at her.

"Look how tight my pants are now." He pulled at the waistband. "I can barely get 'em zipped anymore."

Simon plopped himself onto the edge of the bed, putting his elbows on his knees and staring at her feet.

"Guess I'm just worried I'm not quite the man you fell in love with anymore."

It was silent in the room for a few moments, the only reason he knew she hadn't left was because he'd been watching her feet. He could feel something welling up in his chest, fear, sadness, and resignation.

An ugly combination.

But slowly, her feet started moving. And soon enough, his wife was standing right in front of him.

"You're right Simon, you aren't quite the same man I fell in love with."

His head snapped up, the same time he felt a crack in his chest, but before he could get a word out she had his face cradled in her palms.

"And I'm not quite the same woman you fell in love with. That's what happens when you spend years of your life with someone." Y/N gazed down at him with such adoration that he could feel her love radiating into his chest.

"And yes love, you are much softer than you were at first, and I'm mighty proud of that."

His head tilted in confusion.

"I've worked real hard at getting you nice and plump." She squeezed his side. "Now that you're able to relax, I wanted to make sure that you were eating enough. Have to keep my husband nice and full."

Simon blinked at her. "Dove, are you telling me that you've been fattening me up on purpose?"

She blushes violently, glancing away from him as her ears burned. "That's not the point, Simon."

He stood up in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I think that's very much the point, sweet wife." He chuckled to himself. "Here I was worried you wouldn't be attracted to me anymore, when this had been your sneaky little scheme all along."

She shook her head, burying her face into his chest. "I can't help that I like you soft." She murmured. "Means that you finally feel safe. And besides," she pulled back and looked at him directly.

"You don't mind that I'm soft, do you?"

Simon scoffed immediately, like the very notion was preposterous. "Absolutely not." He grasped her waist, squeezing appreciatively. "I love my wife with some softness on her. Just gives me more to love."

Y/N hummed with a smile, burying her face back into his chest. "And I love you Simon, no matter how soft you are."

a/n