your aunt was going to ask. she always did. same expression. same concerned little tilt of her head like your love life was a error she was personally trying to make her mission to resolve.

it annoyed you more than you liked admitting.

you had worked too hard. you had survived too many overnight shifts. missed too many holidays and birthdays and pieces of your own life trying to build something meaningful just to have your existence narrowed down to whether or not somebody was waiting for you at home.

you had made peace with it a while ago, quietly and without drama. if it happened, it happened. if not, your life still existed in full colour.

other people just seemed determined to view it in grayscale.

jack dropped into the chair beside you with a tired exhale, his legs stretching beneath the table until the toe of his shoe bumped yours accidentally.

neither of you moved away.

his wedding ring caught briefly under the fluorescent lights when he reached for the abandoned bag of pretzels beside you.

jack never talked about his wife much, but he didn't hide her either. there were small things people learned over time — that he had been married young, that she had died years ago, that he still wore the ring afterward without explanation and without apology.

you had never asked him about it. partly because it didn't feel like your place and mostly because the existence of it had always felt like a line neither of you were supposed to cross.

which was probably why nothing had ever happened between you despite months of lingering looks and conversations that stretched too long after shifts ended.

you had assumed jack felt it too. that whatever existed between you lived permanently in the category of things quietly left alone.

"you gonna open it," he asked, glancing at the envelope, "or are you hoping telepathy kicks in?"

you snorted softly despite yourself.

your thumb dragged along the gold lettering. your cousin's name stared back at you in elegant script that felt aggressively cheerful.

"eventually."

jack leaned slightly to get a better look. "wedding?"

you nodded once.

"you don't sound particularly excited."

you tipped your head back slightly. "because my entire family is gonna be there. and my aunt is definitely going to ask why i'm still single like she's conducting annual performance reviews."

that got a real laugh out of him. "harsh."

"last christmas she asked if i was 'being too picky,'" you muttered. "which is a crazy thing to say to someone who once dated a man that thought foreplay was sending me a thumbs-up emoji."

jack choked on his coffee. you looked over in alarm just as he started coughing into his fist, eyes watering slightly.

"oh my god," you said through laughter. "are you okay?"

he held up a hand, still coughing once before looking at you with disbelief.

"a thumbs-up emoji?"

"yellow too," you said solemnly. "not even one of the skin tone ones. just default settings disrespect."

jack laughed again, quieter this time, shaking his head. the sound settled warmly somewhere under your ribs.

"so this wedding is basically psychological warfare," he concluded.

"exactly."

he hummed, watching you for a second longer than necessary.

the silence between you had started feeling different lately.

charged in this quiet, impossible-to-ignore way. too many lingering glances. too many moments where one of you would look up and catch the other already looking.

you looked at him then, fully intending to make some throwaway joke about him being the perfect fake boyfriend to survive the weekend.

but the words stalled halfway out.

because jack looked unfairly good for a man who was simply eating your pretzels from the vending machine. there was something annoyingly magnetic about him lately. maybe not lately. maybe always.

you were just making the mistake of noticing now.

"you should just come with me," you said lightly. "save me from being interrogated about my romantic failures."

you expected him to laugh it off but instead, he went still and when you looked back at him, he was already watching you.

something unreadable crossed his face before he smoothed it away. "...okay."

your stomach dropped immediately.

"wait," you said, sitting up straighter. "seriously?"

he shrugged, trying for casual and missing by a mile. "if you want me there."

"abbot—"

"sounds like you could use the backup."

you stared at him.

he reached for your abandoned coffee, took one sip, immediately grimaced, and pushed it back toward you.

"this is awful, by the way."

you blinked. "you just drank my coffee."

"i was trying to understand your emotional state."

that startled a laugh out of you so suddenly you nearly spilled the cup. jack smiled a little at that.

"it could be entertaining," he added. "watching your family try to figure me out."

"oh they won't try to figure you out," you said immediately. "they'll decide who you are within thirty seconds and never revisit it."

"great." he leaned back in the chair. "can't wait."

the problem was jack abbot didn't really do things like this. he didn't casually agree to weddings. he especially didn't casually agree to weddings with you.

and the fact he had said yes so easily lodged itself somewhere dangerous in your chest for the rest of the shift.

you spent way too long getting ready not because you cared what anyone thought but because jack was picking you up.

your dress fell against your body in deep satin, somewhere between wine and dark brown depending on the light. it slipped slightly off your shoulders, neckline dipping just enough to feel intentional without looking like you had tried too hard.

the fabric hugged your waist before falling softer around your legs, elegant in a way that made you feel oddly unfamiliar in your own skin.

you kept adjusting it anyway.

once at the waist. once at the straps. once because your hands apparently needed a job or they were going to start shaking.

by the time your phone buzzed with a simple 'here', your pulse was already embarrassing you.

when you stepped outside, jack was leaning against his car waiting for you and unfortunately, that was a problem immediately.

his suit fit him unfairly well. dark, simple, expensive-looking without trying to be. his tie was already loosened slightly like formalwear physically offended him.

outside the hospital, he looked different. sharper somehow. less like the steady er doctor you saw every day and more like someone fully capable of destabilising your emotional wellbeing in entirely new settings.

your pulse stumbled the second he looked up and then stopped completely when his expression changed after seeing you.

just for a second.

his eyes moved over you once before he looked away toward the street like he needed a moment to recover privately.

your heartbeat tripped over itself.

"wow," he said finally, his voice sounded rougher than usual.

you tried to laugh through the heat climbing up your neck. "that bad?"

his gaze snapped back to yours immediately. "not even close."

the sincerity hit harder than flirting would've.

jack cleared his throat softly and walked around to open the passenger door for you.

you blinked at him. "...who are you?"

one corner of his mouth lifted. "thought i should pretend i was raised correctly for one night."

you laughed quietly, shaking your head as you got into the car.

his hand settled briefly against your lower back to steady you. both small and polite and completely ruining your life.

you noticed the absence of the ring almost immediately after. your eyes dropped automatically to his left hand resting against the steering wheel.

bare.

your breath caught before you could stop it and jack noticed instantly. his fingers flexed once against the wheel before he spoke, quieter now.

"figured people might have questions if i showed up as your date wearing a wedding ring."

the honesty of it hit harder than you expected.

your chest tightened painfully as your eyes flicked briefly toward his jacket pocket before back to him.

"it's still with me," he added after a second, his voice low and steady. "just... not on tonight."

something about the way he said it made it clear this wasn't him moving on. it wasn't him letting go.

it was practicality, consideration, and maybe even an attempt to make things easier for you more than himself.

"okay," you said softly. you didn't ask anything else. you didn't ask whether taking it off felt wrong. you didn't ask how long he'd sat with the decision before picking you up. you didn't ask whether he was regretting it already.

somehow not asking felt more intimate than if you had.

you glanced down toward his right leg instinctively when he adjusted slightly in his seat, subtle enough most people probably wouldn't have noticed. but you always noticed with him.

the stiffness after long shifts. the slight hitch when he stood too quickly. the way cold weather irritated it more than he ever admitted.

you had argued with him for almost ten minutes the previous day about driving. him deciding to be your date for already enough of a favor.

"jack, it's over an hour away."

"and?"

"and your prosthetic been bothering you all week."

"i'm surviving somehow."

"you're limping."

"don't worry about it." he had refused flat-out after that, already reaching for his keys in his pocket before he had shook them in your face while you had glared at him.

now, quieter, you looked over at him again. "i'm driving us back, by the way."

jack's eyes flicked briefly toward you before returning to the road. "we'll see."

you narrowed your eyes immediately. "that's not an answer."

a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "you always this bossy outside the hospital too?"

"only with difficult patients."

that earned you a soft huff of laughter and then, after a second, he tapped his fingers once against the steering wheel.

"fine," he said. "you can drive back."

the victory felt weirdly satisfying.

you smiled despite yourself, settling back into the seat as the city lights blurred around you.

and beside you, jack glanced over once—brief, quiet, fond in a way that made your stomach tighten all over again.

the drive blurred past in warm city light and half-finished thoughts. jack drove one-handed, relaxed in a way that somehow still looked deliberate. every so often he adjusted his tie with visible irritation like he was resisting the urge to rip it off entirely.

you kept catching yourself staring at the soft line of his jaw under passing streetlights. the quiet focus in his expression when he drove. the way he looked solid even in silence.

eventually, without looking over, he said, "you're doing it again."

heat rushed into your face instantly. "doing what?"

his eyes flicked toward you briefly. "staring."

you swallowed hard. "sorry."

a faint curve appeared at the corner of his mouth. "i didn't say you had to stop."

your stomach flipped so hard it genuinely irritated you so you turned toward the window immediately to hide the smile breaking across your face.

jack noticed anyway.

you could hear it in his voice when he said, quieter now, "there it is."

you looked back over. "what?"

"the smile you've been trying not to do for the last five minutes."

you hated how warm your face got and you hated even more that jack looked quietly pleased with himself for causing it.

that was the exact moment you realised this entire night was going to be a disaster one way or another.

the venue glowed warm against the dark sky, golden lights spilling across the courtyard while music drifted softly through the open doors.

guests clustered together in little pockets of conversation, champagne glasses flashing in the light every time someone laughed.

the second you walked in with jack beside you, your family noticed instantly.

your cousin maria spotted you first near the bar and immediately pointed between the two of you with the expression of someone witnessing breaking news.

"oh, this is insane," she said before you had even reached her. "you brought a hot doctor?"

you nearly choked on air.

jack, meanwhile, looked completely calm as he held out his hand politely. "jack."

your cousin ignored the handshake entirely and hugged him instead.

"thank you for finally giving this family something interesting to talk about."

"maria," you hissed.

she pulled away only to look between the two of you suspiciously. "wait. are you guys actually together or are you doing that thing emotionally unavailable people do where they stare at each other for six months instead of going on a date?"

jack actually laughed while you stared at him in betrayal.

"wow," you muttered. "great to know who's side you're on."

"she seems perceptive," he said calmly.

maria pointed aggressively at him. "i like him, a lot."

things only got worse from there.

your mother adored him within approximately four minutes. then jack found himself helping your uncle carry extra chairs over because apparently he possessed the deeply dangerous quality of being both attractive and useful.

you watched from your table as your niece anna climbed directly into his lap without invitation halfway through dessert because she had apparently decided he looked trustworthy.

jack didn't even blink. he just balanced her there naturally while she explained something extremely serious about horses.

"that one's mean," she informed him solemnly from his lap while pointing at a centerpiece swan sculpture. "you can tell."

jack nodded gravely. "absolutely. bad energy."

anna looked delighted. your mother looked emotional and you looked like you needed to be tranquilised.

jack glanced across the table toward you with anna still tucked against his side, and something in your chest pulled painfully tight at how easy he looked there.

how natural.

like he had belonged in your life long before tonight.

your aunt eventually cornered you near the drinks table with a glass of wine in hand and an expression that immediately made you defensive.

"he looks at you very carefully," she said.

you blinked. "what does that even mean?"

she shrugged lightly. "like you're something he's trying not to want too much."

your stomach dropped so suddenly. "you are unbelievable."

"i'm experienced," she corrected. "there's a difference."

you rolled your eyes, but heat spreading across your cheeks.

across the room, jack caught your eye over the rim of his drink and then smiled slightly when he realised you had been caught looking at him again.

you looked away first.

the ceremony started and slowly, almost invisibly, something changed.

jack still smiled when people spoke to him. still let your mother drag him into family photos. still nodded politely through increasingly invasive questions from distant relatives who had apparently already decided you were secretly engaged.

you noticed first that he stopped moving.

the little idle shifts disappeared. his expression quieted into something too still for the warmth of the room around him.

at first you thought he was just tired but then the groom's voice cracked during his vows and jack froze. only for a second but you felt it immediately beside him.

his right hand slipped into his pocket and stayed there.

your gaze dropped instinctively to the ring hidden against his palm.

your throat tightened painfully.

he stared forward, composed enough that nobody else would notice anything wrong, but you could feel the tension in him now, sharp and controlled and exhausting.

like he was holding himself together through sheer force alone.

and suddenly guilt hit you so hard it made your chest ache.

you shouldn't have asked him to come.

you shouldn't have put him in a room full of promises and first dances and forever.

you turned slightly toward him, unsure what to even do with the hurt suddenly sitting between you.

the bride and groom swayed slowly at the center while everyone around them softened into blurred movement and warm light. your cousin laughed against her husband's shoulder, her eyes closed like happiness was the easiest thing in the world.

jack looked away first then his hand shifted against yours on the seat. hesitant and barely there, like he almost stopped himself.

your breath caught. slowly, carefully, you turned your hand just enough.

jack took it immediately, his fingers slid between yours like it was the only steady thing in the room.

he still didn't look at you but his thumb moved once over your knuckles while his other hand stayed buried in his pocket around the ring.

past and present held in the same breath.

and you didn't let go.

the night had gone quiet in the way only weddings do after the noise finally runs out of permission to exist.

the reception thinned slowly until it became something softer. chairs being stacked in uneven piles, glassware clinking in distant trays, music fading into something almost imagined rather than heard.

outside, the air had cooled properly now, settling against your skin as you sat on the stone steps behind the venue.

the kind of quiet that didn't feel empty so much as exhausted, like the whole day had finally collapsed into itself.

jack was sat beside you, close enough that your knees brushed when either of you shifted. his suit jacket sat around your shoulders, still warm from him, the fabric heavy in a way that felt more intimate than it should've been.

his tie hung loose, shirt collar open slightly, sleeves rolled unevenly like he had stopped caring about precision hours ago. he looked tired in a way that wasn't just physical.

you could see it now that everything had slowed down enough to notice.

neither of you had spoken for a while.

not because there was nothing to say but because everything felt too close to the surface.

the distant sound of cleanup drifted faintly behind the venue doors. laughter from inside had dulled into occasional bursts before disappearing completely. even the wind felt slower somehow, like it didn't want to interrupt.

finally, your voice broke the silence, quieter than you meant it to be.

"i'm sorry for tonight."

jack didn't look at you immediately. his gaze stayed forward, fixed somewhere in the dark beyond the parking lot, like if he focused hard enough he could keep himself steady in place.

his hands were loosely clasped in front of him, but his fingers kept flexing like they couldn't decide what to do with themselves.

"don't do that," he said eventually.

"i brought you here and—"

"i said don't." it wasn't sharp but just strained like he didn't have the energy to let you take responsibility for something that wasn't just yours.

that should've been the end of it but something in his voice made your chest tighten instead of settling.

you turned slightly toward him and that's when you saw it properly. his jaw wasn't as controlled as it had been all night. his mouth had gone tight in a way that looked like restraint held too long. there was a faint crease between his brows that hadn't been there earlier.

his breathing wasn't quite even anymore, subtle enough that anyone else might've missed it — but you didn't.

"jack," you said carefully.

he exhaled through his nose, slow and uneven, like he was trying to reset something internally.

"i'm fine." it was automatic but not very convincing.

you didn't push. you just stayed there beside him, letting the silence sit again, softer this time. the kind of silence that didn't demand anything from him but didn't leave him alone either.

a long moment passed before jack shifted slightly like his body had tried to hold itself together and failed quietly.

his hands went to his face, slow at first like a reflex he didn't mean to follow. he dragged them across his eyes, as if trying to physically reset something inside himself.

but it didn't work like something inside him had reached its limit without warning.

you saw it in his posture first. the way he bent forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, head dipping like the weight of everything had finally become too much to hold upright. his fingers curled against his face again, but this time they didn't steady him.

his breathing turned uneven.

"jack..." you started, softer now.

he shook his head once, sharply, like he was trying to stop you from witnessing it fully but it was already happening.

his voice came out rough.

"i'm trying," he said, barely audible. "i'm trying to keep it together."

your chest tightened immediately.

he let out a short, broken laugh under his breath but it wasn't humor. it was disbelief at himself.

"it's just... tonight," he added quickly, like he needed something to anchor it to. "weddings are—"

he stopped because whatever explanation he had reached for didn't make it out.

his hand dropped from his face and you saw it then.

his eyes were wet.

not fully crying yet. not openly. but close enough that it made your heart ache, like something in you had dropped in response.

he blinked hard, once, like he could force it back down through effort alone but it didn't work.

his voice broke slightly when he spoke again.

"i thought i could do this."

you didn't move closer yet. you didn't want to overwhelm him or make it worse. so you stayed where you were, steady beside him, letting him have space even as he fell apart in it.

"you are doing it," you said quietly.

he shook his head again, sharper this time.

"no." his voice cracked on the word. he swallowed, looking away like he couldn't stand being seen. "i'm not."

and almost like it slipped out before he could stop it. "i miss her."

that landed between you like something heavy and irreversible.

jack's hands clenched together once, then loosened again like he didn't know what to do with them. his breathing stuttered as he tried to steady himself.

"i see things like this," he said, voice roughening further, "and i think i've gotten used to it. like it doesn't do anything anymore."

his eyes shut for a second and when they opened again, they were glassier, more exposed.

"and then i come here and i realize i haven't."

he looked down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. "and i miss her so much it feels... wrong to still be sitting here."

your chest ached in a way that felt almost physical but you didn't interrupt and just listened.

he dragged a hand through his hair, messier now, less controlled. "and then there's you," he said quietly.

that made your breath catch but he still didn't look at you. he physically couldn't.

"and i don't know what to do with that either."

silence hit again, heavier this time. his voice dropped further. "because it's not the same. it can't be. but it's still there."

his jaw tightened like he hated how honest it was.

"and i feel guilty for even thinking about it," he admitted, his voice breaking again. "like it means i'm letting her go."

that was when his composure finally gave out completely. he covered his face again, his shoulders shaking once as he tried to inhale properly.

it wasn't loud crying. it was controlled grief collapsing under its own weight.

years of holding it in finally slipping through all at once, right there on the steps behind a wedding where everyone else had already moved on to happily ever afters.

slowly and carefully, you shifted closer until your shoulder pressed gently against his. not forcing anything and offering presence without demand.

jack didn't pull away. if anything, he leaned into it slightly like his body had been waiting for permission to stop holding itself so rigid.

his breathing was uneven against your shoulder, catching and releasing in broken rhythms as he tried to steady himself.

you stayed like that.

you let him miss her without interruption. letting him fall apart without trying to reshape it and letting him exist in the space between grief and everything else he didn't know how to name yet.

eventually, his voice came quieter again.

broken, but steadier than before. "i didn't expect this."

you didn't ask what he meant because you already knew.

he let out a shaky breath, wiping at his face once more like it frustrated him that he couldn't just stop the emotion on command.

"i'm sorry," he added immediately, instinctively, like apologising was still his first reflex even now.

you shook your head slightly. "don't. you don't have to be sorry for missing her."

that made him go still.

his breathing slowed gradually after that, not fixed, not resolved, but settling enough that the moment stopped feeling like it might shatter completely.

you thought that would be where it ended but jack inhaled slowly, like he was gathering something heavier than breath.

his hand dropped from his face.

he didn't look at you right away and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than everything else that had come before it—steadier, but stripped down.

"there's something i need to say," he admitted shaking his head once, like he didn't love the vulnerability of even starting.

you shifted, just slightly. your fingers tightened around the fabric of his jacket still around your shoulders—like you had only just remembered it was there.

"i've been trying not to say it for months."

that made your pulse pick up as jack finally looked at you. not like a colleague. not like someone passing time. not like a man trying to behave correctly at a wedding.

just... him.

"i've liked you for the longest time," he said simply.

your breath caught sharply.

he didn't rush it. he didn't overexplain it and just let it sit there in the air between you like it had always been there anyway.

"and it hasn't gone away," he added, quieter now. "if anything it's gotten worse overtime."

a short, almost helpless exhale left him like he was annoyed at himself for saying it out loud.

his gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again.

"i would ask you out," he said, voice rough but honest, "if i wasn't... like this."

he gestured vaguely to himself—not just the night, or the grief, but everything sitting behind it.

"i'm not in a place where i can do that properly," he admitted. "not without dragging all of this into it. and you really don't deserve that."

your nodded slowly and he swallowed, his jaw flexing slightly.

"i need to sort myself out first," he said more firmly, like he needed to believe it. "before i ruin something that shouldn't be touched by this."

you let out a breath that almost turned into something else. not a laugh but something softer, more incredulous. it cut through the tension just enough for you to find your voice.

"jack," you said to which he stopped instantly which mattered more than it should've.

your voice came out steadier than you felt. "you don't get to decide what i deserve."

his eyes flickered—not away, but through that statement, like it landed deeper than he expected.

you hesitated for a moment "and you don't get to decide you ruin things just by wanting them."

your fingers tightened slightly against his jacket again. "i'm not asking you to be whole," you said. "i just wish you'd stop acting like you're not allowed to want anything."

jack didn't answer you right away.

his gaze dropped for a moment, like something inside him had been interrupted mid-collapse and didn't know what shape to take next.

when he looked back up, he still looked wrecked.

very much still human and still carrying everything but now he looked like he was in it with you present, not alone inside it.

For every summer as long as you could remember, your whole family spent at least a week, all of you there together, at the family cabin on the shores of Cranberry Lake.

Well, cabin wasn’t quite the right word. The house was big, 5 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, and 28 windows. You’d counted one summer when your teenage angst had you pouting indoors while everyone else laughed and splashed around.

Up until this year, it had always just been your parents, your two older brothers and whoever they’d been dating at the time, and you. You’d never brought boyfriends with you. No one you’d ever dated felt cabin-worthy. To you, that invite had become a sacred honor. Not even your best friend Trinity had been, despite your parents insisting she should come for a special weekend when the two of you had finished undergrad.

Your oldest brother, Alex, always brought his boyfriend, Liam, and the middle child, Cooper, liked to bring whichever girl he was dating the week they landed in Pittsburgh.

But your parents had never brought anyone along. 

They always claimed that cabin time was family time. 

But this year, that was changing.

“Hi, sweetie,” your mom had sent you that stereotypical ‘please call me’ text that had scared the shit out of you. Turns out, all she wanted to do was make this summer the most painful and torturous of your life. “Did you make it to the cabin?”

“Yep,” you set your wine glass on the coffee table. Through the large bay windows in the living room you could see the sun setting over the still waters. “About 2 hours ago.”

“That’s great. Did the gate work?” The hope was audible in her voice.

“No,” you snorted. As nice as the cabin was, winter had been especially hard on it this year. And even though everyone made an effort to come out individually for a few scattered weekends, nobody had been here since last October. The snow had only just melted a few weeks ago and left more than just the gate damaged. There were water spots, broken gutters, and weak spots on the wrap around porch, not to mention how fucked up the flower beds were.

“The gate did not work,” your mothers sigh was deep and dramatic as you spoke. “I had to push it open. Almost couldn’t. I really thought about turning around and going home.”

Her voice grew faint for a moment as she relayed your troubles to your dad, then she was back.

“Damn, well, then it’s good we’re having someone come take a look.”

“Oh,” this was the first you were hearing about a handyman paying you a visit. It wasn’t surprising, given you’d made the journey 3 and a half months before everyone else with the intent to stay the whole summer to handle the repairs, but your mom hadn’t mentioned making any appointments. “When is he coming?”

“Or she,” your mom corrected. “But fine, he is coming up this weekend.”

“Yeah, but when this weekend?” Your work was remote, you had weekends free, and you were the only family member still living in Pittsburgh so you were volun-told to assess the place.

And, sure, maybe you had zero plans for the next 2 days besides getting a headstart on a summer tan, but you still didn’t want to spend your first weekend sitting and waiting to have to babysit a grown man who was supposed to fix the front gate.

“Umm… maybe around 9:00 or 10:00 AM I think? But it depends on when he’s done with work your dad said,” that seemed a bit odd. “And then he’ll head out Sunday afternoon, I think.”

Since when do handymen stay the night? 

“Mom, what?”

“Did I cut out? Hello? Sweetie, can you hear me?” Her voice was so loud you had to yank the phone away from your ear.

“Ow, no mom I’m still here,” as much as you loved her, you could feel a headache building. “What do you mean the guy is gonna stay the weekend?”

“Oh I thought your dad told you,” she said, like that was an answer to your question.

“Clearly he didn’t,” you grumbled.

“Oh I’m sorry. I told him to text you,” in the background, you could hear your dad blubbering some excuse. “I guess the old man’s memory is going, too.”

You mom was 17 years younger than your dad, and ever since he bit the bullet and finally admitted he needed readers well into his 60s, your mom had been poking fun at him for it.

The thought almost brought a smile to your face but it was foiled by the evermounting frustration that your mom still has yet to explain what the hell was happening.

“Mom, please-”

“Alright, alright,” she finally started to give you the information. “Do you remember dad’s friend, Jack?”

“Dad’s got like 10 friends named Jack,” you were almost ready for a second glass of wine, and if she kept taking her sweet time explaining, you’d run out before the phone call ended.

“Ok, yes he does,” she laughed. “Jack Abbot, the doctor. Very sweet man. He needed a project, so your dad told him he could fix up the place!”

“The emergency doctor?” You vaguely remembered hearing the man’s name, but you didn’t think you’d ever actually seen him. At least not in person. There were a few dusty photos hanging in your dads office of him and his old army buddies and you could just remember your dad pointing him out once, telling you about his job and how he’d saved your dads life, but the memory was fuzzy.

“Yep, that’s the one!”

“Mom, I’ve never met this guy,” as if some old vet ruining your first weekend of peace wasn’t bad enough, he was a total stranger, too. 

“Oh,” she hummed. “I could have sworn he came to your dads 60th…”

‘Now who’s memory is going?’ Your dad shouted in the background before saying something else you couldn’t hear.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, grandpa. I guess he was busy. Oh well!”

Your mood soured with every word.

“Anyways, he’ll be popping up from the city whenever he’s got some free time to work on the place before your brothers and we come in August.”

Great. 

You’d asked your mother to give you Jack Abbot’s phone number so you could at least text to ask what his ETA was, but she’d forgotten and then did not answer a single text you sent her for the rest of the night.

So here you were, up since 8am on a Saturday to wait for some stranger to show up.

You were just cracking eggs into a bowl when you heard a knock at the front door. A quick glance at the clock told you it was 8:58. As petty as it was, you couldn’t help grumbling about how your mom was wrong as you made your way to the front door.

Time stopped for a moment as you jerked the heavy oak door open. Before you stood probably the most handsome man you’d seen since your freshman year math professor. A white t-shirt stretched over a broad chest with muscles so defined that your stomach swooped. Looking down didn’t help. The man was wearing jeans that were the perfect level of tightness, letting you clearly see his legs were just as toned without shrink wrapping him.

His face wasn’t much better. A full head of salt and pepper curls contrasting his light, hazel eyes. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, but there was something of a youthful playfulness hidden across the rest of his stubbled face.

He looked very much like the handyman he was playing the part of. His hands looked strong and capable. The vision of those hands all over you in places they definitely shouldn’t be flashed through your mind alongside those of him, sweaty and panting, fixing… something. It didn’t matter what as long as he was doing it with those long, calloused fingers.

“Hi,” his voice was gruff around the edges. “I’m Jack.

You gave him your name. He didn’t reach out for a handshake and neither did you. Silence filled the entry way as you simply looked at each other. It wasn’t awkward, though. It was something heavier, almost as muggy as the air outside was. You could barely hear the birds or the waves on the shore over the blood rushing in your ears.

Suddenly, you were very dissatisfied with your choice of biker shorts and an oversized University of Pittsburgh sweatshirt. Why couldn’t you have worn something just a little more provocative? Maybe the cheeky underwear you’d slept in and that tight tank top that left not a single thing to the imagination.

“Your dad said the gate’s not working?”

 “Oh,” you startled a little when the silence was broken. “Uh, yeah for some reason it won’t open. I don’t know if it's the keypad or the motor or something but it just stopped working.”

“Yeah I noticed,” he looked over his shoulder. You followed his eyes to where his old truck was parked in the gravel driveway and just beyond that, to the half open gate. “Had to push it open. That fucker’s heavy.”

“Yeah, it is,” you snorted a laugh. Your eyes couldn’t help but roam his arms, taking in the biceps that were nearly bulging out of his shirt sleeves. “I bet you managed it juuuuust fine.”

His face briefly twisted up in shock when you winked at him before it was falling back to what seemed to be practiced neutrality. But you could swear that you saw his jaw clench ever so slightly.

“I managed,” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “For an old man.”

You weren’t sure if he was scolding your brazen flirting by pointing out the fact that he was at least 20 years your senior or if he was testing your reaction to that reminder. Either way, you didn’t really care. Your irritation at his intrusion was quickly fading the longer you got to look at him.

“Maybe instead of old, you could think of yourself as… experienced,” your smile grew. “I’m sure you’re very experienced at opening things up and getting in there.”

Jack’s eyes widened as they tracked your insulation.

“And,” you couldn’t help but continue. Your eyes glanced down to his hands again. “With those hands… you look like you’d be real good at keypad maintenance.”

A slight flush had started to creep up his face and you desperately hoped you were the cause, not the steadily rising temperature of mid spring. 

What you could thank the outside temperature for, though, was the ever so slight sheen of sweat gathering on those big arms as he crossed them across his chest. Before the weekend was over, you were going to bite one of those biceps. 

Hopefully. 

“Anyone ever tell you, you’re a fucking brat?” He didn’t look pissed. He looked like he was fighting off a smirk.

“All the fucking time,” you leaned closer to him across the threshold. “But I think I like it the most when you say it.”

“Jesus Christ,” he ran a hand through his hair. “I just met you and you’re trying to kill me.”

“Nonsense. I’m not trying to kill you,” this time you stepped closer, less than 6 inches of space between the two of you. “That part’s coming later. I figured I’d go with smothered to death. What do you think?”

Feeling even bolder at the way his eyes raced over your form, you patted one hand against your thigh.

“I don’t know, I can hold my breath for a long time,” his hands had dropped to his sides. They looked like they were seconds away from grabbing your hips. You were leaning in further. “I’m willing to let you try, tho-”

Both of you jerked back as the phone in his pocket started to ring. He pulled it out and glanced at it.

“Fuck,” he mumbled at first before his voice returned to normal volume. “Fuck. It’s your dad.”

Shit. You’d forgotten about your parents. You’d also forgotten this man was friends with your dad. The previously shameless flirting now had you blushing, pinging back and forth between regret and a desire to push a little bit more.

But you didn’t have a chance because Jack was walking off the porch and back towards his car as he answered the phone.

Jack spent the next two hours working on the gate while pretending not to notice your eyes following him. Which was fucking hard, especially once you’d changed into the shortest distressed denim shorts he’d ever seen, paired with a little string bikini top barely covered by a sheer white tanktop.

It was obscene. 

At least you’d had on more clothes when you’d answered the door that morning. He wasn’t sure he would have survived that interaction if you’d been half naked like you were now.

He was 50 for god's sake. He shouldn’t have been fighting off an erection over some flirting. And all of it over his buddy’s daughter. A woman who was probably at least 20 years younger than him.

 But despite that, you’d still looked like you were one heartbeat away from jumping his bones before that phone rang. And he would have let you. Happily. 

And so he focused on the menial tasks he’d offered to do. 

Jack had been more or less banned from SWAT about a month ago after getting grazed by yet another bullet. The hospital staff and his therapist ganged up on him while he’d been recovering, finally getting him to admit that maybe it wasn’t the best hobby.

And then your dad called him. Mostly to catch up and ask how he was doing, but pretty quickly he just ended up complaining about the damage to his lake house. Jack volunteered to fix it up at no cost.

He had more money than he knew what to do with and a suddenly free schedule, so he talked your dad into letting him do it. What else was he supposed to do? 

Sleep? 

Relax?

He’d never been good at either of those things, but he had worked for a contractor all throughout his undergrad and med school summers. Home repair he was definitely good enough at. Exceptional, actually, considering his services were free.

So he tackled the gate. 

The motor was fried. Probably from all the snow melting. No matter what did it, he couldn’t actually fix it today. He had to order the parts.

Which meant he’d have to come back.

He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

Jack tried not to think about having to pay you repeated visits as he worked.

While he checked to see just how weak the wooden deck had gotten he did not think about how good you looked laying in the sun 15 feet away. He definitely did not think about his head between your legs when he tightened the leaking faucet in the kitchen. And he certainly did not imagine bending you over the kitchen table while he replaced a lightbulb in the hallway.

You found yourself in the kitchen, staring listlessly into the fridge as you tried to come up with something low effort for dinner that would still impress your house guest. Not that you needed to seduce him with food (you were pretty sure the sheer white t-shirt with no bra would do the trick), but you wanted to thank him.

You’d called your mom to get the rest of the details about Jack while he worked and she’d filled you in that he was doing all of this pro bono. She’d said some other things, but you’d been too busy staring at his ass in those jeans to pay too much attention.

So here you were, kicking yourself for your abysmal grocery shopping skills. Maybe the two of you could skip dinner and just get to know each other biblically until you passed out? Not likely, but the fantasy was certainly an enjoyable one as you fished out the chicken breasts and romaine.

A chicken caesar salad was always a safe bet, right?

Not that you had too many other options besides a frozen pizza. It would have to do.

As you got to work, you heard the front door shut.

“I’m making dinner!” You called out to him.

“What’re you making?” Jack sounded like he was a little out of breath. Not surprising given the man had worked nearly nonstop for almost 7 hours.

“Chicken caesar salad,” you set down the knife you were holding, turning to lean back against the counter and face him. A jolt of satisfaction ran through you as you watched his eyes drop to your breasts through the thin fabric of your top. “That alright with you?”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours. You could only hope your little smirk of satisfaction wasn’t too obvious.

“That sounds great,” he adjusted the strap of the backpack resting over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Need any help, old man?” 

Jack’s eyes narrowed and he leaned against the door frame. His arms were crossed across his chest, only accentuating the curve of his biceps.

“Worried about my safety are you?” You watched as his eyes trailed you from head to toe. He was standing about 10 feet away, but the space in the kitchen seemed to shrink as his gaze left a trail of goosebumps across your body.

“Just don’t want you to break a hip,” you pushed off the counter, taking slow steps towards him. He stepped into the kitchen to meet you when you got close. Tentatively, one of your hands reached out to trail a finger over the hem of his jeans. “I’d really hate for them to be out of commission. Would really put a damper on my weekend plans.”

His hand grabbed your wrist, freezing you in place as you pouted up at him. He tilted his head as he looked down at you. A lazy smirk crawled across his face.

“You got a lot of plans for my hips?” It took very little force for him to use his hold on you to yank you into him. His hands caught your hips as he pressed your chest to his.

“Potentially,” you gave a coy little shrug as your own hands crept up his arms to tangle in his graying curls.

“Potentially,” he echoed. His tone almost sounded mocking as he was walking you backwards until you hit the cabinets. The strength in his grip surprised you as he lifted you up onto the counter almost effortlessly, sliding into the space between your legs. “I’d love to hear about these potential plans.”

“Well…” your voice trailed off into a gasp as his lips met the column of your neck. You let your eyes flutter shut, getting lost in the sensation while he held you close.

“C’mon,” he nipped at your ear as you gasped. “Tell me what you want.”

Your lips opened, words dying on the tip of your tongue as his hand trailed from your hips to pop the button on your shorts. His fingers slid down into them, applying dizzying pressure over your wet panties. They were probably ruined beyond repair, given you can feel how wet you were, practically leaking at the barest touch.  

“What’s wrong?” Jack’s hand not in your pants tangled in your hair, not pulling but simply holding you there as his face moved out of the crook of your neck. “Cat got your tongue?”

His smile was almost cruel as he began circling his fingers slowly. The rough material of the lace provided a disorienting sensation of pleasure as you fought to get yourself together enough to speak.

“Not so confident now, huh? I really thought it’d take a little more than this to get you to shut up.”

Jack manipulated your body like an expert. He lifted your hips, yanking down your shorts and underwear. They landed somewhere behind him as he threw them away. Before you could even really process that development, two long fingers were sliding inside of you as the rest of his hand cupped over your folds. It barely took him 30 seconds to figure out exactly how to curl his fingers in order to have you arching into him. Every brush of the pads of his fingers over that spongy spot inside you had the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

“Jack!” It was almost embarrassing how whiny your voice sounded. The cry of his name seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen.

His face was buried back in your neck as he huffed a quiet laugh. The vibrations sent a shiver down your spine. The hand once holding your hair had drifted underneath your poor excuse for a shirt. The callouses on his fingertips felt fantastic against the sensitive skin of your nipples when he tweaked them before his hands were kneading the flesh.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already gone fucking dumb, baby?” Your trembling hands gripped his t-shirt tightly as he licked a line up your neck.

And then his lips finally connected with yours.

His hands didn’t stop their movements, in fact they picked up in speed and intensity as his lips molded to yours. He set a languid pace, keeping up a firm and slow rhythm as his tongue brushed across yours.  You couldn’t help the whimpers and squeaks that he eagerly swallowed as he pushed you right to the edge. 

“Cum for me,” he growled into your mouth. “I wanna feel it.”

But this wasn’t how you wanted to cum. At least, not right now.

Every ounce of self control you still had left was mustered as you pushed him back. He stumbled back, body disconnecting from yours. He looked confused.

Your hands lifted, tugging your shirt over your head before you slid off the counter. A shiver ran through you at the burning arousal that shot through you at the sight of him, fully clothed but rock hard in his jeans.

“I want,” you took a deep, steadying breath as you walked towards him. His hands grabbed your hips as you pushed him down onto one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. “To ride you until I physically can’t.”

You watched his throat bob as your fingers reached down to undo the button of his jeans.  You pulled his pants and briefs down his thighs, just enough to free his cock. You took it in your hands, admiring the weight of the silky skin in your hands before you were slinging one leg over his lap and lining him up. 

“And then,” slowly, you slid down his length, watching carefully as his eyes closed and he groaned. The rest of your words were breathy as you tried to keep your composure. “I want you to eat me out until I’m crying.”

“Jesus Christ,” his mouth dropped open as you rolled your hips against him. You felt his tip catch against the perfect spot deep inside you as you tested out different angles. Quickly, you locked onto it, chasing that zap of pleasure that dulled your senses.

“After that,” your fingers dug into his hair, pulling on the gray strands. “I want you to fuck the shit out of me on every surface in this house.”

Jack’s hips bucked up into yours, causing both of you to cry out as he buried himself deeper than you thought possible. You could feel the orgasm you’d been on the brink of rising rapidly again.

“Wanna know what I think?” Jack’s hands were tight on your waist, slowing your rhythm and dragging a whine from you as the overwhelming pleasure slipped from your grasp.

“What?”

“As much as I would love to have you ride me- to use me,” you shivered at his words. “I think I want to do things in a different order.”

You didn’t get a chance to respond before he was lifting you off of him. Everything blurred as he spun you around, pressing your front to the kitchen table as he bent you over it. The wood was cold against your sensitive skin, your nipples hardening almost immediately. One of his broad hands gripped your shoulder to keep you pinned in place against the flat surface.

“That’s a pretty sight,” he mumbled to himself. 

You had to bite your lip to contain your shaky moan as his fingers trailed over the wet mess between your legs.

He kept toying with you, gently prodding just the tips of his fingers inside, before withdrawing them to give a few light-as-a-feather circles over your clit.

“What’s the hold up, old man?” You couldn’t help the taunts. “I thought I said I wanted you to fuck the shit out of me. Do you need a little blue pill?”

Jack stilled, his fingers leaving your skin. For a moment, you were caught between the fear that you’d gone too far and the anticipation of the pounding the teasing would hopefully earn you.

What you weren’t expecting, however, was the harsh crack of his open palm meeting your ass. 

As you gasped, the pain stinging and bringing another flood of wetness between your legs, you failed to realize Jack had stepped back and away for a moment.

He returned, his hand laying an equally firm hit against your other cheek. You didn’t get a moment to recover from the hit, though, because he was yanking you up. Once again, he spun you, this time lifting you up and setting your still smarting ass against the sturdy wood of the table.

“Hold these,” was all the warning he gave before his hand gripped your jaw, forcing it open to shove your absolutely soaked underwear into your mouth. “Maybe now you’ll actually shut up.”

Your eyes rolled back. 

Fuck, that was hot.

You could taste yourself, the lace scratching over your tongue.

“Uh-uh,” Jack grabbed your hair again as he lined himself up with your opening. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Your eyes snapped open, your body following the order before your mind caught up. His gaze was intense as he stared you down.

His hand in your hair was the only thing keeping you from falling back onto the table as he pushed back inside of you. In this position, he had all the control and he quickly took advantage of that.

It took him three slow, grinding thrusts to find that angle you had been chasing in the few minutes he’d allowed you to ride him. Once he did, though, a wicked grin spread across his face as your hips jerked and a muffled whine snuck out around the underwear in your mouth.

He adjusted his aim, thrusting in and against that spot as his thumb found your clit. Your whole body jolted against his as the orgasm you’d been denied twice reared its head much faster than you’d expected.

“You like that?” He was panting now, but he didn’t falter, his movements growing even faster and harder as he worked you up. The wet slap of his hips against yours echoed around the room, creating a beat to match your muffled moans and his grunts. “This is what you needed, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding as much as his harsh hold on your hair allowed.

Jack let out a breathless chuckle. 

“You gonna cum for me now, baby?”

Again, you tried to nod, but the ever rising tide of an orgasm that promised to ruin you was fast approaching. You could feel it, building tension in your stomach.

“Fuck, you’re so close, I can fucking feel it,” Jack used his grip on your hair to drag you in close. He briefly let go to yank your underwear out of your mouth before his hand slid right back in, his forehead pressed to yours. “I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me who’s making you feel good when you cum.”

“Jack!” You were teetering right on the edge. From his harsh breathing and gritted teeth, you could tell he was close, too.

“Fucking right,” his lips caught yours for a moment, but he had to pull back for both of you to breath. “Say it again. Say my fucking name.”

You didn’t say it, though.

You couldn’t say anything as he pushed you over that edge. Your eyes shut, your back arched, and you stopped breathing. 

Jack’s hips jerked and he lost control as the first pulse of your walls around him gripped him tight. He groaned your name as you pulled him down with you.

The waves rolled over you. Each one was just as intense as the last, washing over your body as you trembled while every nerve in your body lit up with pleasure. And as his thumb kept circling your clit, the pleasure kept going, the waves not stopping until you were weakly pushing him away.

He finally stopped, withdrawing his hand but staying buried inside of you. He slowly softened, his cum starting to leak out of you onto the table as the two of you caught your breath.

You stayed like that for a few, long minutes before he finally pulled out of you, the both of you hissing at the sensation. He tucked himself back into his briefs.

Your eyes looked around the kitchen, searching for a towel or cloth or something to clean up the dripping mess between your legs.

You didn’t get a chance, though, because Jack was grabbing the chair he’d previously occupied, spinning it to sit between your legs, eyes level with your stomach.

“What are-”

Your voice failed you as a smirk you were very quickly beginning to recognize spread across his face. His hands dragged you back to the edge of the table, readjusting you to his liking.

“I’m going to eat you out until you’re crying,” he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Like you told me to.”

“Jack, I just-”

He cut you off again.

“Plus,” he lowered his head, lifting your thighs over his shoulders. “I haven’t had dinner yet and I am starving.”

You storm out of the ER, finding yourself just outside the entrance of the E.R.

It's dark and quiet. The city feels different at this hour, something you’ve grown used to ever since switching to nights.

You sigh as you try to get your shit together; the shame of lashing out at your friend sits heavy and sour in your stomach. Ellis didn't deserve that.

But the sheer embarrassment of what happened with Jake still burns hot under your skin.

And what happened with Jake was really unfortunate.

Getting dumped by a hot guy stings. It stings even more when you remember that Jake was genuinely a great guy. He knew your body you well, so fucking well.

He was attractive, funny, and easy to be with.

The accident happened just a few nights ago. You were so into the moment, and he was giving it to you really good.

He was on top of you, your legs pushed up, your knees on your chest, his hands under your thighs, pounding you with all his fucking might. Your mind and body, both loose and intoxicated from alcohol and exhaustion, and the relief of finally getting laid after another brutal week in the ED.

But your intoxicated system played tricks on you at that time.

The more you moaned Jake's name, the more you thought of how close it sounds to Jack's.

And somewhere in that haze, Jack's face slipped into your head.

Your frustratingly attractive attending physician with his steady hands, low voice, and those stupidly kind eyes, the one that you would think about when you're relieving yourself instead of some person you don't feel fully connected with.

You slurred from Jake, Jake, Jake to Jack.

You tried to play it off. Jack and Jake both sound so similar, close enough to be believable. But Jake didn't buy it, and he left your apartment upset, with a text that tells you that he doesn't wanna waste his time with a woman hung up on someone else. Harsh.

More importantly, you hate that Ellis saw through you. You hate that she's right. You do have a thing for Jack, for your fucking attending physician of all people in this damn hospital.

You would never admit to anyone that when you're alone in bed, or when you're having trouble reaching an orgasm. It's him you think about.

You have been crushing on Jack for… well, almost years now?

The thought alone makes you wince.

It sounds pathetic when you frame it like that. But how can anyone not fall for the man?

You couldn't pin when, where, and how you fell for the Dr. Abbot. But you only realized that you had feelings for him when he got close to you, reading your unfinished charts over your shoulders.

He was… so smart, attentive, a good teacher… and really good-looking. You actually learned a lot from that moment you had with him. It's pathetic that you remember it so clearly too.

You remember how he got close to you, to teach you how to write your charts better, even tell you he likes reading how you write; how he admires how your mind works and how you take care of your patients; and how he told you on your second week in the PTMC that he is so grateful he is to have you in his department.

You were so deep in your thoughts that you didn't realize Jack was behind you.

He calls out to you softly with your honorific, "You okay?"

You don't look at him. He's the last person you want to talk to, especially right now, "Yeah, I need some time alone."

You expect him to just walk away, but unfortunate for you, he stayed there.

Jack doesn't say anything as he takes another step closer to you.

"Are you sure?" he asks so gently.

"Yeah," you answer a little too quickly.

A moment of silence settles between the two of you. You're hoping that he would just leave you alone. His presence isn't what need for your rattled system.

"Is it.. is it about your boyfriend?" he asks innocently. You don't even sense that he's probing.

"I.. What?" you finally look at him, couldn't help the annoyance in your voice after hearing a stupid question.

But then again, maybe he probably got that idea that Jake was your boyfriend from how many times he has overheard you with Ellis. It leaves a bitter taste on you.

But you see the genuine concern on his face and you sigh, "No, he's not my boyfriend. Never was."

“Oh,” he says quietly.

You look away again, arms folding tighter across yourself.

"Well… I'm here if you ever need someone to talk to," he says softly.

You hate hearing him, like that, all soft and genuine. When he has been kind of making you feel like shit for the past few weeks for god knows why.

You fully turn to him now. Maybe the adrenaline from yelling earlier is making you feel a bit bold.

"Can I ask you something?” you ask, arms still crossed.

“Of course.”

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling stupid beofre you even ask the question, but you keep your eyes on him.

“Am I… doing okay here?”

Jack blinks, clearly caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean here in the department,” you let out a small, awkward laugh. “Lately you’ve just been kinda harsh on me and I—” you stop yourself, embarrassed already. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I’ve been messing up more than I realized.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, guilt crashes into him almost immediately.

"I.. I swear I'm doing my best," you continue quietly, not wanting to sound too desperate for his approval. "I don't let any of my personal shit affect me, so can you just… tell me what I've been doing wrong? It's… driving me nuts."

He didn't mean to be that harsh that it makes you doubt yourself. Sure, he has been stricter with you because of.. well, reasons he's afraid to admit. But also because every interaction with you has started requiring more control than he’s comfortable admitting.

But to you, it just felt like disappointment, and he has been too deep in his head to realize.

Jack exhales quietly, his expression softening almost painfully.

“Hey,” he says carefully, “you are one of the best residents I’ve worked with.”

"Doesn't really feel like it," you mutter, shifting your gaze somewhere else.

"I… I didn't mean to make you feel that way. That's on me."

You stay quiet, eyes still somewhere else but him.

"Look," he puts his hand on your shoulder. "I mean it when I say you're good, and I'm sorry that I made you feel like you're not. You are."

His other hand curls into a fist on his back, as if to control himself from spilling inappropriate shit an attending would say.

"I am thoroughly grateful that you chose to stay here. It's a tough department, so I can see why people come and go, but…" he trails off, and you look at him.

You feel your breath hitch when you see his eyes on you. He and his intense eyes… just… all on you, like you're the only thing that matters to him. But you're probably being delusional right now.

Jack sighs, "But.. you? You stayed. That means a lot to the department, the patients, and us."

He held himself back from saying 'me', because that would be selfish, right?

"You are not messing anything up, okay?"

You nod, a small smile creeping up on your face.

That made you feel better, not only because it gave you the reassurance that you are still competent, but all of it came from him.

"Thanks, Doctor Abbot," you smile sheepishly.

He nods, removing his hand from your shoulder.

"Don't stay out here too long, alright? We still have some patients to take care of," he says, patting your shoulder.

"Got it, doc," you nod earnestly, as Jack walks past you, returning to the chaos that awaits him in the E.R.

You look back at the quiet city ahead of you and take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart before going back in there.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

After what happened with Jake, you swore to yourself that you're gonna take a break from it, from outsourcing your stress relief.

It does get very tiring to put yourself out there, and just pray for your luck to land on a decent person who can fuck you so good, all the pent-up stress from your work goes away for a moment. It's an exhausting and dangerous gamble.

So naturally, you just stopped trying altogether. No more dating apps, no more flirting during night outs, and just.. no more casual sex.

For the next two months, you just worked. You struggled to keep still now that you have a lot of pent-up energy and time that you used to spend going out, so sometimes you would spend more hours in the hospital until your body is practically screaming at you to get some break.

People somehow noticed that you stopped your usual stress-relieving activities. Some residents even teased you that you have gone celibate or have put yourself off the market.

You just laughed along, saying that you just want a break from it, that's just a fact.

Yet, without those temporary distractions filling the empty spaces in your life, it became impossible to ignore who has been in the back of your mind.

Without getting preoccupied by other people, you started noticing just how often your thoughts naturally circled back to Jack.

Lately, you let the thoughts dwell when you're alone, in bed, with a toy between your legs after a tough shift. It was the only way you can relieve yourself for now.

You would think about the times when he would murmur "good work" beside you after a brutal case. The way his hand would briefly touch your shoulder while squeezing past you when the E.R gets crowded. The way he would look for you first to help him when the floor is overwhelmed with patients from a mass casualty, and would still look for you first after just to check on you.

You keep thinking to yourself that none of those meant anything. He is just an observant man.

Jack was just being kind. He was just being attentive. Just being the good attending everyone respected him for.

But it's hard not to think too much about it when you noticed that Jack has been nicer to you after that talk outside the E.R.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

For almost 3 months of staying true to your promise of "taking a break from the streets" as Ellis would eloquently call it. You find yourself in a bar.

It feels odd to be here again, and you aren't even sure if you still have game. But you decided that maybe you should put yourself out again. Especially when Ellis is practically begging you to "get laid".

Ellis, your ever-caring friend, explicitly told you to “Fuck whatever this is out of your system before you become unbearable" after witnessing you practically tear apart two students within the same shift.

In your defense, they were being slow and uncooperative. Watching them practically fumble putting in an IV was aggravating to watch.

So here you are, in your tight denim shorts, a maroon tube top, layered with a cropped leather jacket and black tights. You look absolutely great.

With all the effort you have put, you just hope that tonight will be a good night.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

Welp, after almost 3 hours of mingling. You conclude that… was a disaster.

You're not sure if it was your skill or just pure luck that made the whole fucking bar just so happen to be full of assholes.

The first guy talks exclusively about crypto, and you genuinely aren't sure if he's actually trying to flirt with you or just trying to get you to invest in it too to increase its value.

Another spends almost 20 minutes talking shit about his ex. Jesus, she's an emergency medicine doctor, not a fucking therapist.

The guy after him was actually attractive. He was tall, funny, and easy to talk to. But he couldn't keep his hands to himself, so you had to swat his hand away when he tried to grab your ass like he had already earned the right to go that far.

After finishing your drink, you already feel drained. Maybe you really have been out of the game for too long.

Every encounter has left you drained, and not even the good kind that you've been hoping for.

You find yourself walking to the nearest convenience store, your system itching for something to take off the edge.

The cold air conditioning of the store hits your bare shoulders immediately as you make your way toward the counter, arms folding loosely around yourself.

You line up in front of the cashier, already digging through your bag for your wallet.

"A box of Marlboro black, please," you say politely, pulling out cash from your wallet and put it on the counter as you wait for the cashier to pull out the box and scan it on the register.

You ended up going back to smoking after swearing off casual sex. It helps you decompress but it doesn't really feel enough.

The cashier hands you the box and as you're absentmindedly staring at the lottery tickets by the register, you hear your name.

You swear it sounds familiar, and you're not sure if it's your mind playing tricks, so you turn around.

There he is.

Jack is behind you, wearing a black shirt that you always see him in at the hospital, on top of it is a gray jacket, and paired with his dark sweatpants.

"Doctor Abbot?" you ask. You suddenly feel weirdly exposed.

You didn't really want him to see you tonight, especially with how you're dressed, especially now that your black see-through tights are slightly ripped because they got snagged on a chair at the bar.

"Hey you… coming from a night out?" he asks with a smirk.

"Oh uh.. yeah.. yeah" you nod, taking a few steps aside so that Jack can put his items on the cashier.

He puts microwaveable ready-to-eat meals and some bottles of water with electrolytes.

You raise an eyebrow, "That doesn't look very healthy," you comment.

He breathes through his nose humourously, "You think that is?" he points to your box of cigarettes.

"Fair point," you chuckle.

The cashier scans Jack’s items while the two of you stand there in silence. Jack then pays for his items and grabs the paper bag with his items in.

You continue to chat as you both walk out of the store, stopping just beside the glass doors.

"Do you live around here?" you ask since he was the last guy you expected to see tonight around here.

"Yeah, I moved just right there—" he points to the building across, just a few blocks away, "—because my old apartment had a really bad termite infestation. They closed the whole building down."

"Jesus. I'm hoping your current one is free from termites?"

He chuckles, "So far, yep."

You hum in acknowledgement before a brief moment of silence has passed. You pull your shorts down just a little, catching Jack's attention momentarily.

Jack wonders if you're feeling a bit self-conscious about what you're wearing. How your 'bar' outfit would probably leave a bad impression on your attending physician. He thinks you shouldn't worry about that, because he's busy enjoying every bit of you that he never got the fortune to see.

"So… was it a good night?" Jack casually asks, deducing that you just came from a night out.

"Nope. That's why I'm settling for this," you wave the box, unwrapping it from its plastic.

But before you can even finish peeling off the plastic, rain starts to pour on the streets. Both of you to rush under a roof by the convenience store.

"Shit," you curse, looking at your small bag. If only you brought a bigger one, you would've had an umbrella.

"Forgot. an umbrella?" he asks, shaking rainwater from his sleeves.

"It wasn't even supposed to rain tonight," you grumble.

"Eh.. you can never really trust those weather apps."

You sigh dramatically, opening your Uber app while rain pounds loudly around you. Of course, the fare prices immediately surged.

Jack glances at your screen briefly before looking back out at the rain.

“You can wait it out at my place if you want," he says like it's no big deal.

You blink, looking up from your phone almost immediately.

“What?”

He gestures casually towards the apartment building he pointed at earlier, “It’s literally a few blocks away."

You glance out the street, watching the rain aggressively pour on the streets.

“I don’t wanna intrude.”

“You won’t," he shakes his head in disagreement. "I'd feel really bad to leave you here stranded."

The rain continues to hammer against the pavement, loud enough that it almost drowns out the way your heart suddenly starts beating a little harder.

He's just being caring like he always is, right? You think to yourself.

"You can just wait there until the prices go down,” he adds. “I have coffee. Probably something edible too.”

You bite your bottom lip in uncertainty. It's not a big deal, it shouldn't be.

"Yeah, sure. I'd really appreciate it," you exhale slowly before finally shoving your phone back into your bag.

The rain is absolutely brutal now, pounding against the pavement hard enough to blur the streetlights into smears of color.

“I don't have an umbrella either” he points out, glancing toward the apartment building down the block. “But it’s not that far.”

The rain seems to fall stronger as soon as those words left his mouth. You laugh once in disbelief. “We’re gonna get soaked.”

"You think you can run?" Jack asks, glancing down at your boots.

"Well, I hope so. You?" you glance down too, and then at his shoes—worried about his prosthetic.

He seems to catch that and grins, "Of course. I was stellar in physical therapy."

A strong gust of wind hits you both. He curses under his breath at how cold that was.

"Ready?" Jack looks at you.

“No.”

“Good enough.”

Before you can complain, Jack grabs your wrist, and the two of you bolt into the rain.

Cold water hits the both of you instantly. You gasp as rain soaks through your clothes within seconds, your boots splashing through puddles while you try not to completely eat shit on the slick pavement.

You couldn't help but laugh at your predicament. Your attending that you have a crush on, running with him with his hands around your wrist, as you both run to his apartment in the rain. This feels oddly romantic.

By the time you both stumble into the apartment lobby, completely drenched and breathless, you laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, pushing soaked hair away from your face.

"You're not a bad runner," Jack teases.

"Oh shut up," you roll your eyes, taking off your drenched jacket.

Jack snorts softly before reaching up to brush the wet hair back from his forehead. Then his eyes flicker to you. His gaze drags briefly over your damp hair, your bare shoulders, the way your tube top clings slightly, your ripped tights plastered against your legs from the rain.

He didn't realize his eyes were lingering until he realizes you're looking at him. He clears his throat softly, and looks away toward the elevator.

“This way,” he says quietly, letting you step in first as soon as it opens.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

You both finally reach his apartment on the 5th floor and Jack just lent you some dry clothes.

He hears the bathroom door open and sees you walk out barefoot, wearing the clothes he just gave you after insisting that he doesn't want you dripping around his apartment.

The shirt hangs loose on you, its size almost swallowing you whole, while the sweatpants sit low on your hips after you tighten the drawstring.

“Let me,” he says quietly, stepping forward to take the wet bundle from your hands. “I’ll throw these in the dryer.”

“Thanks," you smile sheepishly, the warmth of his clothes enveloping you. The feeling of domesticity creeping in, a feeling that is unusual when you're with your attending.

You see Jack has already changed into dry clothes as well, wearing a gray shirt and a pair of plaid green pajamas. You're so used to seeing him in his scrubs, or occasionally in his SWAT uniform.

Right now? He just looks so… comfortable, and more vulnerable somehow, if that makes sense. Jack always seems to be so kept-together in the hospital, a big contrast to how he looks right now.

Jack nods once before disappearing briefly down the hall.

When he comes back, he goes to the kitchen counter, trying very hard to act normal despite the fact that his heart has been acting profoundly embarrassing ever since you walked out of the bathroom.

“You want tea or coffee?” he asks, opening one of the cabinets above the counter.

"Coffee would be nice," you answer.

Jack nods once and reaches for two mugs. The apartment is quiet except for the rain hitting the windows and the low hum of the coffee maker.

"You can wait for me on the couch," he nods towards the living room while the coffee brews.

You hum in acknowledgement and walk towards the couch.

Jack tries not to let his gaze follow, but he takes advantage of your back turned to him to let his eyes trail all over you. Whatever gods are out there right now, he is absolutely grateful for granting him this moment. For giving him this chance encounter, where he gets to see you outside the exhaustion and chaos of the E.R, where he even gets to see you wearing his clothes.

Jack has spent months trying not to want you this much.

Before he gets caught up in his moment of gratitude, he snaps out of it and continues to make coffee for the both of you.

*

You and Jack eventually find yourselves talking about whatever you can think about. Surprisingly, you and Jack have a lot in common outside the E.R. Both of your mugs on the table in front of you, growing colder as you talk more.

You shift slightly, legs tucked under you to make yourself comfortable. After a pause from your conversation, your voice drops a little.

“I just wanna say thank you, and sorry for bothering you tonight,” you mumble. “If the bar wasn’t full of assholes, I probably wouldn’t be sitting in your apartment wearing your clothes right now.”

"Oh come on, you're not a bother."

You laugh softly through your nose. “You say that now.”

"I mean it. Besides, I’d rather have you here drinking my coffee than wonder if some random guy from a bar was making your night worse"

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"I think I lost my game."

"I don't think so," Jack reassures you, that's such a stupid thing for you to say.

You glance at him and he shrugs lightly against the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest.

“Maybe the bar was just full of idiots.”

You snort softly, “That’s very generous of you.”

Jack chuckles, grabbing his mug to take a long sip. You turn to your cup, and grab it, letting your thoughts drift.

Before you can stop your curiosity, you can't help but ask the one question that most of the department has been wondering.

"I mean, what about you?" you ask, turning slightly to him. "Have you tried putting yourself out there?"

Jack lets out a humurous exhale through his nose. He never really felt the need to. He was completely fine with his current status. The thought of entering the dating world seems too messy and the last thing he wants is to let unnecessary complications add up to his personal turmoils that involve you.

"Me? No. I don't think anyone would be interested in me."

You scoff at that, "Do you seriously think that?"

"Yeah, I mean. I'm past my prime."

"Past your prime? Are you aware of how many nurses, doctors and patients find you attractive?" you retort in disbelief.

"Eh, I don't know," he mutters, unconvinced.

"You don’t know?” you repeat incredulously. “Jack, half the hospital has a crush on you.”

“I think they find my competence attractive. People on the internet has a term for that…. what is it—” he gestures vaguely with his cup.

"Competency kink?" you raise an eyebrow

"Yeah, that."

You laugh despite yourself, but he still looks unconvinced, gaze lowered toward the drink in his hands.

The way he looks right now, uncertain of his appeal, how he talks about himself throws you off.

Jack Abbot is one hell of an asset in the PTMC. Not only is he a great attending physician, but he is absolutely charming, that's what makes him so great to work with despite your undisclosed feelings making it a bit complicated.

He smiles at nurses and they brighten instantly. Patients adore him. Residents gravitate toward him. He can be such a flirt too, without meaning to half the time. He is just that charismatic.

You’ve seen people stare at him when he’s not looking. Hell, you’ve done it yourself.

"They see you more than that," you insist.

"Debatable."

"Come on," you groan.

"What?” He shrugs, still not meeting your eyes, still not seeing what the big deal is. “I’m serious. Being competent just makes people overlook things.”

"What things exactly?"

He raises his hand wearing the black ring, "I'm older than almost everyone. I'm a widow, an amputee, and I work too much."

He rubs a hand over his jaw absentmindedly. “I’m tired all the time. I’ve got stress lines coming in. Gray hair.” He gestures to his hair.

"That's not a bad thing."

"Is it not? I just don't see how anyone can be even interested in—"

You don't know what came to you.

You're not buzzed. Not really, since you didn't drink that much at the bar earlier. You're literally just having coffee.

Your mind is painfully clear as you sit beside the man currently talking about himself like he's undesirable. When he has no idea just how much you have wanted him all this time. How many nights you’ve spent trying to bury these feelings under strangers and fleeting distractions.

But there you are, your lips on his before you can even overthink it, shutting him up before he can say another terrible thing about himself

Jack goes completely still. You can feel the slight hitch in his breathing.

Before you can even get lost in it, you pull away immediately. Fuck

"Shit. I—" you avert your gaze, unable to meet the stunned look on his face.

You immediately scoot away from him on the couch. Your heart attempting to beat its way out of your chest. What the fuck were you thinking?

"That was… completely inappropriate. I don't know what came on to me and—" you start, breath catching awkwardly as you drag a hand over your face.

You face away and plant your feet on the ground, about to leave the sofa, but, Jack holds your wrist.

You face him. His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second before meeting your eyes again. The look on his face makes your stomach flip violently.

"Can I kiss you this time?" he asks, trying to conceal how shaky his voice is.

You're not sure if he's being real or not. But when he scoots to you closer, you feel his warmth radiating off of him, confirming that yes… this is real.

You nod, and that’s all it takes for him.

He puts his mug on the table, his hand comes up slowly, cautiously, brushing against your jaw like he’s still giving you room to stop him.

When you showed no signs of refusal, he leans in and presses his lips on yours.

He kisses you softly, and carefully. As if he's scared that if he does more than that, he might ruin this. The very thing that he has wished for, and even prayed for.

After all, he has wanted you for so long.

His hand stays warm against your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your skin while he leans into you with a restraint that almost hurts.

You may have sensed how meticulous he currently is, as if he's still testing the waters. Because he feels your hand slide into his hair, tugging it to pull him closer to you.

He groans, exhaling sharply against your mouth and throws away all his restraint. He feels it, already losing himself just from the feeling of your lips moulding on his.

Jack pulls away to look at you, to see if you're still okay with this.

"Abbot," you whisper, saying his surname out of habit.

"Jack." he huffs as if he's correcting you.

"What?" you try to make sense of what he just said in your buzzed state.

"Please.. call me Jack."

You stare at him, thinking about how strange it would feel when you address him by his first name, but then again, its the same name you moan when you're touching yourself.

"Jack," you mutter softly, trying how it sounds on your tongue in front of him.

"Fuck," he curses in delight, pulling you by your jaw to kiss you again. His mouth moving with yours desperately, his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck to pull you closer.

You whimper into the kiss, pleasantly surprised how rough he's getting.

You pull away, hurriedly sitting on top of him before kissing him again, to get comfortable and close to him as much as you can.

"Is this okay?" you ask, hoping that your weight isn't too much on his prosthetic.

"Better than okay, sweetheart," he says leaning in to catch your lips again.

You chuckle into the kiss at how impatient he is now, he groans softly at vibration, letting his hands roam all over you, squeezing and feeling every part of you that he has been thinking of for god knows how long now.

Jack couldn't believe it, couldn't believe the fact that he has you right on his lap.

One arm wraps tightly around your waist while the other cradles the side of your face, kissing you like he still can’t fully believe this is real.

You melt into him immediately.

You moan softly, barely audible. It's embarrassing how this alone is getting you so riled up… too riled up.

Jack squeezes both of your tits, groaning at the feeling of your plump flesh and your hard nipples under his shirt. He can feel how fast your heart is beating, and puts one hand between your breasts, feeling your heartbeat.

"Are you good?" he asks, slightly worried.

"Y-yeah.. I'm just nervous," you say sheepishly.

He smiles slyly, "Is it because you're breaking your principle?"

"What?"

"The thing you have about not sleeping with co-workers," he says, just like how you would say it.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing at him. You wonder if he's been extra observant of you.

"Do you pay that much attention to me, Doctor Abbot?"

His jaw clenches slightly, the way his eyes darken for half a second before he exhales softly through his nose.

"Maybe. Maybe a little too closely."

"Sounds like I'm your favorite."

"Don't let the others know," he says lowly, his lips hovering yours.

He makes a trail of hot open mouthed kisses against your jaw then pulls back, facing you.

"If you're not ready. Just tell me you want to stop, and I will.”

Jack has always been intense with his eye contact, but all the times you've met his eyes were nothing compared to the ones you're looking at right now.

He's looking at you, as if he's telling himself to behave and not want too much from you.

So, you smile and shake your head no. You reach for the back of his head to capture his mouth again, kiss him with everything you’ve been holding back.

His hands drop to your waist, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. You feel the hard length of him through his pajamas, pressing against your clothed core.

He cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your head just so, deepening the kiss at his own eager pace.

You tug on his shirt upwards and Jack immediately pulls back just enough to strip it off in one smooth motion before tossing it somewhere onto the floor without care.

Your breath catches softly at the sight of him.

A faint flush creeps across his face under your stare, but before you can say anything about it, his hands are already on you again, firm and warm as he carefully switches your position, your back now against the couch cushions.

You gasp softly as he settles over you, bracing himself carefully above your body.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice rougher now.

Then his mouth is on your neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

You shudder, arching your back involuntarily, pressing you up into him. He responds with a low satisfied hum of approval, the sound rumbling against your pulse point. His lips part, and you feel the wet heat of his tongue trace a slow, deliberate line down the side of your throat, tasting you, mapping you.

"Y'look so cute with my pajamas on, can I take these off?"

The question hangs in the air between you. His fingers tugging your shirt up gently but eagerly. It's cute how he's still so polite.

You nod, letting him pull the shirt over your head.

Then he slides your pajamas down, slow and deliberate, as if he's unwrapping a gift from the gods. He ogles at every inch of skin that is exposed. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps, but his body heat is already there, pressing down, replacing the chill with his warmth.

His eyes rake over your body, lingering on the curves, hollows, and every part of you. He lets out a slow breath, almost reverent. "Fuuuuck, you're beautiful."

He lowers his mouth to your chest, starting at the swell of your breast, kissing the soft skin with so much tenderness. His lips trace a path inward, circling closer to your nipple with agonizing slowness. He teases the edge of it, never quite touching the peak. Your back arches, a plea in the movement, and he chuckles against your skin.

"These are so pretty," he mutters. Then he takes you in his mouth.

His lips close around your nipple, pulling it deep, his tongue pressing flat against the hard nub. He sucks firmly, rhythmically, drawing a long moan from your throat.

"Ah—fuck, Jack," you whimper.

He smiles slyly, teeth grazing the tip of your nipple, a light scrape that makes you hiss, then he soothes it with a swirl of his tongue. He alternates between soft kisses and deep, hungry suction, building a rhythm that has you grabbing his hair.

His hand comes up to cup your other breast, thumb rubbing circles around the nipple while his mouth works the first. He pinches lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers, matching the pace of his mouth. Jesus Christ, you feel so soft in his fucking mouth.

"Feel good?" he asks. He takes your whine as a yes, biting down gently on the nipple he's sucking with his eyes on you, just enough to send a sharp pulse of pleasure-pain through you, then releases it with a wet pop.

He moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention—kissing, licking, sucking, biting. Taking his precious time with your fleshy tits.

When he's satisfied both are glistening and hard, he pulls back.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his voice rough. His hands slide down your stomach, over your belly, stopping at the waistband of your panties. He hooks his fingers under the elastic, tugging them down, letting his knuckles brush against your mound as he goes. You lift your hips again, and he peels the damp fabric down your legs, discarding it somewhere on the floor.

He settles between your thighs, his broad shoulders nudging them apart. He runs his hands up your inner thighs, thumbs spreading your folds, revealing your glistening arousal.

"Jesus, you're wet," he coos, directly more to your pussy instead of you.

He doesn't tease. So, the greedy man that he is, leans in, his tongue flat against your slit, dragging up from your entrance to your clit in one long, deliberate stroke. Jesus fuck, you taste so good, he can't help but ruts on the cushion, giving his cock a little bit of relief. The taste of you fills his mouth and he moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your cunt.

"Fuck, Jack," you whine.

You've been eaten out godly well for a lot of times, but you swear there's something so fucking delicious with how your attending is feasting on your pussy, moaning like this is the best thing he has put his mouth.

"You taste so good, darling. Enjoying my mouth?" he looks up at you, tongue still working on you. You look so flustered above him, and before you can even give him an answer he licks again, slower this time, savoring, his tongue circling your clit with a precision that makes your hips buck, enjoying every bit of reaction he can get from you.

Jack sucks that sensitive nub between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, alternating pressure and speed based on the twitch of your hips and the pitch of your moans. One hand grips your thigh, holding you open; the other sneaks up to your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple in time with his tongue.

He pulls his mouth away just long enough to mutter against your thigh, "You think you can cum for me? Can my pretty girl do that?"

He buries his face again, his tongue plunging into your entrance before returning to your clit, relentless.

The pressure builds, coiling in your belly like a spring, your breath coming in short gasps. Your hands find his hair again, gripping, pulling, riding his mouth as he works you toward the edges.

"Jack—oh my fuck… I-I—" you stutter pathetically.

The sound of your broken moans sends a jolt straight to his cock, already hard and aching in his pajamas. He doubles down, sealing his lips around your clit and sucks hard. The coil in your belly tightens to a snapping point, and he feels it—feels the way your hips buck, hears how desperate your whimpers are. He groans against you, the sound vibrating through your entire body, pushing you over the edge.

"Ohmygodohmygodohmyfuckinggod," you ramble like a mess as you cum.

"That's it, always so good for me," he coos, not letting up, lapping at you through your climax, drinking every drop of your release as you shudder under his mouth.

He places one last kiss on your pussy, before sitting up.

"Can't wait to have you, fuck," he mumbles, almost growling from the impatience. He lifts himself up above you.

You tug his pajamas down, and he moves to help you get rid of them as fast as you two can.

The moment he goes back on top of you, your legs settle over his hips. He positions himself in between your legs, pumping himself a few times until Jack’s brain short-circuits.

For most of the entire time that he has known you, he has been fantasizing about this very moment. To have you, the woman of his dreams, under him. To finally see this part of you, vulnerable and needy. This is utterly a mind-blowing situation for him as he doesn't deserve such a gorgeous fucking woman.

All those dreams and fantasies that he has conjured in his mind is finally happening, and yet it's starting to overwhelm him.

This is it. The main fucking event.

But it's been a while for him, and fantasies never really accounts for this. For how long it has been since he actually had sex.

He continues to pump his cock, to keep himself grounded and not wallow in his self-doubt right now.

He shouldn't think too much about it. He doesn't want to be like those guys who can't live up to what they expect of themselves. All Jack wants is to make you feel good, but not when his stupid brain is messing with him.

You feel the tension in his gaze, sensing that there’s a tightness in him now that wasn’t there a few moments ago. Like his mind is somewhere else entirely despite the way he’s looking at you.

“Hey.” Your voice cuts through the noise, low and steady. You prop yourself up with your elbows, planting your palms on his chest, feeling his heart hammer against your fingers. “Jack. Look at me.”

He does, reluctantly, and you see the worry. He’s holding himself still, muscles rigid, his brows furrowed in worry.

"Is something wrong? We can stop if you feel uncomfortab—"

"No," he cuts you off.

"I… I really want this, but… shit—sorry. It's just has been a while.." he murmurs.

"It's been a while since..?"

"I.. I did this," he says sheepishly, looking away from you.

You give him an empathetic smile, though a bit surprised by that. You hold both of his cheeks.

"Let me lead then, okay?"

"But—" It's not like Jack doesn't want to. It's just that it is so pathetic of him to start fumbling right fucking now of all times.

"Please?" you ask so gently.

He snaps out of his self-depracting thoughts and just nods, letting his cock go and leans back.

"Sit on the sofa for me," you gently instruct.

As soon as he has made himself comfortable sitting on his couch, you straddle his hips again. Your hand cupping his jaw, making him look at you as you grind his slick on his hard cock.

“Do you feel me?” you ask softly, your eyes on his.

He nods, gulping a moan.

"Y-yeah. Feels nice," he groans.

"Just feel me, okay Jack?"

You position the head of his cock against your entrance again. The warmth of your slick folds makes him hiss through his teeth.

You sink down just an inch, taking the head inside, and he moans.

He stares at you for a long, aching moment, then nods, a shaky exhale escaping him. “Yeah. I trust you.”

“Good.” You lower yourself fully, hissing slightly as your pussy takes him to the hilt, and the way he fills you, stretches you makes you feel lightheaded.

He groans, his head falling back, his hands gripping your hips.

You whine at how your pussy tries to accommodate to his length and girth.

"Shit, you're fuck…" you take a deep breath. "Bigger than I fucking thought."

His hands squeeze your waist. “God,” he breathes. “You’re—this is—fuck, I can feel everything.”

You start to move, slow and deep, and he lets you, his eyes never leaving where you’re joined. The slick slide, the heat, the intimacy of it.

You lean down and kiss him, tasting his relief, and moving your hips up and down, up and down, up and down.

“Fuck,” Jack whispers, the back of his head falling on the top of the back cushion, his eyes fluttering juuust a little, letting himself get carried away.

This is quite an incredible awe sight for you. Your attending physician, the one who intimidates the shit out of everyone in your department. Yet, here he is, under you, all flushed, eyes fluttering and mouth open.

If it weren't for his cock stretching you deliciously, you would've taunted how he looks right now.

Jack is rambling like some fucking teenager having sex for the first time, every sensation messing with his brain as he feels every contraction of your walls around him. His hips twitch upward instinctively, you feel him stopping himself, like he’s punishing himself for wanting more.

You hold his jaw, making him look at you, "Don't overthink it," you say lowly.

He nods, letting his hips buck upwards.

You gasp at the impact, diving in for a kiss, deep and messy, your tongue sliding against his. He groans into your mouth, and you lift your hips, juuust enough for the tip to stay in, and then drop them again, harder this time. The slap of skin echoes in the quiet room, and his breath catches.

Jack breaks the kiss, moaning your name.

"Fuck, I 've wanted you for so long," he babbles, his mind so fucking dazed that he himself is not sure of what he's saying.

You feel your heart start to beat louder, the words catching you by surprise that your walls pulse tightly around him, causing him to hiss.

"Really?" you ask.

"Fuck.. y-yeah yeah," he nods eagerly.

You couldn't help yourself but ask, "Have you been thinking about this a lot?"

He just nods and moans, completely out of it.

You lean, your lips close to his ear, "I've been thinking about this too."

Jack groans at your words, thinking that he may be in a lucid dream, but when you set a faster pace, rising and falling on his cock with a rhythm that cements how much you want him, and how good his cock fucking feels— he's pretty sure that he's not.

“There,” you whisper, picking up speed. “That’s it, just enjoy it.”

He smiles weakly, the doubts clouding in his mind has already disappeared. You see it in the way his furrowed brow smooths, in the way his mouth falls open, in the way his eyes glaze with pleasure instead of worry. His hands roam your body, gripping your ass, your thighs, your breasts, like he’s finally letting himself have this.

“I’m close,” he chokes out, and there’s panic threading through the words. “I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t hold it.”

“Don’t," You lean down, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips at his ear. “I—fuck, I'm close too.”

Your rhythm starts to get sloppy, every downward stroke grinds your clit against his pubic bone, sending sparks through your own body.

"Shit shit shit," he curses, squeezing your waist so tightly that it's deliciously painful.

He moans your name one last time as his whole body tenses, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills inside you, hot and thick. You slam down one last time, holding it deep as your orgasm tears through you, your walls convulsing around his shaft.

He shudders through his orgasm, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him as the aftershocks ripple through his muscles.

You stay still, letting him pulse inside you, your hand stroking his hair as his breathing slowly evens out.

“See?” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Nothing to overthink.”

"Fuck," he breathes, hands flying to your hips. "You're amazing."

You smile, lifting yourself up from his lap and collapse beside him, his cum dripping a little on his sofa.

Jack looks at you, for a minute he doesn't say anything.

"What?" you ask with a smile.

God, you really are such a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl like you, so caring, and accommodating to his desire for you—needs to be spoiled. One round isn't enough, his mind and still hard cock agrees.

"You wanna go to my bedroom?" he asks bluntly.

The directness of his voice makes you smile even wider. You look down on his lap and see how he's still hard, and you bite your lip in excitement, feeling the heat in your belly and your pussy once again.

"Fuck yeah."

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

Right at 6:40 P.M on a Wednesday, Jack is already in the emergency room, looking at the board of patients.

He taps his foot mindlessly, with a blissful look on his face. Suddenly, he feels a pat on his back.

"Someone looks like they don't work in a hospital," Robby says, raising his eyebrows at him.

"And what do you mean by that?" Jack sighs, clearly annoyed by whatever nonsense was that.

"You look happy, brother," Robby chuckles. "Finally got laid?"

"You're imagining shit," he grumbles.

Robby raises his hands in mock surrender, "Hey! No shame here."

Jack just rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, flickering his eyes back to the board.

"I'm just saying, man. I'm just glad you seem… lighter these days,” Robby says with a grin, the teasing in his voice softening.

Robby keeps his eyes on Jack, and sees the moment he spaces out before smiling.

"Oh my god, you really are in bliss. What got you so happy?"

Jack's face quickly sours, "None of your business."

Before Robby can even continue to probe, they hear someone call for Jack, walking towards them.

"Doctor Abbot, can I steal you for a sec? I need some help with these lab results," you ask politely, giving a small nod of acknowledgement to the other attending.

Jack clears his throat, his demeanor shifting to the usual seriousness he gives to the other residents when he's in the department, "Yeah sure."

You walk ahead of him, and Jack follows, glancing back at Robby who's already looking at him like he owes him important information.

You stop just by the door of peds. You grab the clipboard with the lab results and hand it to him.

He takes it, unable to hide the surprise on his face and you immediately catch it.

"Oh wow, you actually need my help," he mutters, suddenly feeling stupid for thinking that you're asking him for something else.

"Yeah," you nod.

Jack feels… well, a bit disappointed. He clears his throat lightly and looks back down at the clipboard.

You watch his face sour a bit, you clear your throat to stop yourself from laughing. You move closer to him, angling your head in a way that makes it look like you're taking a closer look at the papers.

"And… I was wondering if you can come over later at my place? Maybe it's time for you to see my apartment after weeks of me coming over to yours?" you say lowly, audible enough for only the two of you.

You flick your eyes to him, a small smile slowly creeps up on Jack's face, "Yeah?"

You nod, giving him a casual shrug with a neutral expression, playing pretend that you two are still talking about work.

"And… don't smile too much. People have been talking. There's already a betting pool on why," you add quietly, glancing around the busy nurses’ station.

Jack immediately clears his throat, forcing his face to stay neutral despite how excited he is for later.

"Alright alright, whatever you say, sweetheart."

--------------------------

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! i hope i did chapter 2 justice <333333

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Surrounded by busy healthcare workers, patients, and their concerned significant loved ones, Ellis was the first one who noticed how you're in such a great mood despite being surrounded by such chaos and uncertainty if things are gonna go well in the ER.

She has known you for the entire time you started working here, immediately clocking it the moment you step out of the locker area, still adjusting your scrubs, eyes already scanning the board.

She takes a step beside you, looking at the same board.

"You got laid?" Ellis asks casually.

"Mhmm," you confirm, almost absentmindedly, a stupid grin on your face. Jesus, you're in bliss.

"How was it?" she asks, with a neutral face.

"I almost passed out," you grin slyly, giving her a summary of how the guy you met from the bar gave you a really, really good time in his apartment.

She breaks, laughing shortly, impressed, "Damn. So I'm assuming you're gonna see him again?"

"Yep," you pop the last letter.

"Oh, now I'm intrigued," she now looks at you, arms crossed, "So, are you gonna give me some details?"

"Of course, anything for my favorite doctor," you chuckle, already expecting this question as you pull your phone out of your scrubs to show her the guy's picture.

"It's a good thing he works at night shift like me, so we can bang after work and—"

You stop when you hear someone clearing his throat, a familiar one. You already know who it is, from how deliberate he's being.

You turn around, lowering your phone.

"Apologies, did I interrupt something more important than saving people?" Jack says almost innocently, the kind of tone he uses to make you feel worse. He looks at you with his shoulders squared up and his hands on his back.

"Oh uh.. No, sorry…" you say softly, unable to meet his eyes as you put your phone back into your pocket, keeping it in mind for later. Your attention drops briefly to the floor before you straighten again.

Beside you, Ellis shifts her weight, keeping her face neutral and unaffected by the intrusion, but she straightens up her posture in front of the attending as well.

Jack tilts his head, as if he's trying to figure out what your business was before he approached you.

He doesn't reply for a moment, keeping you on your toes.

"Save the girls' talk when we're not getting swarmed by patients, okay?" he says, almost sternly but not quite.

"Okay," you answer, making yourself feel small.

"Good, now come along. I need more hands on this patient," Jack nods towards trauma room 3, and walks ahead of you, not waiting to see if you follow, because he already knows you will.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

Jack Abbot liked it more when you came into the ED with a frown on your face.

Sure, he's not fond of his favorite resident being in an awful mood. That's not something he would ever admit, because it sounds wrong the moment it’s put into words, especially coming from an attending physician. It's obviously selfish and petty, completely out of character with the kind of person he’s always been.

He is a very generous man, and the man who has gone out of his way to provide the help, comfort, and care anyone needs. He doesn't like it when people he cares for aren't happy.

But seeing you displeased—unsatisfied —also meant that whoever you chose, whoever you gave your time and attention to, that version of yourself he never gets to see didn't give you what you wanted. Which means you're still free, that no one has gotten a hold of you yet.

It sounds disgusting when he puts it that way, but he can't help it.

You are known to be that one resident who has a pretty active dating life, maybe more accurately, just a very active sex life.

Surprisingly, the people in the department didn't find it scandalous. They knew that this part of your personal life was something that you do to relieve stress. Nothing more, nothing deeper. It just so happens that this is how you cope with the stressful environment you willingly chose to be in the moment you decided to pursue this specialty.

It's not like you're reckless as well, you're… well, safe and careful. Hell, some of your co-workers approach you for advice. Some nurses and residents would approach you, trying to be discreet when asking you for your input or a tip when they're dealing with something related to their sex lives.

You were oddly respected for being that resident who, well, to put it simply, sleeps around.

Because you don’t let it interfere with your work in the PTMC.

You still show up promptly. You still work well with your peers and handle patients with the utmost care and knowledge that you have. Your charts are well-written, your decisions well-thought-out, and your hands steady even when your work environment isn’t. There’s no sloppiness to pin on you, no mistake anyone can trace back to a distraction or a bad decision the night before.

And of course, Jack knows about your reputation and, to be blunt, he's not a fan of it.

Not that he thinks it's shameful. Jack Abbot is sex positive! He doesn't care what the hell people do when they're horny as long as they're doing it safely and no one is getting hurt.

The issue is that it's you.

He doesn't think less of you because of it. God, he'd never do that. He understands coping mechanisms. He respects boundaries.

Everyone finds their own way to cope with the pressure, the exhaustion, the constant emotional whiplash that comes with this job.

Yours just happens to look like fleeting relationships and temporary release.

Over the time you have been working in his department, it took him a while to notice your pattern— whether you had a good fuck or not. Your work was consistent, which is impressive— but your mood, mannerisms, and body language are big indicators.

When you’re lighter, looser, almost amused by everything, he knows that the person you got to bed with was good and you'll probably see them again. When you’re sharp-edged, antsy, and just a little more reckless with your words, especially with stubborn patients, he knows that you just wasted your time with an asshole who is all talk but no fucking bite and that you probably already ghosted them.

He hates himself for taking note of it. It's none of his business. It has never been his business.

He knows to himself that it is creepy. It's almost cruel. Why would an attending physician even take note of something that isn't connected to their work at all?

Still, he finds himself watching you more closely on those nights when the frown lingers. Not out of concern alone, though that’s the excuse he tells himself—but because there’s something much more selfish in it. A selfish, fleeting satisfaction that settles in his chest when you seem to be in a bad mood, unimpressed, when whatever—or whoever—you gave your time to failed to meet your standards.

He knows better than to insert himself into something that is, by all accounts, none of his business. But despite understanding all that, it doesn't really help the gnawing feeling that haunts him every day.

It doesn't stop the jealousy that burns in his chest every time he overhears another story, another name, another reminder that people who barely know you get the parts of you he secretly wants too.

And another thing that he isn't a fan of is that you are a woman of discipline in your sex life. You are so stuck up on this rule of yours:

"Sorry, it's part of my principles not to sleep with co-workers."

That exact line is what you always say when someone from the hospital tries to hit on you—fellow residents, nurses, people from other departments.

Jack has heard it enough times to anticipate it before you even open your mouth. He’s watched it land on different people; some laugh it off, some push, some look almost insulted, but you never waver. He loves and hates how firm you are.

It is surprising and somehow irritating that you managed to uphold that stupid principle of yours for almost three years.

You would rationalize this rule of yours as the inevitability of ruining the rapport you have built with the people in the workplace. You have no plans of adding to the already messed-up environment in the emergency room.

The inevitable fallout between your co-workers seems small. But you just don't want to deal with what happens after. The day after. The shift after.

You don't want to have any friction with the people you work with. And in the ED? Friction might cause someone's life.

But Jack, the selfish man that he has become ever since you came to his department, wants to be an exception to that.

Although, he sees why you're so ironclad with that rule. Some people in the ED, of course, let their curiosities and genitals get the best of them, which resulted in a very awkward and tense working environment springing up from time to time. Witnessing what happened with Robby and Collins, along with Santos and Garcia, was enough for you to decide it isn’t worth it.

Jack can see the logic. He can respect it. He can even agree with it in the abstract.

And still, it doesn’t sit right with him that he is automatically included in the same category as everyone else. But he knows that being your attending physician? That is absolutely off-limits for you.

Being your co-worker and your superior. He definitely doesn't have a chance. The imbalance alone is enough to shut the door before it ever even opens.

But you have no idea how much he is willing to put in line to have you.

How much he wants you, and how much this want and need haunts him every fucking day.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

Jack finds himself absolutely fuming when he still hears about your latest boy toy a few weeks later. You have been seeing him for weeks now, specifically 20 days—not that he's counting, and not that he would admit, of course.

Apparently, his name is Jake. A typical name for a douchebag, Jack thinks.

If you change the last two letters of that douchebag's name, it could've been his name instead.

The fact that this one hasn’t faded out the way the others usually do. That’s new. That’s… irritating.

The longest one before him lasted almost a week.

*

Jack is sitting in front of a compter at the nurse's station, looking at the records of the patients that he admitted earlier and the patients the shift before, when he hears you and Ellis talking on the other side.

"That must be a record," Ellis teases, looking over your shoulder as you send a text back to Jake.

"What?" You lock your phone, putting it back in your pocket

"Aren't you guys technically in a relationship?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Jesus, it's not that serious," you roll your eyes.

If it's not that serious, not even deep. Then why the hell is this guy still in your life?

"What's so special about this guy?" she nudged your shoulder.

"He's good, I already told you," you shrug.

"That absolutely tells me everything and nothing at once," she scoffs

"What do you even want to know?" you sigh in exasperation.

"Juicy stuff. Come on, why are you weirdly discreet now? Is he special?" Ellis probes

"Oh my god, since when have you been nosy?"

"Can you even blame me?"

"Fine, well. He's really good. He knows what he's doing, with his hands, his mouth..." you say in a hushed tone, continuing to tell Ellis the juicy stuff but keeping it vague to not further expose yourself.

But of course, Jack can still hear it. His hearing is weirdly good when he's around you, despite his age.

Ellis lets out a sharp laugh, immediately catching on. “Oh, that kind of good.”

"Crazy stamina too," you giggle.

God, you sound so cute when you giggle, but he hates what provoked you to make that noise.

"It's nice that our schedules are aligned. Makes things convenient. Helps me loosen up a lo—"

Jack couldn't listen anymore and stops browsing through the records. He walks up behind you two, clearing his throat.

He sees you stop still for a moment.

Fuck. You thought to yourself.

"Done with your charts, Doc?" Jack raises an eyebrow, his tone gentle and polite as ever.

"Uh.. I only have one to finish—"

"Then you should be finishing it, chop chop," he interrupts you.

Jack’s gaze lingers on you for half a second longer than necessary—making you feel exposed and ashamed of what you were just talking about.

He shifts his attention towards the floor, patients already filling the room.

“Trauma’s filling up,” he adds,“I expect you both ready.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, already stepping back slightly, slipping your phone deeper into your pocket as Jack turns to the other way.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

This feels very demeaning, Jack thinks to himself as he pulls down his pants along with his briefs.

Whatever this is, it feels humiliating but it's enough to get him off. He can settle with this: to think of you in times of his need and, when he's done, momentarily get you off his mind.

He feels like a teenager, holding back his stiff cock until he gets home. He always gets riled up when he's around you. This is almost a daily routine for him every after shift.

He sits down on the edge of his bed as he fully discards his pants, and hurriedly removes his prosthetic so he can lie down on his bed—a bed too spacious for him, but would fit if he's with a certain resident he's about to jerk off to.

The moment he got rid of what he needs to be comfortable, he lies down, head resting on his pillows as he starts palming himself, closing his eyes.

He likes to start thinking about kissing you. How your lips would feel on his, how soft and warm it would be pressed on his. He has always liked looking at your lips, and he struggles not to especially when you're presenting a case because if he indulges himself too much, you'll see through him.

He wraps his rough hand around his cock, slowly stroking it, his breaths getting heavier as he focuses on thinking about his pretty doctor.

Jack likes to think that it's him you spend your intimate moments with, instead of whoever the fuck you chose to be with that day. He wishes to be the one on top or under you, whatever you prefer. He'd do anything you'll ask him to do; he's flexible like that.

If his hypothesis is correct, supported by the stories he has overheard, you like being a sub and dom— a switch, as Santos would define it, when she and Whitaker were talking about you while they were gossiping instead of doing charts.

Sometimes he likes to imagine himself taking charge of you. He loves thinking of himself right on top of you, and there you are, lying on your back with your legs spread and glistening, every pretty part of you in front of him.

He groans softly, hand slowly pumping his hard shaft to relieve himself.

'Fuck yeah,' he whispers, picturing you asking for it, begging for it. You were always so polite when you would ask him for help with your cases, how you would sweetly ask, "Doctor Abbot, can I get your opinion?"

But you were always so polite, always so professional.

Jack can't help but wonder what you would sound like when you're not polite and professional anymore. Would you be needy? stubborn? or just bratty? Would you give in or put up a fight when he's being rough?

But then he is also very curious of letting you take charge. Just like how you would use your strict tone on him, the same tone you use on stubborn patients, younger residents and interns.

You never used it on him though, how unfortunate. You respect him too much as your superior, and he wishes that you didn't.

He imagines you telling him what to do to please you. Hovering over him, looking down on him like he's some pervert who is under your mercy. He has heard how you have taken care of people you dominate in bed. It's nothing really explicit but he can imagine you being on top of them, grinding your core on theirs with a menacing smile as you take in every bit of reaction you get out of them as you move your hips.

He moves his hand faster now, collecting the precum leaking on his tip to spread all over his throbbing member, making it easier for him to pick up his pace. He keeps tugging himself, breathy moans filling the silent room.

God, he wishes it was him. He always does, everytime you're in a good mood after a night out, he wishes that he was the reason why.

It's selfish to think of you like this and he shouldn't entertain it. That's what he always tells himself before and after he jerks himself off, but never during. It's a painful cycle, a painful ethical dilemma that he's been struggling with.

He shouldn't be thinking of a senior resident like this. The power balance is tricky. But how can't he?

You're— everything he respects, first. You're smart and unshakably competent. You always know what you're doing in the emergency room.

You are so gorgeous too, with or without even trying. You are just so exceptional and Jack cannot get over how you plague his brain so much when he's alone on his bed.

Because there is so much of you that he doesn't know, what you're like outside of the department.

He moves his hand faster, relieving himself all of the tension and warmth building up in his cock. God, he wishes you would just let him take care of you so you wouldn't have to go through that awful cycle of hookups.

He hates how it twists in his gut, this need clawing at him, making him stroke harder, the slick sound of pre-cum easing the friction. It's pathetic, really, jerking off to the thought of you while trying to push you away, to erase the way your voice echoes in his head, the way your body radiates heat when you're close, and the way your pretty face looks at him when you're listening to his instructions intently.

Sweat beads on his forehead as he pumps his fist, He shakes his head, biting his lip to stifle a groan. He wants to forget about you, because this is just so complicated to be in.

Everytime he gets too deep into this, he spirals. All the want, need, lust turns into this ugly anger that he feels guilty for.

Not angry at you, of course. But at himself.

Anger for feeling this way for his resident. Anger for not being the one you spend your time with outside of the ED.

He couldn't stop the spiral, the way his mind twisted the envy into something vicious. Jack's hand tightened around his cock, veins bulging under his grip as he thrust into his fist, imagining it was you around him instead—tight, slick, pulling him deeper with every roll of your hips.

The stories you'd shared in the break room, casual as if discussing shift schedules, replayed in his head:

Fuck, why them? Why not him? Jack's breath hitched, his free hand clawing at the sheets as he pictured himself instead of the people you slept with.

His thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing the leaking pre-cum, and he groaned low, the sound ragged in the empty room.

Jealousy burned hot in his chest, mixing with the building pressure in his balls.

It's always like this when Jack masturbates to the thought of you. All the want, the need, the ugly guilt, jealousy and anger mixed up in his body. He always puts himself through this, willingly too as much as he's afraid to admit. Because he just can't get you out of his head and his heart.

He hated how you laughed off the exhaustion of the ER, turning to strangers for release while he watched from the sidelines, pulse racing every time you brushed past him in the hallway.

He has been working with you for years and yet he knows so little about you.

Yes, he wants you, bad. But it’s about the fact that you keep choosing people who don’t see you the way he does.

People who don’t know how your mind works, how sharp you are under pressure, how steady your hands stay when everything else is falling apart.

Yet, they're the ones you go to.

They’re the ones you let in, even if only temporarily.

How can a beautiful person settle with people who don't even know how to actually take care of you?

Jack's hips bucked involuntarily, fucking his hand faster, the wet schlick echoing in shame.

He wants to be the one who makes you feel good. To outdo them all, to be the best one you have ever had, to make you come so hard you'd shatter, and you wouldn't seek this relief from anyone else because he would be always there for you. There for you to use, to go to either for comfort, for release, and even for love.

His abs clenched, sweat trickling down his temple as the fantasy peaked. He imagined how your face would be all hazed and gorgeous, as he pleases you. How you would say his name, so vulnerable under him.

With a choked curse, Jack came, ropes of hot cum spilling over his knuckles, splattering his stomach. But even as the aftershocks faded, the emptiness hit harder, his need for you, and his shame tied with it, lingering like a bruise.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

You take the rare silence in the ED as your opportunity to catch up on your charts. You settle on one of the computers easily, typing away on the keyboard when you hear a chair slide next to you.

"Someone's awfully quiet," she breaks the silence.

"I'm working," you mutter, eyes on the screen.

After another moment of silence, Ellis moves closer to you.

“By this time you’d be talking about what your cat just did,” Ellis continues, nudging your arm lightly, “or whatever random thing you watched last night, or which fictional character you’re currently obsessed with—honestly, I can go on.”

You huff out a quiet breath, eyes still fixed on the screen. “I'm just not in the mood, Ellis."

"I'm guessing something happened," she slides her chair closer to you.

"Can't I just focus on work?"

"Nope."

"Whatever."

"How are you and your boytoy by the way?" she asks out of curiosity, not that she's looking for anything juicy, but you've been seeing this guy for more than a month already as far as Ellis knows.

"He ended things," you answer, a little abruptly, and a little too flatly.

“What?” she turns fully now, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to read past your tone. “Wait—what do you mean he ended things?”

You shrug, too quickly, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t bother you. "It's whatever. It was bound to happen."

“Oh no,” she mutters, stepping closer, arms crossing. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to drop that and then act like it’s nothing. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” you insist, already turning back to your chart, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

“Uh-uh,” Ellis leans in slightly, lowering her voice but sharpening it at the same time. “Spill.”

You hesitate, filling out one section before stopping, taking a deep breath.

"It sounds weird."

"We deal with weird shit all the time, I can take it."

"Stop it."

"Come on"

"Ellis."

Ellis says your name, with a pleading tone. You sigh and remove your hands from the keyboard.

"I uh.."

"Hmm?"

"Well.."

"Just spill it out!"

"Okay!" you huff, getting annoyed by her persistence.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes monetarily.

"When we.. when we were well, doing it..I may have said another name," you say quietly.

"But! I genuinely misspoke!" you follow up a little too quickly.

Ellis raises an eyebrow.

"Whats his name again?" she tilts her head.

"Jake."

"And you misspoke how?" she emphasizes the last word.

You gaze away, feeling your head about to explode from embarrassment.

"Come on, don't tease me."

"Well it's…" you trail off.

"What?" Ellis pushes it.

"Jack" you say softly, almost a whisper.

"I'm sorry what?" Ellis asks again, thinking she may have misheard.

"I may have said Jack instead of Jake," you say in a harsh whisper

Ellis's jaw drops, "Oh my fucking god. You mean our attending?"

"It was an accident! I—"

“An accident?” she repeats, incredulous. “You accidentally said your attending’s name—your attending’s name—in the middle of—”

You smack her arm to shut her up, your face heating up so badly now.

“I know,” you cut in quickly, dragging a hand down your face. “I know, okay? That’s why he ended things.”

“Yeah, no shit he ended things,” Ellis mutters, still staring at you like she’s trying to process it. “I would’ve ended things too!”

“It wasn’t like that,” you insist, though your voice lacks the conviction you want it to have. “It just slipped out.”

Ellis narrows her eyes at you.

“Mm-hmm.”

You glare at her. “Don’t.”

“I’m not saying anything,” she says, holding her hands up in mock surrender—but the look on her face says otherwise.

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking a lot of things.”

“Ellis—”

"What?"

"God, just leave me alone."

Ellis just chuckles, messing with your hair.

"You know I can see through you right?"

"And what the fuck does that mean?" you grumble.

"Jesus, getting hostile?"

You huff, rolling your eyes.

"I'm sure it's not obvious to anyone but, you've kind of had a thing for Jack for a while, haven't you?" she says in a low voice that you can only hear.

“That’s insane,” you say, too fast.

Ellis doesn’t react to the speed. Just watch you settle back into pretending this conversation isn’t happening.

“Is it?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Mhm.”

The sound is infuriatingly calm, you just turn to the computer again.

You click through the chart harder than necessary, eyes locked on the screen.

“This is not a thing,” you add.

"Oh come on, I'm not gonna tell anyone"

"Ellis."

"And I mean, I've seen how you looked at him and—"

"Stop."

"You dont have to stick with that rule of—"

"Ellis, please stop."

"I’m not even judging you! I’m just saying maybe there’s a reason you accidentally said his na—"

"Will you please shut the fuck up!" you say a little too loudly.

The sound cuts through the low hum of the ED just enough that a couple of heads subtly shift in your direction.

You let out an exasperated sigh, grounding yourself from how that conversation rattled you a little more than you expected.

"I.. Sorry everyone. I need a break," you excuse yourself, walking straight outside the ER.

You didn't even notice that Jack has been sitting just a few feet away from you this whole time, watching you walk out of the floor.

─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────

Soaked from the rain, a clear bruise forming on your eye, a busted lip and blood dripping from your nostrils, dried at this point.

“Robby..” you whisper to your older brother who is quickly pulling you into the house. “Sit” he orders, motioning to the couch a few feet from the door. He is quick to kneel in front of you, looking over your face.

“It's broken” you croak out after a few minutes of silence.

“Yeah pea i think it is” robby nods, looking over your nose. Since you were a little girl, Robby always called you pea, you refused to eat them. “I have to take you to the ED, i cant reduce that here” he adds, your eyes are pleading with him.

“I can’t , you need meds” he shakes his head and stands, “let me get you dry clothes okay?” you didn't trust your voice, nodding. He stands and quickly pulls his phone out to type out a quick text to the only person on nightshift touching his sister.

“Robby; i have an incoming nose fracture, only you on the case please, eta 10”

Jack furrows his brows at the text, looking at Lena, “can you let me know when robby gets here? Says he will be here in 10” Lena frowns but nods with a smile,”of course”. 

Within 10 minutes Robby is pulling you through the ER in dry clothes. You followed behind him, hand held in his as Lupe lets him in through the doors with a smile.

“Jack” the attending turns at the sound of his friend’s voice, brows furrowed. "Hey, what is going on man” Jack asks as he makes his way to him, Robby moves to the side, gaining your attention towards the night shift attending.

His eyes move between you and Robby. “What happened?” Jack questions, looking at you with a softening gaze. “I have a broken nose, Robby wont reduce it without meds” you grumble.

Jack looks back at Lena who nods to a room, “you can do south 17, more secluded” she smiles kindly at you. They see this often on the night shift.

“I don't need meds” you look between your brother and the man you have learned is Jack Abbot. “Can you just put my nose back and refer me to plastics?” You question as Jack looks over at Robby.

Robby nods to the door, “we’ll be right back pea” he squeezes your shoulder and walks out the door with Jack. 

“Her bark is worse than her bite” Robby defends as Jack shrugs. “You could easily pop that back in, what is this about?” He raises a brow and crosses his arms across his chest. Robby sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck, “I think her boyfriend did it” he admits.

Jack sighs then, “you want her to file a report” Jack connects the dots. “Its not entirely the first time” Robby adds, eyes falling back to you.

“How about I talk to her?” Jack asks and Robby nods slowly, “maybe someone who is not her brother could get her to talk?” He questions and Robby nods slowly.

“Call me back in for the reduction please” he asks as Jack nods, pushing in the room.

“So, Baby Robinavitch” Jack pulls the stool to his side, sitting down slowly to adjust his prosthetic. “How did this happen?” He asks as you sigh, “I took a spill, hit my face” you chuckle softly, looking over his face. He can see your holding back, the tears are evident in your lash line.

His cold but almost comforting stare holds your eyes for a few more minutes of silence before he nods slowly and turns to call your brother in but your voice stops him.

“He didn't mean it” you whimper as the tears start to fall. He turns back to face you, moving closer, “They always mean it honey” he whispers, rubbing a soothing hand on your knee, which you happily accept.

“Robby brought me in so I could have medical documentation” you let out a deep sigh before continuing, “for a case but i cant” you whisper as his brows furrow.

“He’s a doctor, at presby, a reputation to hold up ya know?” you chuckle through your tears, looking away from his eyes.

Jack scoffs, “fuck a reputation, he’s gonna need to face his consequence” Jack can’t help the way the words flew out, watching the way your eye meets his.

“Dr.Abbot” he shakes his head, “Jack is just fine”. He nods and looks over the blood dripping from your nose, a mix from the tears and injury. 

“Is this the first time?” He questions as he begins to scoot across the room on the stool, gathering what he needs, “no” you admit softly.

He sighs and nods, hands on his thighs, “if you do not want to report it i understand, i have to honor your decision with hipaa law” he whispers as your doe eyes meet his.

“I also understand that if you want me to reduce your fracture without meds and without your brother” he adds, you shake your head, “no meds, yes robby” you voice like a toddler, he has a small smile.

Robby is impatiently passing by the door, when he waves him in. He frowns at the tears on your face as Jack stands. “She’s as stubborn as you are, must be a Robinavitch thing” Jack grumbles, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves, Robby smiles at you. It gets a small smile out of you.

“Okay Baby Robinavitch” Jack has his thumbs on either side of your sinuses. Your doe eyes again are looking up at him, gauze in your mouth, “do it” you mumble around the gauze.

Your scream could’ve been heard 3 floors up from the ED as Jack is relocating your nose and the gauze is falling out of your mouth with a scream.

Jack is quick to catch you as your body falls forward into his arms, eyes falling to Robby. Switching places Robby is pulling you into his arms as you sob, almost screaming from the events of the night.

Jack pulls his gloves off and makes eye contact with Robby who nods. He makes his way out of the room to give you both the space as he began the discharge paperwork. “I got you pea” he whispers his hand on the back of your head to hold you closer to him.

You sob into your brother, gripping his jacket tighter. 

Within hours of your discharge you were roaming your brother's home still clad in his clothes.

With pleading eyes you begged him to get you out of there, out of presby and out of your apartment.

Robby recruited multiple people from the ED, Jack was the remaining. Jack watched with wondering eyes as you curled up in the loveseat like a kitten, finally feeling safe in the presence of your brother, more importantly his. 

From that moment Jack vowed he would always protect (y/n) robinavitch

+

present day.

The sun is just rising over Pittsburgh as your phone rings beside you. Sighing heavily, you reach over and answer through your airpods, “Robinavitch”.

“We need you” is all you got from Robby, calling from the emergency room phone and quickly hanging up, Dana yelling at him in the background.

You are quick to get out of your workout clothes and into scrubs. 

You heard about it through Park, a massive car pile up. Park was on call but was in the middle of a golf game when Robby called him. You are rushing in beside the gurney, paramedics handing over a pair of gloves to you immediately.

“18 year old female, part of the pile up, crushed between  her motorcycle and another vehicle” you are following beside them quickly, bag still on your shoulder.

“Don't say it” Robby follows behind you as you smirk, looking at the girl who is sobbing on the back board. “Hi hun, my name is Dr.Robinavitch, i am gonna be part of the team treating you” she whimpers and nods.

You and Robby worked as an oiled machine, working around the other. After 45 minutes and stabilizing the patients pelvis fracture, you push out of the room and quickly remove your gloves.

“Poor thing” you whisper to yourself and set your bag down with Dana who grins. “Baby Robinavitch” she smiles at the eye roll it gets out of you. “Dana i am a big girl now, a well decorated surgeon” you add as she chuckles, “but you are Robby’s baby sister always” she smirks and puts her glasses on.

"Baby Robinavitch!" Perlah cheers from down the hall as you sigh, closing your eyes and turning to the pair, princess falling beside her best friend, "hi guys".

Robby turns to you with a grin, "you act like being a Robinavitch is a bad thing" he comments as you look at him with a raised brow. "Not a bad thing, bad thing being referred to 'baby' as a very grown woman"

Jack let it slip in the middle of case, you pushed in at 3am to the trauma room, his eyes fly up. He expected park, that's who they told him was on call. "Baby Robinavitch, what are you doing here?" he asks, his body covered up to his elbows in blood. "when one of my favorite attendings calls, I answer" you grin.You can feel Dr.Walsh's eye roll from across the room, which makes your own grin grown.

Ellis caught the small smile on his lips at the favorite part and continued to assist her attending as she then looked at you.

Pulling the gown and gloves on you smiled at her, "what do you got Dr.Ellis?" you raised with a curious brow. The rumour around was Dr.Robby's sister had started at the PTMC and she was an Orthopedic Surgeon but they did not expect to see you in the flesh.

"Pretty sure its a completely separated shoulder, on top of a pretty nasty patella fracture" Jack speaks up after a few moments of silence, you nod. "Lets get to work then" you smirked.

word traveled fast that (Y/N) "Baby" Robinavitch had joined the PTMC family.

“Um” both you and Robby look up at the voice, Samira Mohan stands nervously. “Dr.Robby, i uh i need an ortho consult” she adds as you smile. “Well you are in luck you have an orthopedic right here” you encourage her to walk towards the room.

"I'm (y/n). Dr.Robinavitch" you introduced yourself, following her towards the room. She smiles then, "oh, baby robinavitch in the flesh" you couldn't help the eye roll as you followed her in North 13.

Walking out of the room, discarding your gloves you smile at the R3. “Great call Mohan, have you ever considered orthopedics?” You ask as she smiles up at you with a shake of her head, “no, I mostly have enjoyed trauma work" you shake your head with a smile.

“there is nothing wrong with that, you can always have an undergrad in emergency medicine” she moves to the computer with a smile. "Being a trauma surgeon is kinda cool" you whisper as she chuckles with a smile.

“Don't corrupt her” the voice beside you instantly brings a smile to your lips, turning to the voice, you look down at your watch. “Must be witching hour, Abbot” you smirk and watch the smirk grow on his lips.

“And I'm not corrupting, just advising,” Jack nods with a smirk on his lips. “She likes rolling with us old guys” you laugh at that. “Mohan, if you ever consider it do not hesitate” you smile at her and wink at Jack, walking away from the hub.

Jack is hot on your tail as you make your way into the staff lounge, groaning there was no coffee made. “Theres one in your locker” he mumbles, hands in his pocket as you turn to face him.

It brings a smile to your face as he looks around before shutting the door and pulling the blinds, making his way to you. “You didn’t wake me” he whispers, arms across his chest as you smile up at him.

“You needed sleep, plus you had only been off shift for an hour” you tilt your head, arms crossing over your own chest. “So?” he asks like it was the most obvious answer.

“What are you doin here?” you ask then, his own head tilting. “I came to check in on a patient from last night” he admits as you nod slowly “plus is it a crime to want to bring my amazing girlfriend a coffee that i know she needed?" he pouts which gets a small giggle out of you.

“Thank you for bringing me coffee” you lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him, your own arms wrapping around his neck. “You should go home and go to bed” you whisper, nose nudging his.

In the staff lounge, it was your own little bubble. Just you and Jack Abbot.

“Bed is not the same without you” his breath fans over your face, grin on his lips as you chuckle. “I will be there after i do my rounds and consults” he rolls his eyes with a groan. “And this and this yada yada” he smirks, “fine, i shall leave everyone to suffer with their fractures and hip pain” you grin at his chuckle.

He connects your lips then with a hum. “Will you at least have dinner with me before shift?” he asks as you hum, “only if you make those reeeeally good ribs”.

He smirks and nods, “anything for you baby robinavitch” you huff and turn to follow him out of the staff lounge.

“You started something and you know it” you grumble and make your way towards the locker room, He makes his way towards the ambulance bay with a wink.

It brings a blush to your cheeks as you walk past the hub and to the locker room. Robby watched from the computer at the hub, glasses perched on his nose.

“What the hell was that?” Dana whispered to him as he shook his head with a sigh. “I- i don't even know” he shakes his head and runs a hand over his face. 

+

The sunrise was beautiful as the golden light was perfect against his salt and pepper curls, basking him in warmth. He heard the rooftop door open, he turns to the sound. He expected Robby for handoffs.

He was surprised to be greeted by your warm smile. “Baby” he grins looking over your face, "where's Robby?" He questions as he meets you half way.

“Downstairs with Shen, told him I'd find you” he smiles and looks down at you. “I’m gonna cover for al hashimi today, had something going on with her son” he nods with a huff.

“Was looking forward to going home to you, all i've been thinking about for the last twelve hours” his smirk is teasing as you roll your eyes.

“I made breakfast, it's in the microwave” he smiles at that, the one where it meets his eyes. “Okay” he nods, kissing your forehead. “Lets get downstairs” he motions to the door, you make it two steps in the door before he is grabbing your elbow and pulling you back against his chest, hands on your waist. "before though" he whispers, leaning down to connect your lips, your arms wrapping around his neck.

He is quick to back you into the wall, your back hitting the concrete gently. His grip is tight on your waist as your fingers are in his salt and pepper curls. You moan against him as he nibbles on your bottom lip.

"Okay big guy" you pant, biting on his bottom lip back with a smirk, "we need to get downstairs" you add with a raised brow. "why can't I just take you here?" he whispers, kissing down your jaw, the 5 o clock shadow tickling your skin with a welcoming burn. "Well, my brother would come up here looking for you and find you balls deep in his sister" you smirk at the groan he leaves on your skin.

He bites at your shoulder, mumbling against your scrubs, "what a buzz kill your brother is"

"this can't happen Jack" you whisper against his skin, nudging his nose as he hovers over you, "says who?" he rasps, kissing down your neck. The scruff of his jaw against your skin which makes you shiver. "Like every sterotype" you mumble biting on his lobe, hooking your leg over his hips. He bucks his hips against you, a groan on his lips as he lifts his head to look over your face. Your eyes were soft, the same doe eyes you looked at him with a year ago. "Is this because i'm the same age as your brother?" he questions, voice soft.

You shake your head, running your hands along his arms that had you caged between them. "Nothing to do with that, i-i'm just... scared" you admit, looking over his face. He looked at you as if you held the sun. "i-I haven't been with anyone since him and what I'm feeling for you is... its scaring me" you admit. "And-And I just started at the hospital and what if-" he cuts you off then. "Doctors date baby, you are allowed to date" he whispers placing a kiss between your eyebrows. "It's allowed, you are not my subordinate, you are you" he whispers.

Your eyes were fearful as he frowns. "I'm falling in love with you, way quicker than I even expected but I will do anything to protect you" he whispers. The tears are welling up in your lash line as he continues, "If protecting you is letting you go, I will" he admits as you sniffle. "Or you could just make love to me instead, and tell me you love me over and over" you admit with a whisper as the tears rolled down your cheeks.

His kiss is feverish, like if he wasn't kissing you he would drown.

"That I can do Baby" he whispers against your lips, with a smirk. Normally it would ensude an eye roll but instead a blush made its way up your cheeks, you were always baby Robinavitch, just baby made your heart flutter and blush deepen. You brushed your lower lip against his, "just kiss me Abbot" he smirks,recconecting your lips.

Robby watched as you and Jack made your way to hand offs, you were giggling softly to something the night shift attending said. Robby wasn’t one to question his little sister but the frequent mornings he’d wake up to your bedroom still dark or as you were just slipping in were getting more frequent. He knew you were an adult but he was your big brother.

He was worried.

You smile and stand back beside Jack, watching the residents gather around Robby. He smiles at all the med students and residents. “We have an additional attending joining us today” he looks back at you with a raised brow as you move beside him.

“Dr Al Hashimi had an emergency and Ortho was gracious enough to let us borrow Dr.Robinavitch” you smile and wave.

“Baby Robinavitch” Dana adds as your eyes narrow at her.

“I'm completely fine with just (y/n)” the group all nod. “Lets get to work” Robby nods as he watches the way you linger behind to talk to Abbot.

“Eat and go to bed” you whisper, arms across your chest as he nods, “yes ma'am” his backpack is slung over his shoulder as he smiles.

“And take your prosthetic off when you get in bed, i noticed its irritating you, i will look into it” he nods again.

He never thought he would find anyone again after his wife passed. Then the Orthopedic surgeon walked into his life and helped him with his prosthetic, he thought he saw an angel.

She just happened to be Robby's baby sister.

“Alright, I will text you when I wake up” he smiles and nods. He makes his way past you, smiling at Robby as he goes.

Jack can’t help the smile on his face when he pulls the plate of waffles out with a side of bacon, a perfectly pink sticky note on top of the plastic wrap.

“Kiss you soon.”

he took the sticky note and folded it up and put it in his wallet. 

“So, any reason you didn’t come home last night?” your eyes fly up to Robby with a raised brow. He is at his computer, looking at the screen as if he isn’t prying.

“Robby” you chuckle and shake your head. “Dr.Robinavitch?” you look over and smile at Mckay.

“Hey Dr.Mckay, whatcha got?” you ask and send daggers towards your brother and follow her towards the room.

“That went well,” Dana chuckles with her own ipad. “I have every right to be concerned right?” he asks as she nods with a shrug.

“Eh, yes and no,” she smiles at him. “Yes and no?” he questions as she chuckles, “robby, she is a big girl but I also know she’s seen some shit so, i understand your concern there” she smiles at Emma who makes her way to the hub.

“Welcome back” she smiles at her as Emma smiles at her.

“Hi Dana” she smiles over at Robby, “Dr.Robby”.

“So are you coming?” Jack’s voice is quiet as you look up from your charts to the man in front of you. “Are you lost?” you question and sit up in the chair, looking around you.

“This sure doesn’t look like the ED” he chuckles and can’t help the smile that makes its way up his lips. “No, I came to see my favorite Ortho attending” he smirks at the blush it brings to your cheeks “and to see if you were coming to have drinks with us”.

You shake your head and stand, hands in your pockets. “I don’t think so, Abbot”. You had been staying with Robby the last few months, only at PTMC for a month. You weren’t ready to interact with the rest of the ED outside of Jack.

He reaches out and catches your elbow. “Please?” he has a plea in his eyes, in his voice. You look over his face, looking for any sign of regret or lying. “Are you?” you question and he shifts his weight to his left side, looking at you with a shy smile.

You knew about his prosthetic but he wanted to keep it a secret, one thing for him to tell you.

He nods, “meet me in the ED in 15?” he asks as you smile, “fine”.

The bar was just around the corner from PTMC, small and quiet but also the perfect atmosphere. You sat beside Robby, clinging to your safe space.

The bruise on your nose was deep and purple and you could tell the residents were curious. Jack slides beside you, setting a beer in front of you. The smell of beer was faint on his lips as he leaned close.

“Here you go Baby Robinavitch” he chuckles at the blush it brought to your cheeks. “You are safe here” his voice is soft, shoulder brushing yours. You nod and smile at him,leaning your head on his shoulder and taking a sip from your beer.

the text message comes through as you stood at the hub, looking down at your phone. a smile making its was to your lips,

"jack: kiss you soon."

“Can I have your help with this patient?” Donnie's voice pulls you from your day dream, looking over at him with a smile.

“Oh yeah absolutely” you nod, following beside him. “Whatcha got?” he hands the ipad over to you, looking over the labs on display.

“His BAC was .25” he mumbles as you stop in front of south 17.

A room with so many memories.

You look over at Donnie and frown. “You don’t need me, you got this” you question as he tilts his head with a smile. “I’m concerned he is also on drugs, looking for your input” you smile and nod, putting the ipad under your elbow and pushing the door open with your shoulder.

“Hello, I’m Dr.Robinavtich, and you are?” you face the man in his polo and khaki shorts. “Uh, my name is Rich, this is Matt, he was just going for a swing before he collapsed” you nod, running your pen lights over his pupils.

“Has Matt taken any drugs or anything?” you question as his friend shakes his head. “Listen, I got a game to get back too, can we just come back later?” he questions as your eye roll is evident, “Sure”.

You look over at Donnie, “I like your hunch" you smile at him "have a nurse grab his vitals in about 15-20 and find me” you hand the ipad back and walk out of the room. You stop outside the door, hands on your hips and take a deep breath.

That whole situation bringing feelings you haven’t felt in almost 5 years. “Hey” Dana’s voice pulls you from your daydream, eyes flashing to her quickly.

“Hey” you whisper, voice cracking as she is quick to lead you out the ambulance bay.

“You okay?” she questions, rubbing circles on your back as you nod slowly, taking another puff of the cigarette she graciously handed over.

“Five years ago” you whisper facing away from her, “robby brought me here at 2am because my boyfriend broke my nose” you admit.

“Lena put me in that room to keep me away from everyone, I was just finishing my residency at Presby” you look over at her with tears in your lash line.

“Brought back those years of my life” you chuckle softly and let the tear roll down your cheek.

“Jack and Robby really changed my life that night” you admit with a sniffle. Dana smirks at the mention of the night shift attending.

“Oh my god!” you slurred as ‘i had the time of my life’ came on softly over the speakers. Jack was still beside you with a smile, “what?” he questions you. “I love this song” you laugh, standing unsteadily from the chair.

“Can we do it Jack?!” you squeal looking at him with a giggle. He laughs then, looking over your face, “Do what?” his brows are furrowed which egg you on.

“Be the Johnny to my baby and do the lift!” you smile at the cheers from the residents. “Yeah Dr.Robinavitch!” Mckay yells as you giggle, shifting on your heels, looking back at Jack Abbot.

He shakes his head and goes to stand as you are walking away. “(Y/N)” his voice warns but he had no time to process your body colliding with his. You laughed as your legs wrapped around his waist, his arms secured around you.

“I think you have had enough Baby” he shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Something you aren’t telling us?” she asks with a raised brow after you had been quiet for a few minutes. You shake your head and put the cigarette out. “Nope” you smirk and make your way back inside. 

The world seemed to stop as Emma was in that room by herself, you just happened to catch as the patient's arm looped around her neck.

“Hula Hoop!” you scream and run into the room, fighting the man off of her and gently pushing her out of the way.

"what's going on?" Robby looks back at the nurses as Ahmed is running past, "we have a code hula hoop, south 17". Robby quickly discards his stethoscope and runs towards the room.

As he makes his way into the room, he is colliding with Emma. His sister ontop of the patient holding his arms down.

The man's elbow managed to hit your face in his thrashing, which you did not notice until the chaos slowed. Jesse and Donnie are at your side quickly as you feel the blood dripping from your nose.

Fuck.

Donnie helps you down as Ahmad makes his way in then. “Emma” your eyes are frantic as you rush out of the room to find her at the nurses station with Dana, rushing over to look her over.

“Are you okay?” you question, crouched in front of her with your hands on either side of her face, looking her over again.

She nods slowly, the look of fear evident in her eyes. “I’m okay” she whispers as you nod, looking around, “Cassie, can you do a work up on her” you stand, hands on your hips. “Should I look at you, Baby?” she questions as you shake your head.

“No, no i'm fine” you snapped, looking over at the sound of your brother's voice. “Why was she in there alone?” he seethes at Dana who laughs. “She is a nurse Robby, she was taking vitals, we should be more concerned on if she is okay” she snickers as Robby shakes his head with a heavy sigh.

You intervene then, stepping between them. It's then that Robby realizes your nose is broken and blood is rolling down your nostrils.

“Leave her alone" you whisper, looking up at him. “She is not one to blame here, no one is, that patient acted on violence against a nurse” you seeth.

“It is not Dana or anyone’s fault but his, he is combative and drunk, probably on something” Robby’s eyes are everywhere but mostly on your nose. “For fucks sake Michael, yes my nose is fucking broken, again!” you yell and walk away from him and Dana.

Everyone watches as you walk away, eyes wide and curious. Perlah whispers to princess beside her, "oh he is in trouble".

The locker room is quiet as you push through the door, finally.

Pulling your phone from your pants pocket, the numbers read back at you. 4:30pm.

You know he is awake, you know he would come running when you tell him what happened. Sliding down against the lockers you can’t help the sobs to fall from your lips. 

you quickly select the contact photo, hand shaking.

It was a photo of Jack in his Swat uniform, a photo he did not know you took. It took two rings before his voice was on the other end. It was rough and gravely, he had just woken up.

“Baby?” he questioned, senses heightened at the sound of your sobs. “Jack” you managed to croak out before he immediately pulled his pants on quicker.

“Hey hey, talk to me” he whispers, putting the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “I-I need you” you sobbed harder and that is all he needed to hear. 

Jack was pretty sure he broke every single traffic law as he pulled into the PTMC parking lot.

“Jack” Robby’s voice is surprised as he looks at his watch, 5:00pm. “You aren’t due to be here for another two hours” he continues as Jack shakes his head. "Brother, what's going on?" Robby questions, grabbing his friends shoulder.

“Where is she?” he almost growls, his eyes were going through every trauma bay, every room he could see. “Where is Baby?” he questions as Robby sighs, “I don't know”.

That’s all Jack needed and he was pushing past his best friends and down the hall. He just passes the locker room when he hears the sobs.

He knows those cries. He is pushing the door open and the sight that meets him felt like his heart was ripped from his chest.

“Baby” he coos as your head lifts at the sound of his voice and then his blood runs hot. “Oh my god!” he is in front of you quickly, cupping your chin in his hands. “It's broken, again” you whimper at the now dried blood on your face.

His eyes are frantic as he looks you over. “A patient attacked Emma, i called code hula hoop, i got him off of her managed to pin him down but in the midst of all that the strong fucker got me in the nose” you sniffle as he chuckles softly.

“C’mon” he stands and helps you up to your feet. 

the morning sun was just peaking through the curtains as your head laid on Jack's chest. He was sound asleep but at peace. His features relaxed in the first time in a while. He called and begged at 3am to see you when he got off. He was relieved when he found you in his bed at 7am.

You knew the shift was bad when all he wanted to do was lay down and let you hold him, which you did happily. You traced along his nose gently as he began to stir.

you moved from his face to his arms, tracing the soft freckles still adoring his skin, "mm, baby" he grumbles and reaches out to pull you closer to him. "I love you" you can't help the words to fall, his eye peaks open at that, a sleepy grin making its way on his lips. "I love you baby" he whispered, kissing your forehead. You would worry about asking about his day later, Jack just wanted to stay in his moment of peace before the world needed him again.

It brings you back to the first day you met Jack Abbot.

Sitting on the bed with your bloody face and him moving around the room. This time you are in scrubs and he is the love of your life.

“I have to pop it in again” he whispers, hands on his hips as he puts the penlight back in his pocket. You nod sadly, looking up at him with your sad eyes.

Jack feels the last three years come back to him, the way your doe eyes look up at him when you just wake up and the way you beg him for everything only he can give. It makes his heart clench.

“I will be right back” he whispers and pushes the door open, eyes scanning the room.

“Dana!” Jack fell back into Dr.Jack Abbot, swat doctor, army veteran.

Dana’s head shoots up at the sound of his voice, looking over at him. “Hey, what are you doing here?” she questions with a smile which falls at the stoic look on his face.

“Who did that to Baby?” he questions, eyeing her closely. “A patient in south 17” she mumbles, turning to face him. “He attacked Emma” Jack's heart twinges at the sound of the young nurse, he knew you liked her. “Will you come help me?” he questions and nods towards the room he cornered you in.

“Pea” you look up at the sound of Robby’s voice who is in the doorway looking you over. “Robby” you whisper, voice cracking. He makes his way in, sitting down on the stool in front of you.

“What is going on?” he asks as you shrug, “my nose is broken Robby” he shakes his head, “in general” he adds.

“You have been different lately, more so than usual, you don’t come home at night- you-you are gone first thing in the morning” he pauses and looks away from you. “I don’t see you anymore, which is beside the point- I just am worried” he looks up at you, arms crossing over his black scrubs. "Am I allowed to be worried?" he questions as you chuckle.

“Robby,” you whisper and shake your head, "yes you are my big brother, worrying is allowed, I worry about you everyday" you add as he nods, running his hands over his pants. "then what is going on?" he asks again, tilting his head.

You smile softly at your big brother. “If I tell you, will you promise not to be mad?” you ask softly. He furrows his brows and nods slowly. 

“She’s been with me” Jack’s voice cuts through the curtain as he and Dana come through the door. Jack secures the latex gloves over his hands. “What?” Robby questions between you and Jack.

“Jack and I have been dating for the last two years” you admit to your brother. Dana smirks from behind the two friends and comes beside you, taking a hold of your hand. "totally saw this one coming Baby Robinavitch" she whispers with smirk as you smile softly at her. “Are you okay?” she asks as you nod with a small smile.

“Nothing like two broken noses” you whisper and giggle softly. “I guess I will be reaching out to my plastic surgeon again,” she snorts at that.

“Wait, so you have been sneaking around me for two years?!” Robby defends as Jack nods. You adjust on the bed to allow him between your legs, your hands resting on his hips.

“Yep” you answer in unison.

Robby furrows his brows, thinking back to everything in the last two years. “How?” he asks as you look up at Jack with a smile. “No meds?” he asks as you nod, “you know the deal Abbot” he smirks at that and grabs the gauze pad.

“We got really good at hiding it” you mumble and look at him. “Can we do this after my nose is back in place?” you ask as he nods.

“Alright Baby, lets do this” Jack has his hands on either side of your nose, just like he did five years ago. The ED is almost silent at the sound of your scream.

This time you fall into Jack’s arms as he is quick to catch you, holding you against his chest. You sniffle into the black t-shirt and grip his hips tighter. “I got you baby, I got you” he whispers into your hair as you let tears slip onto his t-shirt, you cried silently against him.

Dana is rubbing soothing circles on your back as you mumble, “is Emma okay?”. Jack looks back at his two longest friends.

“She is okay Baby” Dana mumbles and nods towards the door. “I’m gonna go check on her” she leaves quietly as you nod.

“When did this happen?” Robby asks Jack looks back at him. “Shortly after her little Dirty Dancing squence at the bar” Jack grins at your soft giggle against his peck. "I tried to fight off the feelings but Baby here is really convincing" he chuckles softly, "i'm sorry". Robby stands to be beside the two of you.

“Why?” he asks as he places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “She’s your sister” he grumbles as robby shrugs. "She is an adult, as are you and I know you would take very good care of her, which you clearly have been“ he smiles.

“I can’t believe I missed the signs but” you lift your head slightly off Jack’s chest with a sniffle. “I was worried you’d be weirded out” you whisper and he shakes his head.

“My two favorite people love each other , I can't complain,” he smiles. "I'm one of your favorite people?" Jack questions with a smirk as Robby gently hits his shoulder playfully with a laugh.

Robby leaves the room as your head falls back onto Jack's chest, sniffling. "thank you" you whisper as he rests is head on top of yours.

"No need to thank me" he whispers,shaking your head, you mumble "you came running, three hours early for your shift". He nods, tangling his fingers in your hair. "I will always come running for you, you are my girl, my baby" he mumbles.

"Respectfully" you are standing infront of him, hands still around his waist, "I am never covering the ED again, I like my ortho bubble". He laughs, kissing your forehead. "Leave that to us old folk" he smirks at your giggle, holding the door open to lead you back out to the ER.

The ER continued on as you made your way out of the room in North 16. Emma is quick to rush to you.

“Dr.Robinavitch!” She sounded so relieved. “Emma” you breathe and quickly pull the young girl into a hug, which she reciprocates. “Thank you for saving me” she whispers as you smile, squeezing her closer.

The man from south 17 is wheeled past the two of you, arm reaching out as you are quick to step in and grab his wrist, twisting it just right for discomfort.

"Remember when you told me her bark was worse than her bite?" Jack questions his best friend as Robby chuckles. "Usually it is, don't fuck with the people she cares about" Robby whispers back as Jack's eyes shift back to you, he has a comforting hand on Emma's shoulder in case he needed to step in.

“I would think again before you even attempt to touch my nurse” you growl as he looks at you, still heavily intoxicated as his words slurred, “i’m gonna sue you” you laugh.

“Go ahead, my name is Dr.(Y/N) Robinavitch, would you like my NPI too?” You question as Ahmad is there to step in and help him out of the hospital, officers beside him.

“No one puts baby in a corner” Emma mumbles and all eyes fall to her,

“what? I love dirty dancing”

-

wooooow. I really did not expect this to be as long as it is, I apologize. I hope I have done justice to our man Dr.Jack Abbot. I feel like he is a big lover in the long run. I might write lil blurbs on these two more but this just feels perfect!

Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense. 

He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”

His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do. 

“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.

Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness. 

“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.

Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”

“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR. 

He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.

“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.

You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.” 

Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department. 

“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?” 

Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift. 

The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone. 

Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand. 

You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”

“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney. 

“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —” 

“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea. 

You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.

“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.

“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said. 

“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”

“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest. 

He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention. 

You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that. 

“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.

You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.” 

“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”

And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to. 

Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.

“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”

Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.

The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”

“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.

You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up. 

“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.

The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her. 

Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.

There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride. 

When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper. 

“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”

“You had it.”

“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”

“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.” 

“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”

“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”

“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”

Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow. 

“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”

“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.

He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”   

It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.

“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”

“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway. 

“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”

“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”

“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”

It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent. 

He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).

He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”

He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.

He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.

He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.

Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up. 

It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.

Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.

You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.

For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people. 

While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years. 

He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.

You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again. 

“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.” 

“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it. 

“For sure —”

Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.

He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”

Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”

“You’d do that to me?” 

“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.

He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”

Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.

Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”

You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?” 

“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said. 

“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”

Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.” 

“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”

He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”

“Give it back.”

“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.

You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”

“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”

“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”

Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.

“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”

“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.

Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that. 

It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything. 

He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own. 

Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving. 

“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”

“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.” 

Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him. 

He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.

“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.

“One more round —” 

“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”

“She’s been my patient for years —” 

Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him. 

“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”

Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse. 

“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.

His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall. 

You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent. 

Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.

You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly. 

“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight. 

It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal. 

He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching. 

Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.

“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.

His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on. 

He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.

Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.

“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.” 

“If only I could be so lucky.”

He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up. 

You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”

“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.” 

“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.” 

“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you. 

He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.

“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve got a migraine.”

“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”

He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.  

Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for. 

His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it. 

“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.

You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”

“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.

He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”

Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes. 

Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor. 

“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.

“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”

“Last I checked.” 

The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.

“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?” 

“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”

“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?” 

“I — yeah. Obviously.”

“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”

The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out. 

“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.” 

The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.

He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh. 

He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.

He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.

Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it. 

“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear. 

You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”

“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”

“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it. 

“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.” 

You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first. 

He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”

You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly. 

He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”

You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.

Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?” 

“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly. 

“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”

You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”  

His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”

“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?” 

“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. 

You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.” 

“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering. 

He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this. 

“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction. 

“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”

Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”

“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”

“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”

Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?” 

Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”

“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”

“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”

“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.

Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?” 

Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”

“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.” 

“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately. 

Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke. 

“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.

“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”

Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.

Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.

Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.

It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.

Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction. 

“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”

“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.” 

Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it. 

“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”

Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.

Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world. 

“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.” 

His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper. 

Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him. 

You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face. 

His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.

You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”

He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”

He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go. 

“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”

“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”

“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.” 

“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”

His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.

He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”

“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.” 

You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against. 

He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.” 

“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him. 

“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway. 

He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building. 

“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”

His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.” 

“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.

Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go. 

He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.

It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.

Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up. 

He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes. 

“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?” 

You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag. 

Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes. 

He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all. 

He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured. 

You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?” 

“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”

You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.

“Don’t think it is. Try again.”

You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned. 

“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”

He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”

“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”

“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.” 

You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”

“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.” 

You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.” 

Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.” 

You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.” 

“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?” 

“So what?” 

“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”

You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself. 

“You’re serious.” 

“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.” 

“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”

“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”

Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one. 

It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you. 

You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.

“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”

“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you. 

“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?” 

“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.” 

You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”

“Glad we share the experience.”

Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.

“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”

“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.

Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned. 

“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.

“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of. 

Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off. 

“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”

“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.” 

You hummed. “And now?”

“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”

You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.

You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.

“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow. 

“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”

He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands. 

When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.

“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.

The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.

He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.

You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes. 

He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.

“Gonna sleep?” he asked.

“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”

“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.” 

You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.” 

He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”

You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”

“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.

He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it. 

At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.

“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.” 

Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.” 

“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.” 

“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?” 

You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours. 

“Jack?” 

He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.

His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone. 

He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself. 

Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was. 

He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.

Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured. 

He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was. 

You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.

Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.

“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”

“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?” 

“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him. 

You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”

“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.” 

“Will you?” 

“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”

“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”

“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”

He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.” 

You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.

“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.

“Listen up. Central 7, 8, 9 is now the blood donor center,” Abbot shouts across the ER, “anyone who's O-neg or O-pos, we need you to donate now. Hands where I can see them, Dana?” 

“OK, let's do this,” Dana answers, headed towards you. You finish your bag and Dana’s wrapping hot pink gauze around your arm, your foot bouncing in anticipation.

“All set kid,” She says.

“Thanks D,” you say, already back on the floor, running alongside a new patient who’s in desperate need of intubation.

“Need some help with an airway!” You call out.

“What is it?” Abbot steps next to you.

“GSW to the neck with expanding hematoma and distorted anatomy…” you say, your hand on his neck, “I can't intubate him, probably hit the carotid.”

“OK. I'll do the airway,” Abbot steps across from you.

“What do we need? A 6.5 and a bougie?” you say, grabbing them. 

“I got the bleeder. Foley catheter with a 30 cc balloon.” Abbot says, his finger in the patient’s neck. Jesse hands you the Foley and the balloon. Your eye catches the tube running down Abbot’s leg, a blood bag held around his ankle by gauze.

“Are you donating?” You smile up at him.

“What can I say,” he smiles back at you, “you inspired me,”

“Uh,” you bite back a smile shifting your focus back to the patient, “it's too bloody to see a bougie,”

“Not for this. Three-step process. Step one, scalpel. Step two, finger. Step three, bougie. OK, railroad in the tube.” Abbot says, and you gently push the tube in the patient's neck, “good, that's far enough, bag him.”

“Walsh, you have an OR for a head-and-neck case? MCI-48,” you call to the surgeon.

“We've got 16 ORs up and running,” Emery answers, “we've got room for one more.”

You and Abbot push the gurney towards Walsh who grabs it along with a few nurses, pushing towards the elevator. Just before they get onto the elevator Gloria steps out into the chaos of the ER. 

“Robby, are you okay?” Robby kind of half nods at her, not giving her his full attention. “Well, I got some good news. County Public Health is sending out a truckload of supplies from Magee-Womens and Mercy.”

“Gloria, are we gonna have to call in more blood donors?” Dana calls across the room.

“Already done,” Jesse says.

“Donated!” Samira adds.

“Wait, hold on. W-what does she mean, more blood donors? You didn't use unscreened blood donations, did you?” Gloria crosses her arms. 

“We did what we had to do to save as many people as we could.” Robby bites back.

“You're killing me, Robinavitch,” Gloria throws her hands up.

“Better than killing patients,” Robby turns his back to her, heading towards the doors to the ambulance bay, another patient being wheeled in. You shoot Abbot a quick, concerned glance and he gives a small shrug and nods you over to where a new patient, a young cop, is wheeled in. Princess already has a clamp in the young man’s neck.

“Ah, too much blood,” you shake your head, “move that kelly to the right a little bit,”

“Any better?” Princess asks.

“Not really,” you click his tongue, “radial pulse?”

“Still has it, maybe a little weaker,” Princess says with her fingers on his wrist, “I can try and give you a bubble?”

“Yeah, yeah, go for it,” You say, and she gives a firm push on the patient’s chest, you shake your head, “no, nothing. I'm not seeing anything, let's bag him. I wanna prep the neck.”

“You don't have a bougie,” Princess furrows her eyebrows.

“I have an 11 blade and a prayer,” you say, scalpel in hand.

“Without a bougie, you could create a false passage on top of the trachea and kill him,” she says.

“You're doing a crike?” Abbot steps up beside you.

“Yep. No skin hooks, no bougie…” you say, bending forward towards the patient, “old school,”

“I got a tactical airway in my bag here,” Abbot says, reaching into his go bag and pulling out a small plastic tube.

“What is that?” You furrow your eyebrows.

“It's a control crike kit,” he smirks at you.

“Woah, that's perfect,” you look up at him with a little disbelief and a lot of admiration. 

“Use that on the battlefield,” Abbot says, “works in the pitch-dark when you're under fire. I can do these with my eyes closed,”

“Keep ‘em open for now,” you scrunch your nose.

“For you, okay,” Abbot says, starting the procedure, “the knife leaves a trach hook behind, so you can't miss, right? Just... good. You slide in the introducer, feel the tracheal rings… Good. Bob's your uncle.”

“Are you always that fast?” you smirk at him.

“Eh…” he smirks back, “balloon is up,”

“Why don't we stock these?” You ask.

“No room in the budget,” Abbot shrugs. 

“Yellow on end-tidal,” Princess says.

“He’s okay now?” The officer who brought him in asks from along the wall.

“Yeah,” Abbot nods at him.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” you say to him, fluttering your eyelashes at him.

“Okay, let's pack the oral cavity with Kerlix and see how fast Head and Neck can take him up to the OR,” Abbot playfully rolls his eyes at you as he speaks.

“What else you got in your go bag?” You smirk, walking towards the door where another patient is being rolled in.

“Oh, just wait and see,” He says, eyes following you as you walk away, a small smile on his face.

9:00PM

“Dilated right atrium and right ventricle,” you say, pressing the ultrasound to your patient's chest, “right-sided strain with bowing of the septum.”

“Sounds like a PE,” Walsh crosses her arms, “He threw a clot from having the tourniquet on?

“Way too soon for a DVT. Trendelenburg ASAP,” Abbot says to Jesse.

“What for?” You furrow your brow at Abbot.

“Intracardiac air embolism. All that running around introduced air into the femoral vein right up to the heart. Now it's blocking blood flow to the lungs.” Abbot says.

“Need a CT to confirm.” Walsh crosses her arms.

“They're still backed up with other patients,” you say with frustration. 

“Well, maybe the cath lab can take them. They have fluoro. I'll go check.” Walsh says, leaving the room.

“I need a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter.” Abbot looks across the room to Jesse.

“He doesn't have a collapsed lung?” You say, confused.

“Yeah?” Abbot looks at you with an eyebrow raised.

“So what are you going to do?” You look at him incredulously.  

“I'm not gonna do anything.” Abbot smirks. “You are.”

“The fuck am I gonna do?” You say with a short laugh.

“You’re gonna aspirate the air with the pigtail cath,” Abbot says, handing you the line kit.

“Uh,” you take the kit reluctantly, hands shaking a little.

“Hey,” Abbot rests his bloody hand on your shoulder, “I know you can do this,”

“Ok,” you say, leaning fully into his confidence in you. You make an incision in the young man’s side, “I got the IJ,”

“Okay,” Abbot stands beside you, watching closely, steady and calm, “guidewire and introducer,”

“What the hell are you doing?” Walsh storms back into the trauma room and you flinch and almost imperceptible amount but Abbot notices.

“She is about to pull air from the right atrium and right ventricle,” Abbot says firmly.

“With what?” Walsh walks further into the room with fury.

“5 French pigtail catheter,” you say, voice low, eyes trained on the ultrasound screen.

“What the actual fuck?” Walsh snaps. “If it's showing air, then you need to dive him in the hyperbaric chamber.” 

“He'll be dead by then,” you say desperately. 

“Not if you kill him first with this banana-pants procedure,” Walsh huffs.

“We don't have time to wait for your fancy-pants machine,” Abbot turns to her with an annoyed look on his face.

“Everyone stop saying pants,” you say sharply, firmly holding the central line, “if we don't get the air out of his heart, he'll die,”

“This is not the standard of care,” Walsh bites.

“Oh, fuck standard of care,” Abbot tries to shrug Walsh off on your behalf, “If we want to save him, we go in now.”

“Maybe I should…” you say, pausing your movements, eyes flicking up to Abbot.

“Thread in the pigtail? Excellent idea, doctor.” Abbot says with a firm nod, “Go down to 24 centimeters, and then we'll confirm with X-ray,”

Your hands move with slow, steady precision, threading the pigtail catheter through the incision, hooking up the plastic syringe to the end of the tube.

“Good.” Abbot says, calm and measured. “Now aspirate, see what you get.”

“Pulling back blood from the heart…” you pull back the plunger slowly, blood filling the tube and with a small pop, an air bubble enters the chamber, you let out a breath of relief, “along with some air.”

“How about that?” Abbot looks pointedly at Walsh, before turning back to you, his whole demeanor shifting back to his calm, commanding nature, “pull the pigtail back to the RA.”

“Step aside,” Walsh tries to push between you and Abbot but he holds an arm out, keeping her in place.

“Pull the pigtail, doctor,” Abbot looks at you with a knowing confidence, “you got this.”

“Normal sinus rhythm, 92.” Jesse says, reading the monitor. “Pulse ox is improving. BP's 112 over 84.”

“Not too shabby, huh, Dr. Walsh?” Abbot stands to his full height and crosses his arms. “I think we can admit him to General Surgery now.”

Walsh’s mouth tightens into a thin line. You and Abbot watch as she grabs the edge of the bed, wheeling the patient out. You let out a sharp breath, feeling an immense weight lifting off your chest.

“You were incredible,” Abbot turns to you.

“That was your save, not mine,” you say, almost laughing.

“Take the win, doctor,” he says and you can’t help but smile at him, “besides, it was a little too risky for me to do myself.”

“That’s so not funny,” you say, shaking your head with a small smile still on your face.

FRIDAY 7:00AM 

You stand looking up at the board drinking your coffee and trying to fully wake up while the ER moves around you, humming and fuzzy in the background. You only snap to attention when you see Robby out of the corner of your eye. 

“Hey Robby,” you give him a soft smile and he lifts his mug towards you as a greeting.

“Gloria is looking for you,” Dana says to him, looking over her glasses.

“No guts, no Gloria.” Robby says, “must be time for my weekly spanking.”

“Try to be nice, for all our sake.” Dana gives him a once over.

“Yeah… has anyone seen Abbot?” Robby says.

You sigh and point upwards, indicating to Robby that his buddy is on the roof.

“Again?” Robby sighs and you and Dana watch him disappear up the stairwell. 

“Surprised you didn’t go lookin’ for him…” Dana says, pushing her glasses up to rest on her head before giving you a once over, 

“Me?” You turn back to her. “Why?”

“You know he’s got… a soft spot for you,” Dana says warmly. 

“Please,” you breath out a laugh, sitting in front of a computer, keying in and pulling up yesterday's unfinished charts, “Abbot would flirt with a chicken sandwich if it was in front of him,” 

“Not what I’m talkin’ about,” Dana gives you a knowing smile. You look back at her, biting back a smile of your own.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know why you mean,” you turn towards the computer and spot Robby and Abbot walking off the elevator. A naked patient runs across their path with his IV bag dragging on the floor with Perlah and Princess in pursuit.

“Look at the bright side…” Abbot says, keying into the computer next to you, “...at least it’s a quiet day.”

“Jesus, Abbot,” you cross your arms looking down the hall where the naked patient ran off to, “what were you doing last night?”

And as if the universe is playing a little joke on you, a mother and her newborn baby are being wheeled behind Robby on a gurney right in your line of sight.

“Dr. Abbot!” The mother says as she rolls by slowly, reaching out towards him, “thank you again for everything. You’re a miracle worker.”

“My pleasure.” Abbot turns and smiles down at you, “I was performing miracles”

“Oh please,” you playfully roll your eyes, “women have been having children on their own for a million years.” 

“Not with complete breech presentations,” Abbot smirks.

“I hope she got one of your fan club t-shirts,” you say mockingly as you lean back in your chair.

“Will you two give it a break? It’s seven in the morning,” Robby says. You hold your hands up in surrender.

“Rounds in five?” Abbot says, as Robby nods before he heads to the staff lounge to fill his coffee mug.

“Hey, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask you something before you take off,” you turn to Abbot touching the side of his boot with the toe of your sneaker, you don’t notice the tips of his ears go red, “that french pigtail cath aspiration during pitt fest…”

“I remember,” he nods with a smile.

“I was thinking of writing up a case report and trying to publish it…” you say, seeming a little sheepish in a way Abbot had never seen before, “maybe in a cardiology or emergency med journal…”

“Ok…?” Abbot crosses his arms with an eyebrow raised.

“Well,” you scoff with a smile, “do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Of course,” Abbot pulls his head back a bit, almost shocked you feel like you have to ask.

“Do you- would you co-author it with me?” You ask, looking at him with a vulnerability that tugs on his heart.

“I- yeah- yes-” Abbot stammers.

“Yeah?” You raise your eyebrows, a look close to glee on your face, “ok, I’ll uh, I’ll do a write up and send it to you? Or, is it fucked up I assume you prefer prints outs?”

“Ha ha,” Abbot fake laughs as you stand and round the desk, a cheeky smile on your face.

“So I’ll print it,” you scrunch your nose at him, resting your hand on the hub in front of him for a second. His eyes linger on you for just a moment too long but your head is already turned towards the board where Robby gathers the day shift.

“Careful,” Dana says, stepping next to him, looking down at the tablet in her hand.

“What?” Abbot scoffs.

“Pretty young resident…” Dana shrugs, “just keep your head on straight,” 

“I’m not gonna- my head is straight,” Jack shrugs on his back pack.

“Yeah, that’s the problem…” Dana chuckles, “but for what it’s worth… I get it, she’s-”

“She’s smarter than all of us,” Jack says, eyes still fixed on you.

Dana pats Jack on the shoulder with an expression somewhere between sympathy and pity before shifting back to her computer. Jack sighs before walking towards the ambulance bay. Of course he’s thought about it, you’re a brilliant, beautiful, confident doctor. You’re not afraid to bend the rules a little if it means saving a patient or sticking it to insurance companies. Gloria is certainly not your number one fan but with the second highest patient satisfaction score in the ED it’s in her best interest to keep you around, a point that Jack has reminded her of multiple times. 

You just have a way of knowing exactly what a patient needs: a laugh, a gentle touch, a little tough love… of course you have a bit of a stubborn streak, going toe to toe with a couple of less-than-cooperative patients or family members when they got in between you and your plan of care. Hence, second highest score. But Jack likes that about you, you aren't a push over, you're grounded and principled… and gorgeous. It wasn’t a line he ever planned to cross, but you continue to be a subject of his fantasies…

THURSDAY 6:00PM

“How’s your Le Fort patient?” Robby says, stepping beside you at the hub.

“Floating face?” You grit your teeth and take in a sharp breath, “he’s on his way to the ICU-”

“Hey, Fruitcake.” A raspy, old voice cuts across the ER, making you turn your head. Simultaneously you have opposite reactions, Robby lets out a sigh of distress and the corner of your mouth curves up into a smile.

“Hey, I'm talking to you, Fruitcake,” Myrna says as Robby reluctantly turns to face her.

“Myrna, I told you a hundred times my name is Dr. Robby.” He says, almost pleading, he turns back to you and mumbles under his breath, “Jesus.”

“Hey, don’t take it personally,” you tilt your head to the side sympathetically, “you’re just not her type,”

Robby cocks an eyebrow.

“And what would you know about her type?” Robby crosses his arms, his expression shifting from annoyed to amused. Your smile only widens.

“Hi Myrna,” you turn to the wheelchair bound, or shackled, woman, giving her a soft smile.

“Fruitcake, it’s a crime you’ve got a girl with legs like that wearing those pants all day,” Myrna gestures up and down in the direction of your body and you shoot her a little wink. You turn back to Robby with a look of utter glee on your face, scrunching your shoulders up with a devious little grin.

“I don’t even wanna know,” Robby holds his hands up before turning and walking away from you.

“Don’t be jealous, Robinavitch,” you call after him, “it doesn’t suit you!”

He gives you the middle finger as he continues down the hall of the south corridor.

“Hey,” you turn to Myrna with a pointed finger, “behave yourself,”

“For you angel, I will,” Myrna folds her hands in her lap as you shake your head with a smile. Out of the corner of your eye you spot Abbot.

“Abbot, hey,” you catch up with him as he walks out of a patients room, “I have a very, very rough draft for you, I left it with Lena in case I didn’t catch you,”

“Good, yeah,” Abbot says, clearly focusing on the incoming trauma that Lena just gave a two minute warning for, “I’ll take a look,”

“You’re the best!” You call after him and he gives you a thumbs up over his shoulder.

FRIDAY 8:00AM

Abbot is just leaving the hospital, today’s handoff taking longer than usual, and he’s certain it’s because you aren’t working today. He gets into his truck, slamming the door shut and taking a deep breath in the silence. He pulls out his phone and sends you a text.

Abbot: Hey. I didn't know you were off today. I have notes for you. 

He doesn’t expect it but you respond immediately.

You: jesus, that bad?

Abbot: What? No, it’s really good.

You: oh

You: you just sounded like you hated it

Abbot: I don’t hate it. It’s good.

You: do you always text like this?

Abbot: Like what?

You: Curt.

Abbot can’t help but smile at the way you mimic his texting style.  

Abbot: I don’t know how to text any other way.

You: lol ok

You: can i swing by and grab it from you? is that weird? 

His heart tightens briefly. 

Abbot: No, not at all. I’m just leaving the hospital. I’ll be home in twenty.

You: i can just grab it from your mailbox or something ??

Abbot: I can just hand it to you. 

Abbot: 5139 Penton Road

You: Okay, Dr. Abbot.

You: ur the best !! 

You: is now ok?

Abbot: Yes, now is ok.

You: ok i’ll be there asap

Abbot drives home faster than usual, feeling a little ridiculous at his eagerness to see you. After all he had seen you the day before, and in between he spent half the time he should have been sleeping pouring over the draft you left him. The draft was not ‘rough’ as you had claimed, it was clear, concise, and thoughtful. Was there anything you couldn’t do well? 

He makes it home in record time and paces around his living room trying not to be so anxious. He never feels this way around you. If anything you calm him down more than most people. But the idea of you in his house… the boundary he swore he’d never cross feels like it’s getting hazier. The doorbell snaps him out of his thoughts. He walks to the front of the house, his leg aching against his prosthetic after a chaotic shift.

Pulling open the door his breath hitches slightly. You’re wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans which hug the curve of your hips in a way he can only describe as unfair, your hair is half up, flyaways framing your face like a portrait. You get one look at him and the corner of your mouth turns up.

“Tough night?” You say, in a tone that blends sympathy and amusement. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He says in mock offense.

“You look tired,” you say, something in your voice softer now, “I’ll- uh- I won’t keep you- if you have the paper,”

“Oh- yeah-” he says, the tips of his ears turning red, having temporarily forgotten that the paper is the only reason you’re here. He walks back into the house to where his backpack sits, haphazardly thrown on the counter, pulling the paper out of his bag. 

“It- uh- it’s really good so far-” he says, eyes moving across the first page as he walks back to the front door where you wait with your hands in your pockets, “I just had a few suggestions and minor corrections,” he hands the paper to you and you take it.

“Thank you for doing this,” you say, looking down at the notes he had written in the margins before flicking your eyes back up to him, “I owe you one,”

“Nah, you don’t owe me anything,” he says, running his hand up the back of his neck, trying to ignore how warm it is, “it’s no big deal,”

“Well, it is to me,” your gaze drops back down to the paper, “really, I- thank you,” you hold the stack to your chest like he had just given you something precious. 

“Happy to help,” he gives you a small smile and the two of you just stand there for a second looking at each other, before you take in a sharp breath.

“I’ll uh- let you get some rest-” you say, slowly backing down his front walk, as if you don’t want to go.

“I don’t look that tired,” he says, crossing his arms, playfully furrowing his brow. You suck in a breath through your clenched teeth.

“You’re putting all your weight on your left leg,” you say, turning slowly before looking over your shoulder, “go sleep.” 

Abbot shakes his head, a smile on his face as he pushes the door closed. He glances out the glass panel alongside his door, watching you get into the car. After you shut the door before holding the paper up, he assumes you’re going to sit there and read it but you don’t… you take the paper and literally press it against your face, you seem to let out a deep breath. You pull the paper back, looking down at it, your bottom lip between your teeth, biting back a smile. You place the paper in the passenger seat before starting your car and driving off.

After a hot shower he does get into bed, the black out curtains wrapping him in darkness, but as tired as he is he can’t fall asleep, his mind unable to move away from you. The simple beauty of you in jeans and a t-shirt, no more revealing than your scrubs but for whatever reason it felt much more intimate to see you like that, at his house… If he had asked you to come inside would you?

He feels his cock twitch in his boxers. God, this is wrong, and he knows it. But you’ll never find out, no one will ever find out, he thinks as he moves his hand down his body, palming his crotch lightly. He imagines you on your knees in front of him, gagging and sucking as he fucks your face. He grasps his firming cock in his face, picturing how it’d feel to hold your soft hair back for you as you choke on his dick. He thinks of your soft mouth wrapping around his tip, your hands furiously stroking his hot shaft as he does the same to himself. 

He imagines his name on your lips, how sweet it sounds coming from you. Jack, he can almost hear you saying it right now. He wonders how you’d taste, how you’d feel squeezing around him, how you would sound as he fucked you. He can feel heat building around his pelvis as he tightens his grip. You flash before his eyes as he closes them, your mouth, your skin, your scent, smile, eyes, he wants to be consumed by you. 

He quickly brings his hand up spitting on it, increasing his pleasure as he twists his fist around his cock, pushing hips up in desperation. He runs his fingers over the thick vein along the underside of his cock, brushing his thumb over his tip. He moans your name out loud, imagining his hand is yours. His stomach flips as the tension releases, he groans as a hot ribbon of cum shoots up over his pelvis and hand. His body shivers in contractions of pleasure. 

After laying still for a moment, his softening cock still in his hand, Jack slowly sits up assessing the mess he made, what you had done to him… and you weren’t even here. 

SATURDAY 4:00PM

Having time off as a night shift doctor is always a little strange and wanting to keep his sleep schedule as consistent as possible Jack is only starting to get up in the evening. He checks his phone and tries to ignore the twinge in his stomach when he sees that he has a text from you.

You: hey, i know ur not working this weekend, would it be presumptuous to ask you some questions about ur notes?

Jack smiles down at his phone, typing out a reply.

Abbot: How do you know I’m not working?

You: i asked robby 

You: is that weird?

Abbot: No, it’s not weird. 

Abbot: You can ask me anything. What’s up?

You: i didn’t mean over text !!

You: at least let me buy you a beer or something for your trouble

Abbot: That’s not necessary. I’m happy to help.

You: can you just say yes?

Abbot: How about you just bring a six-pack to my place and you can ask me as many questions as you want?

Shit. Maybe that was too forward. He throws his phone across the bed. He should have waited until he was more awake before answering you. The thought of you in his house was clearly still lingering in his mind after yesterday. You probably don’t want to come over to your boss’ house and drink with him… his phone buzzes and he flops over, reaching for it desperately reading your text and his breathing slows.

You: yes!!!

You: what time is good? i don’t want to mess with your fucked up sleep schedule

Abbot: 8?

You: i’ll be there :) 

He lies back down, resting his hand on his forehead. You were about to be in his house. The two of you, alone, without the prying eyes of the Pitt staff. He tries to slow his breathing and his racing mind. This was purely a work related meeting that happened to be taking place at his house, that is the only reason you’re coming. But still, he can’t help but feel excited.

7:30PM

 The closer it gets to your arrival the more jittery Jack gets. At the hospital he knows all the rules, all the expectations. He’s your superior, and sure, he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. But as time went on he started to realize he actually meant it with you. It seems that others, Dana at the very least, have begun to pick up on that as well. Of course it doesn’t hurt that you happily flirt back, and you never miss a beat, always prepared with a cute chirp for whatever he throws at you. But here, at his house, the rules aren’t so clearly defined. Are you just you and is he just Jack? Or is he still Dr. Abbot, one of your attendings? 

By the time you ring the doorbell he’s decided that he’s Dr. Abbot and you’re here to work. The paper is work related and so he’s going to keep it professional. He kept his prosthetic on to try and keep this whole thing as close to working in the hospital as possible but as he pulls open the door he feels his resolve wavering. You’re trying to tuck your hair behind your ear but the warm breeze is blowing it across your face. 

“Hi,” you breathe with a smile.

“Hi,” he swallows, trying not to let his eyes wander down your body but he can’t help but notice the small cut out on the neckline of your black tank top held together with an iridescent button. He feels like he’s buffering, wondering if you had been wearing that all day or if you put it on just for him, before he steps to the side, “uh, come in,” 

“I, uh, hope you like lager,” you say holding up the six pack, “I just guessed,” 

“No, that’s great,” he wanders towards the kitchen table and you follow, sitting next to him instead of across, setting the beers on the table.

“So,” you pull out a notebook, and a stack of papers, the paper he had given you yesterday, right down to business, he thinks. You sigh, looking down at the small pile you just created, then reach across the table and grab two beers out of the pack. You use the first bottle to open the second one, and then grab the disposed bottle top, pressing it between your hand and the sealed bottle, making a little leaver, popping open the second. Your eyes flick up to him as you slide one of the bottles towards him. 

“Sorry,” you say, “I’ve been working on this all day, I need to not think about it for one second.”

You clink your bottle against his and bring it to your lips and take a long drag. Jack feels his heart in his throat.

“How the fuck did you do that?” He says, bringing the bottle slowly to his mouth.

“Oh, just a little party trick I picked up in college,” you smirk. 

“You are full of surprises,” he says, setting his bottle back on the table.

“You have no idea,” you say, putting down your beer as well, “uh- so, ok,” you shift your papers around pulling his copy of notes out and setting it next to your new draft, “can I just tell you what I added and then talk about if it’s ok?”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs, his mind still lingering on your little bottle cap trick and how sexy he thought it was.

“Ok, so, first I added a section about methods for prolonged pleural space drainage in the beginning where I say, ‘blah, blah, blah, application of a pigtail catheter for pleural effusion,’” with your right hand you hold up your imaginary catheter, “enter the rib space slightly above the rib below, to avoid major neurovascular bundles running underneath the rib, and collaterals running above the rib,” keeping your eyes on the paper you reach towards him, running your finger along the side of his chest, feeling for his ribs. Jack’s breath catches in his throat and hopes you don’t notice. Clearly you don’t, focusing on reading your notes and doing a mock performance of the procedure.

“Advance your needle in small increments,” you pretend to push the imaginary needle in, “aspirate first, and then inject. After you enter the pleural space, pull back again until you feel resistance again. Does that make sense?” your eyes flick up to his, your eyebrows are furrowed.

“Yeah, no, that’s good,” he says, sitting back in his chair and you move to tuck your hair behind your ears.

“Ok, yay,” your eyes move back down to the page that you then push in front of him so he can read it better, “then I added the thing you said about reexpansion pulmonary edema…”

The two of you sit around his kitchen table for hours, pouring over the paper, other case studies you printed out, making notes and plans for scans and x-rays you need to get a hold of. Eventually the two of you devolve into talking about the craziest cases he’s worked on.

“CIPA?” You say in disbelief, “you diagnosed someone with congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis? No way, I don’t believe you.”

“Swear,” he holds up his hands, “a guy in my battalion, didn’t even realize he had been shot,”

“That’s called adrenaline,” crossing your arms, empty beer bottles scattered across the table. 

“No, no,” he shakes his head with a laugh, “we did tests in the field hospital after,”

“There have been, what, three hundred documented cases ever?” You raise an eyebrow, “you’re such a liar,” 

“Why would I lie?” He crossed his arms back at you, a small smile on his face.

“To impress me,” you tilt your head to the side. He can feel himself blush as he looks down to his lap, shaking his head.

“What would it take to convince you?” His eyes flick back up to you and you’re biting back a smile.

“That you diagnosed someone with CIPA?” You look up to the ceiling and purse your lips, pretending to think hard. “Uh, his medical records and a diagnosis from someone not named Jack Abbot.”

“I might be able to make that happen,” he smirks, “and if I’m right?”

“I will cover any holiday you want for the rest of the year, including arbor day,” you smile. “And when you’re wrong?”

Jack laughs, looking around his kitchen, his eyes drift to the bar cart in the living room, standing and walking through the house. You follow, quick on his heels, all whipped up from this little debate. He pulls a bottle off the cart as you plop yourself on his couch, eyes fixed on him.

“This is a Macallan Highland single malt scotch whisky,” he holds it up. 

“Ok…?” You squint your eyes at him.

“I will give you this really nice bottle of scotch if I’m wrong,” he says, running his finger over the label.

“I don’t even know if I like really nice scotch,” you say with a mischievous grin. He sighs playfully, setting the bottle down and pulling a crystal decanter with dark amber liquid and a matching glass, sauntering over to the couch and sitting next to you. You turn towards him as he sets the glass on the table pouring a finger of scotch, then holds it out to you.

“Hm,” you say, taking the glass from him as he tries not to enjoy the feeling of your fingers brushing against each other so much.

“Cinnamon, orange zest, walnuts, nutmeg, lemon oil,” he says as you bring the glass up to your lips and he tries not to watch your mouth too closely.

“Yeah, you’re full of shit,” you laugh, coughing on the burning liquor, “that taste like lighter fluid,”

“Ok, but,” Jack laughs, “smell it, you gotta try smelling it,”

“Ohhhh ok,” you roll your eyes bringing up the crystal glass to your nose, “mmm… smells like lighter fluid too,”

“Are you always this difficult?” Jack cocks an eyebrow with a small smirk on his face.

“Tell me honestly that you smell cinnamon, or lemon oil, or whatever other bullshit you just said,” you shift onto your knees moving closer to him, so close that your knees are almost brushing against his thigh, and hold the glass up to him. He shakes his head with a laugh and leans in, his nose an inch away from the glass, taking in a deep breath. You raise your eyebrows.

“Yes,” he practically whispers.

“Are you always this difficult?” You murmur. He grabs the glass from you and throws back the rest of the scotch, placing the empty glass on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” he smirks, you drop your mouth open in shock.

“My disgusting drink!” You laugh, “that was my disgusting drink,”

He looks at you and shakes his head, a smile on the corner of his mouth. And the way you’re looking at him… he just can’t stop himself from leaning forward.

He places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips. You go still against him. He pulls back in a sharp jerk. Your face has completely changed, the flirty smirk you had before has melted away to an unreadable expression, your lips parted and an almost astonished look in your eye.

“Sorry,” he says, a look close to horror on his face, before he buries his head in his hands, “I am so sorry,” 

“Jack,” you say softly, resting your hand on his forearm.

“I’m sorry-” he presses his palms into his eyes.

“Jack,” you cut him off, reaching across him, taking his jaw in your hand and pulling him back so he’s looking at you. You let out a short breath, eyes flicking down to his mouth, moving towards him slowly. You press your lips against his with tender intention, sliding your hand up his neck, threading your fingers through his silver hair. It’s his turn to go still as you pull back only slightly, looking up at him through your dark lashes, a blush spreading across your cheeks. 

Jack whispers your name, almost pleading. The two of you press into each other, mouths moving slow but desperate. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your cheek and dragging his finger against your smooth skin. His chest aches at how soft your lips are, at the little breaths that escape you, at the feeling of your fingers in his hair. Your lips part against his and you slip your tongue in his mouth, tangling together with eagerness. 

His hands glide down your side, past your waist as he grabs your hips lifting you into his lap. You straddle his legs, sighing into his mouth, you pull back just barely so your mouth brushes against his before pushing back in. You bite down on his lower lip lightly, grazing your teeth across his mouth and he lets out a throaty groan against you. He slips his fingertips beneath the hem of your shirt, you take in a sharp breath at the feeling of his rough fingertips against your plush sides. He smiles into the kiss at your reaction to his touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe against him.

“Are you sure?” He rasps, gripping down on your skin.

“Yeah,” you sigh and his eyebrows furrow in desperate anticipation. His knuckles drag against the soft skin of your sides, pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it to the side. He leans back against the couch, looking up at you while your hands rest on his stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” he runs his hand through his hair, eyes tracing the black lace of your bra. You bite your lip smiling and shaking your head, “come here,” he says, voice gravely. Before bending forward you grip down on the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. Your hands immediately find his face again, fingers running along the silver pinpricks of his scruff as his big, warm hands travel down the expanse of your back, pulling you flush against him as he falls back into the couch. You lick against his cupid’s bow and he pushes his tongue into your open mouth with a desperate whimper.

Jack feels like his heart is in his throat. You are on top of him, smooth skin pressing against one another, sighing and panting into each other’s mouths. You roll your hips down into him, slowly grinding yourself on him, denim rubbing on denim as you both make pathetic sounds at the pressure. He wraps his arm around your waist and you make an adorable gasping sound, gripping on his silver curls as he tips you over so you’re flat on your back and he can’t help but smile against your mouth again. Your lips move together fast and feverishly as you slide your hands from his hair.

Jack pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, aching at the loss of contact, but his chest tightens as he watches you unbutton your jeans, squirming out of the denim beneath him. Fully out of your pants Jack lets out a groan at the sight of you in your lacy black bra and matching panties. He sits back slightly, running a hand down between your tits, over your stomach, settling on your hipbone, tracing small circles on your black lace thong.

“Did you put this on for me?” Jack says, voice low and rough. You bite back a smile and let out a breath like a laugh, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back down on top of you.

“You fuckin’ wish,” you smirk before wrapping your arms around his neck, molding your lips against his. 

“I do,” he groans into your mouth, cupping your tit in his warm hand, running his thumb over your hard nipple through the thin fabric. You let out a little whimper at the sensation and you’re having trouble focusing before you manage to speak, “take off your pants,”

“I need to take off my leg,” he breathes, feeling a prick of heat spread in his chest.

“That too,” you whisper without missing a beat. He forces himself to push off of you, immediately missing the warmth of your body beneath him. You sit on your knees next to him, hands already trying to get his belt off, your mind hazy with lust.

“Leg first,” he says with a smirk, resting a hand over your frantic ones. 

“Ok,” you breathe before you lean forward, pressing hot kisses to his neck as he pulls the leg of his jeans up. He rolls the sleeve down his shin, exposing where the prosthetic meets his leg.

“Step on the foot,” he instructs, voice still raspy with desire.

“Step on your foot?” You repeat with a touch of hesitation, and it’s just so endearing he grabs your neck and pulls you in, kissing you deep and firmly.

“Don’t worry,” he pulls back, running his thumb along your jugular, “I won’t feel it,”

“Ha ha,” you say, flatly, a small smile playing on your perfect mouth. You swing your leg off the couch and press your foot down onto the sneaker. He pulls his leg straight up and barely yanks the sleeve the rest of the way down before your hands are on his belt again, tugging it off, pulling his jeans down his muscular thighs.

“Come here,” he tugs you back towards him, your back to his chest, hauling one of your legs over his lap so you're spread out for him. He unhooks your bra and yanks the lace down your body. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he says, moaning at the sight of your perfect tits, full and round, nipples hard, aching to be touched. You reach your hand up behind you, snaking it around his neck, twisting your fingers into his curls at the back of his neck, pulling him towards you, lips pressing together with heat and passion as you slip your tongue back into his welcoming mouth.

“Jack,” you whisper against his lips with urgency, “touch me.”

He lets out a soft moan, before grasping your tits in his hands as your tongues twist together with desperate, aching fervor. He slides one hand down your body as his other hand massages the soft flesh of your tit. He traces the hem of your panties at a teasing pace before cupping your clothed pussy, making you whine into his mouth and try to press back into him further. He slips his hand beneath the damp, black fabric, dragging a finger up your wet slit and he can’t help but gasp against you.

“Fuck, pretty girl, you’re so wet,” he says, lightly toying with your clit. You let out a pathetic whimper as he starts to rub slow, tight circles on you. He can’t believe how slick your pussy is just from kissing him and he’s dying to make you drip and cream and squirm all night. His thick fingers rub so deliciously against you that you can already feel your orgasm building in your stomach.

“Jack, please,” you whimper, “fuck me with your fingers,”

He groans hearing those filthy words fall from your mouth, something he’s fantasized about so many times before he can hardly believe it’s really happening. You, in his lap, soft and wet and at his mercy. As bad as he wants to make you beg for it he wants to hear the pretty sounds you make more, so he slips his middle finger all the way inside you. You make a whining squeak that goes right to his cock, straining against his boxers, as he slowly starts to pump his finger into your tight pussy. The way you squeeze and tremble around his one thick finger… he can hardly imagine what you’ll feel like gripping down on his cock. He can’t get over how sensistive you are, he’s been fucking you on one finger for only a minute and you’re already shaking against him gripping his thigh with one hand and the edge of the sofa with the other.  

“Fuck,” you whine, leaning your head back against his shoulder, “I’m gonna- I’m gonna come-”

He drops his head forward, sucking on your neck, his left hand cupping your tit, flicking and teasing your pretty nipples, his right hand pumping his middle finger in and out of you at a relentless pace. He’s curling up inside you, hitting your g-stop over and over, making you feel like you’re on fire.

“Come for me beautiful,” he growls into your skin, addicted to the squelching sounds your pussy is making. Your nails dig into his thighs and he feels your walls start to flutter around his finger. You squeak out, gripping his thigh with your right hand, grabbing his left wrist with your other hand as he tweaks your nipple which aches with sore pleasure.

“Jack-” you feel the coil inside you break and you tuck your head into his shoulder, biting down on his neck as you come, hips shaking, “I’m coming- I’m coming- I- fuck-”

Jack keeps fucking you on his fingers through your orgasm, only slowing his pumping as you try to come down, shaking against him, already a mess. He pulls his finger from your pussy in a long, deliberate drag, making you let out a little oh sound as the loss of him inside you. He brings his finger up to his mouth, sucking off all the cum you just gave him. Your chest is still heaving, his eyes fixed on your perfect tits, one of which is still in his warm hand. He gives your breast a soft squeeze which makes you take in a sharp breath and look up at him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his warm breath fanning over your flushed cheeks. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your jaw and pulling you into another slow kiss. You sigh against him, keeping your lips pressed to his you stand between his legs, resting your hands on his meaty thighs. You pull back from his mouth, ghosting your lips down to his neck, kissing, licking, and sucking your way down his body. He runs his fingers through his hair in aching anticipation, just the sight of you on his knees in front of him makes his stomach feel hot and tight. You hook your finger in the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his legs before gathering your hair to one side.

Jack holds his breath as you lick a long flat line up the underside of his aching cock. Your spit drips down his throbbing shaft and he drops his head against the back of the couch. If he’s gonna last anywhere close to a respectable amount he can’t look at you, he can’t focus too hard on your warm wet mouth and how it feels, fuck, how it feels closing around his tip. You let out a small moan, sucking on him like he’s a fucking lollipop. You drop your head down further, twisting his shaft with your soft hands while you lick around the head of his dick. 

Jack grips the back of the couch trying to think of anything other than you on your knees between his legs and his cock in your pretty mouth. Pleural effusion, neurovascular bundles, pulmonary edemas, anything other than the sound you make as you press your nose to his pelvis: wet, gags as you swallow around his cock. Jesus Christ, he can’t help but drop his eyes down to you but the second he does he wishes he hadn’t. Your lips are swollen as you suck on his pink tip, hand shimmering with your spit as you pump up and down, your other hand… Fuck. Your other hand is in your panties. You’re touching yourself while his cock is down your throat.

He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you off his dick with a wet pop. You look up at him with his cock still firmly in your grasp, your lips shining with spit, and a look he can only think of as innocence. God, you’re so young. His chest tightens. Should he even be doing this with you? He doesn't think he’s ever wanted anything more. But he’s your boss. And you’re such a brilliant doctor. And he knows something like this would follow you around much longer than it would follow him. And you’re standing, and pulling your little black panties down, and climbing into his lap. And he’s not stopping you. Because he doesn’t want to. He just can’t. He grips your hips as you straddle his legs, taking his face in one hand, pressing a searing kiss to his lips.

Jack’s breath catches as you grind your glistening core against the hard line of his cock. Your mouth is on his neck and you’re biting and sucking and he is just melting. He can’t believe you’re about to let him fuck you raw… he’s clean and he implicitly knows that you are too, that you would never put him in harms way. But is he putting you in harm's way by doing this? 

“Jack,” you whisper, snapping him out of his spiral, “are you okay?”

He’s gone partially rigid beneath you. Your fingers are twisting into the curls on the back of his neck and the way you’re looking at him, desperate and hopeful and almost smitten… he silently decides that this is it. He’s only going to let this happen once, right now, so he’s gonna fucking enjoy it. He takes your face in his hands, pulling you into him, placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

“I’ve just-” he strokes your soft cheek with his thumb, forehead resting on yours, “I’ve wanted this for so long.” You let out a breath like a laugh at his earnestness.

“Me too,” you whisper, a small blush spreading across your cheeks. You rest one hand on his shoulder before you reach between the two of you, gripping his hard shaft before pushing yourself onto your heels, rubbing the throbbing head of his cock against your slick, little pussy.

“Fuck,” he groans, looking down between the two of you, his mouth dropping open as you sink down, sucking his cock up inside you. He grabs your hips, not sure if he wants to slow you down or slam you onto him, your skin under his fingertips turning shades lighter at the pressure he’s applying. You bring your other hand up to his shoulder, clinging onto him. The way he’s stretching you creates a delicious, aching, burn in your core.

“Fuck- you’re so big- I” you whimper, moving down his shaft at a glacial pace, trying to get used to the way his girth is splitting you open.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Jack almost growls, forcing himself to keep his hips still, “that’s it,”

You’re halfway down his cock and Jack loses all ability to speak, overcome with the way you pulse around him. He watches himself squeeze in between your legs, his mouth open letting out a low moan as he tries to focus on making this last as long as he can. Finally, you sit with your ass flushed against his thighs, his dick fully inside you, the pair of you already breathing heavily. His stomach tightens, making his cock flex inside you, and you squeak out a small sound. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, then you raise your hips and he reflexively bites down on your bottom lip.

Jack whimpers your name and you let out a breath into his mouth, slowly starting to move up and down on his hard shaft. He reaches up, taking your soft tits in his hands, kneading them, tweaking your nipples, trying to get more sounds out of you. 

“Jack,” you whine and start riding him faster, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the room. He watches your tits bounce with a hunger that he has never felt before. Your eyebrows furrow together in pleasure as his thick cock stretches out your pussy, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. You already feel like you’re ready to come again just looking down at him: his cheeks flushed, lips parted in burning desire, salt and pepper curls wild.

“Fuck-” Jack groans as you bounce on top of him, “your pussy- so tight-” 

“You feel so fucking good,” you say, switching your movement from up and down to back and forth, hips grinding down on Jack. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, rolling the other around in his fingers. Your clit catches on his abs as you push yourself backward and your hips stutter. 

“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” He manages to groan. He takes your hand in his and pushes your fingers into your own mouth and pulls them out sharply. A string of spit falling from your mouth to your fingers, catching on one of your nipples as you bring your hand in between your bodies.

“Jack,” you moan as your legs twitch, you grab the back of his neck trying to hold yourself up. He takes your face in his hands, kissing you hard. Your kiss turns sloppy, tongues rolling against one another, mouths sleek with spit, sucking each other's lips between teeth. You moan into him as you rub tight circles on your clit, feeling the warm pressure crescendoing in your core as you grind down harder.

“That’s it,” he groans, the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him, “you gonna make a mess on my cock? You gonna come for me again?”

“Yeah-” you whimper against his lips, “I wanna come for you-”

“Where do you- want me to come, gorgeous?” He sighs, feeling his orgasm rising in his abdomen, “ah- fuck- you’re so perfect,” 

“Inside me,” You breathe into his mouth, fingers rubbing tightly against your clit, and with this request Jack feels the tension inside him snap.

“Holy shit- I’m- fuck-” he whimpers.

“Jack- I’m coming-” You squeak, burying your face in his neck and he pulls your hips up and down, impaling you on his cock over and over.

 “I’m coming- I’m-” He pushes forcefully up inside you, pulling your body tight against him filling you with his creamy load. He grabs your jaw, holding you in place, kissing you hard. The two of you grip onto each other like lifelines as you ride out your synchronized orgasm, shaking and panting against each other. 

As his come drips slowly out of your pussy his kisses turn soft and unhurried, licking against your tongue languidly. You let your full weight come down on Jack who relishes in the feeling of you pressing him down into the sofa. He runs his fingers down the line of your back, the feeling of your sticky body against his, his cum dripping down your legs and onto his stomach, is euphoric.

SUNDAY 11:00AM

The sun streams through Jack’s bedroom window, his blackout curtains hanging open. This rare occurrence of him going to sleep at night had rendered them almost pointless and he couldn’t be happier that the morning light is filling his room because it illuminates you in his bed. You’re sleeping on your stomach, the sheets bunched up around your waist, your hair tousled and fanning over your face obscuring it from his view. He turns to his slide, leaning on his elbow and watches the slow rise and fall of your breath, tracing the long line of your spine with his eyes.

The two of you had gone to bed last night deliriously giddy. After laying together on the couch in a tangled sweaty mess for a while you had slipped on your panties and his t-shirt while he pulled on his boxers. He watched you disappear around the corner heading for the bathroom and was delightfully amused when you came back riding his wheelchair like a scooter, your knee resting on the seat while the other pushed you towards him. 

Jack had pulled you down onto his lap, your back flushed to his chest, before rolling the two of you towards his bedroom. He playfully bit your neck when you asked him what the mileage on this thing was, drinking up the sounds of your giggles. He watched you crawl onto his bed before hauling himself up next to you. 

“You’re probably gonna want to take this off,” he gripped the hem of his t-shirt which hung loosely on your body, “don’t want you to overheat,”

“Mm,” you hummed with a smile, “is that your professional opinion, Dr. Abbot?”

“Oh, definitely,” he smirked, sliding his hand up your side, pushing his shirt up as you lifted your arms. He threw his shirt across the room, before he pulled you on top of him and dragged the fluffy comforter over the pair of you.

“You’re so warm,” you sighed, stretching your arm across his chest snuggling yourself into his side.

“I told you- overheating is a real risk,” he smiled as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, tucking you against his body.

Jack can’t help himself any longer and reaches forward, brushing your hair out of your face with a gentle swipe and something about seeing you like this, so vulnerable and innocent sends his mind back to the promise he made himself last night: this was a one time thing. His chest is already starting to pinprick with nerves. The last thing he wants is for you to feel used or, god forbid, taken advantage of, but he needs to cut this off, before it gets out of hand, for your sake. He knows you’re a big girl and you can make your own choices about your body and what, or who, you do with it, but he has experience… and this could get messy. Jack isn’t willing to let his relationship with you suffer because he can’t keep his dick in his pants.

At such an early point in your career you’re already such an amazing doctor. There goes the future of medicine, he has caught himself thinking multiple times as you walked by him in the Pitt. He wants to be a springboard for you, not a weight around your ankles, and if whatever this is happens again he fears that he could become the thing that holds you back personally and professionally. No. He wants to be the person in your corner pushing you forward. You’ll understand. You’ll probably already be thinking the same thing he is. The two of you just operate on the same wavelength… 

Your breath shifts as you turn your head into the pillow letting out a soft groan. You turn your head in his direction, tucking your messy hair behind your ear, barely opening your eyes before closing them again. You reach your hand out for him, rolling onto your back and pulling him on top of you. You wrap your arms around his neck, breathing in deeply as he buries his face in your hair.

“Mmm,” you groan softly, “good morning.” Jack smiles against your locks, his resolve already wavering. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, tracing a long line down your side with his fingers, “did you sleep ok?”

“So good,” your voice is raspy with sleep and he tries to push away the thought of how much he likes it. Hearing your tired voice. Having you in his bed. He tries to hold his ground, rolling onto his back, but you just follow, settling yourself onto his broad chest. Fuck you’re making this hard and you’re not even trying, you’re still half asleep for christ’s sake. You let out a soft, content hum and start tracing small swirling patterns on his chest. Fine. After you leave today, this will be done. Jack wraps his arms around you, trying to memorize the feeling of your smooth skin beneath his rough palms.

“Jack,” you say gently, shifting in his arms so you can look up at him, “I think we should talk about… what this means…”

“Ok,” he says, entirely unsure what direction you’re about to take this and having trouble focusing with your naked body pressed against him.

“I- I’m really glad this happened-” you start slowly.

“Me too,” he says, his heart fluttering at how you look away shyly before flicking your eyes back up at him.

“I just- I don’t know if this is a good idea-” your eyes flicker with sadness which ripples through Jack’s chest, “not because I don’t want to- you know- do this again- I just,” you pause and take a deep breath, “please don’t be annoying about what I’m about to say,”

“Ok,” He furrows his brow.

“I love working with you,” your eyes drop down to where your fingers trace little stars on his chest, “it’s one of my favorite parts of my job. And if something bad happened between us, and we couldn’t, or wouldn’t, work together anymore… I don’t know… I think I’d be really upset,”

“I’d be upset too,” Jack’s heart feels like it’s bursting at your sweet confession, but he’s trying so hard not to be overly sentimental so he pivots, “does this mean I’m your favorite attending?” He says with a cheeky smirk. You let out a little breath, rolling your eyes with a smile, god he adores your smile.

“Do you really need me to answer that?” You say, a small blush spreading across your cheeks. 

“Well you’re my favorite resident,” he says, brushing his thumb across your shoulder… have your faces been this close together this whole time?

“I already knew that,” you murmur, your nose almost brushing against his.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head the slightest bit and you let out a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” you whisper and it’s like the two of you just can’t help yourselves.

You press up into him, molding your mouths together with a slow eagerness, his hand cupping your jaw trying to keep you close. You’re already all whimpers and breaths, twisting your fingers into his curls trying to get him closer. He rolls over to his side so your tits squish against his chest, his cock hardening at the feeling of your supple skin against his. He traces the curve of your body while you slip your tongue into his mouth, rolling against each other in aching passion. He hitches your leg up over his hip, gripping down on your thigh and you let out a little gasp which he gladly swallows. You roll onto your back, pulling him between your open legs the pair of you grabbing at each other desperately.

“Just one more time, ok?” you say breathless.

“Yeah,” he pants, “one more time,”

You tilt your hips up, pressing your knees to his side are you rub your core against his shaft, fuck, you’re already slick. Jack groans at the feel of your sticky pussy grinding up his cock. 

“Fuck-” he groans your name, “you’re already so wet for me,”

“Jack,” you whimper, shifting beneath him, “please fuck me,”

He reaches down, takes his hot cock in his hand and gives two little taps to your clit with his flushed pink tip making you jolt. He dips the head in just barely before pulling back out, smearing your wetness across your pussy lips.

“Don’t tease,” you squirm below him, pushing your hips up, trying to force him inside of you. He holds the base of his cock with one hand, the other hand resting on your knee which pushes up against your chest. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, notching himself into you before pressing in at teasing, slow pace.

“Oh,” you squeak as his thick cock stretches you out deliciously. You watch him squeeze inside you with your mouth parted, you can hardly believe he fits. Jack’s eyes are locked on you, your plush lips, the blush on your cheeks, your brows furrowed in anticipation, your chest heaving with pleasure. 

“Eyes on me,” he rasps, and you listen, your gaze flicking up to him as you take one of your fingers into your mouth, biting your nail. The pair of you stare at each other, faces painted with desire as he fully pushes into you. You look so pretty, so desperate. Jack stops for a moment after he’s fully inside you, overwhelmed by the feeling of your pulsing around him. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders as your breath shakes at the sensation of his dick flexing in you. You’re both breathless at the feeling of him stretching you out.

“Fuck,” he says hanging his head forward, resting in the crook of your neck, “your pussy feels so fucking good.”

“Jack,” you moan, rocking your hips up, trying desperately to get some relief at the ache burning inside you, “fuck”

You grip onto the back of his neck, tangling your fingers into his salt and pepper curls as he starts to fucks you slow and hard. He’s pushing in with such force that your tits jiggle with every thrust, brushing your nipples against his hard chest making them sore with pleasure. You feel entirely consumed by him: the weight of his broad body against yours, his cock stretching you out creating a hot coil deep inside you, his lips on your neck, his whimpers in your ear.

“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” he says against your throat. You slide your hand between your bodies, rubbing quick circles on yourself. The whimpers and moans you make are intoxicating. Feeling his own orgasm already building in his abdomen he pushes himself up on his arms so he can look down at you, your face flushed, tits bouncing, body glistening with sweat. You’re a mess, the look on your face is one of pure bliss and it’s all for him. He cups your jaw, trying to memorize you like this but you turn your head slightly and suck his thumb into your mouth.

“Oh my god,” he groans as he thuds his cock into you over and over, “you’re so fucking sexy,” he pulls his thumb from your swollen lips, rubbing the spit across your top lip before dropping down to his elbows, kissing you with reckless desire. You lick into each other's mouths, devouring one another’s breaths and whines.

“Jack,” you whimper, your fingers moving faster, “I’m gonna come,”

You look up at him with desperation in your eyes and he can't believe he has you like this, falling apart on his cock. His stomach tightens as he feels his orgasm rising in his core.

“Yeah?” he says, a small smile on his face. You pull him down to kiss his lips again, rolling your tongue over his passionately.

“Mmn,” you sob into his mouth, “I'm gonna- I'm coming- ”

“Good girl,” he manages to groan out before the pulsing and throbbing of your pussy around his cock sends him over the edge, “fuck- I’m coming,” his abs flexing and hips stuttering, as he bites down on your bottom lip and releases his hot load deep inside you. He keeps fucking you through both of your orgasms, the sound of his cum squelching out of you filling the room as his lips stay pressed against yours. His thrusts slow until he stills, staying pushed inside you as your arms remain wrapped around his neck, his hands gripping your waist. 

The two of you are heaving, sweaty messes, pressed up against each other. After a moment you shift your hips slightly and his softening cock slips out of you as you begin running your fingers up and down his back.The room seems to be filled with a heavy sense of stillness, both of you unwilling to move much because once you do then this moment, the two of you together, will be over. He moves first, turning his face into your neck and places light kisses along your throat. 

“Jack,” you whisper, running your fingers through his soft curls.

“Mm,” he hums against your neck.

“I meant what I said,” you say softly, trying to bite back a smile at his sweet affection.

“Me too,” he says between kisses, “not gonna happen again,” kiss, “you’re too important to me,” kiss, “my favorite doctor,” kiss.

“I’m telling Robby you said that,” you blush. Jack lets out a groan and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

“Please don’t talk about Robby right now,” he murmurs as you giggle. Jack lifts his head, unable to do anything besides smile at you.

“He’s the perfect mood killer,” you say, pushing a curl off his forehead. The two of you stay like that for a moment, looking at each other with longing before you sigh, “I- uh- I should probably go,”

“No- yeah- ok” he says, reluctantly shifting to his back, sitting up against the headboard, pulling the duvet back up over his lap. He watches you climb out of his bed and slip on your panties, padding out to the living room where your clothes had been discarded the night before. Jack tries not to linger on your body for too long. You come back after a minute fully clothed and sit next to him on the edge of the bed.

“I- we probably shouldn’t tell anyone at work about this,” you say, looking down at where your hand rests on the crisp, white bedspread, dangerously close to his. You move your pinky just slightly so it brushes against his and he flexes his hand in your direction too. 

“Probaby not, no,” Jack says, his voice raspy. Your eyes flick back up to his and you cup his face, running your thumb over his jaw, a look on your face that Jack can only think of as wistful. 

“Bye Jack,” you say softly before standing.

“I’ll- uh- see you Monday,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as you back out of the room.

“Yeah,” you give him a gentle smile, “see you Monday,”

You turn and walk out of the bedroom. He listens to the sound of you gathering your papers from the kitchen table before you walk to the front door, opening and closing it softly. He runs his hands over his face letting out a groan. He is so fucked.

The first time feels like a fluke.

A rare silver lining of good stroked through the grey devastation that was today; after hours of wading through blood and gore, you at last strike gold.

“You heading off too, kid?” Despite the questioning tone in Jack’s voice, you know it’s an order.

He’s staring down at the park bench, eyes hovering over you and how tightly you’re still clutching that fourth can of beer, zoned out and completely oblivious to how everyone else has already packed up for the night and headed home. Not to sleep, no. It’s doubtful any of you will get much sleep, not after the events of today.

Robby had slipped away first, not without sharing a few final words of wisdom aimed at soothing everybody’s aching soul. Javadi followed soon after, abandoning a half-drunken beer as she went racing off to answer her mother’s beck and call. Mateo, Princess and Samira called it quits together, each heading off in different directions. Even Donnie left eventually, the now empty cooler in tow, his wife waiting patiently for him to crawl back to their newlyweds home and into her arms.

Then there were two.

Abbot and you.

Neither of you dared to interrupt the silence that had rolled in, minds too busy swimming in pools of thought, struggling against violent currents and attempting to escape the deep end.

Moonlight crept through the crevices between the branches above, cicadas came together to sing in disjointed harmony, and the world around you both kept moving, completely oblivious to how your own life had come to a halt. Somewhere between waking up to the screech of your pager and rushing through the doors of the PTMC to find it in a state of chaos, different and bloodier than you’d known it to usually be, you had shutdown.

Jack knew better than to force you out of that state.

He saw himself in your blank stares and the bouncing knees, remembered how it felt to be young, bright-eyed, and finally forced to reckon with how brutal this field could be. He didn’t need to ask to know: this had been your first mass casualty event.

Maybe that’s why he sat with you, the passing of time irrelevant, and let you fester in your shock. Let whatever cracks were forming in your heart deepen, because he knew it was the only way they’d be able to solidify. Let you exist on the periphery of life for however long you needed, his own senses fully intact and ready to watch over your body while your mind drifted elsewhere.

Only when he noticed you stifling a yawn did he act.

Jack, conscious of not startling you, moved slowly. Calmly.

He started with his prosthetic, lifting it off the bench and placing it back down onto the ground before safely attaching it. Then his bag, hands rummaging unnecessarily as though to check everything was in place — he’d already checked before leaving the locker room, but he figured another revision and a few more minutes for you to sit with your thoughts couldn’t hurt. Slinging one strap over his right shoulder, he pushed his frame off the wooden bench and came to a stand, the sickly-sweet gravel of his voice perforating the silence at last.

“Hmm?” Your reply is practically nonverbal, a simple hum. Enough to acknowledge the fact he’s spoken, yet not enough to answer his question.

Hazel eyes zero in on your own, observing how they’re tired, blinking just a little bit too lazily. The beer has warmed your cheeks, sped up your heart, and slowed your mind. Dancing on a tightrope between tipsy and inebriated, the last thing Jack is about to do is send you off home alone.

“C’mon,” he gruffs out, prying the can from your hand and laying it to rest on the bench. He replaces the weight of it in your palm with his touch, thick fingers effortlessly engulfing your own. To his delight, you give way easily, rising to a stand as he tugs you up. “Let’s get you home.”

You attempt some version of, “I’m fine.”

Jack pays it no mind.

Instead, he grabs at your familiar pink duffel bag. Something settles in his chest, dark and sickening, at the sight of dirt staining the bottom of the fabric, ruining your usually polished belongings. How apt it seems, a perfect mirror to how today has the left a smudge on you.

You stare at him all of a few seconds, eyes red. There’s no tears in sight, just the remnants of those that have already fallen. Then, when the older man shifts his weight off his right leg, you finally begin walking.

The journey is slow.

Jack’s unsure if you set the pace to accommodate to him or to put off the inevitable of going up to a lonely apartment, where all that work you’ve done to suppress the storm of emotions building inside you will prove useless the moment you step into the quiet of your home, the furthest place from danger and, yet, where all your troubling thoughts will at last catch up to you.

He thinks he’s better off not knowing, chooses to believe you’re doing it for his sake.

Some of your steps are swayed. The sight of your unsteady feet and teetering body are enough to keep his mind alert, fighting off the exhaustion that threatens to find him soon. This was supposed to be his day off, after all. He was supposed to be catching up on sleep right now, not watching over one of his nurses and worrying himself sick with thoughts of how today’s horrors will linger with you for years to come.

It was supposed to be your day off too, after all.

Neither of you should have been at the Pitt.

One man and a weapon had changed that.

You come to a stop abruptly, catching the doctor off guard and sending his solid frame crashing into your back. Before either of you can stumble too far, Jack’s snaking his free arm around your waist and stabilising you against him.

Maybe it’s the warmth of his palm, large and imposing and seeping through the cotton of your top. Maybe it’s the gentleness behind his touch, the way it anchors your feet to the pavement and silently promises that it- he won’t let you fall. Maybe it’s the weight of today finally shaking your unbreakable self, your arms too weak to keep holding you above water for much longer.

The reason doesn’t ultimately matter.

What matters is you’re finally speaking.

“Did you litter?”

Not exactly what Jack expected you to say.

It startles him for a moment, has him forgetting how today was full of horrors and has him wondering, instead, if you recycle.

It shouldn’t be so easy to picture you, bed head and a wrinkled shirt (preferably one that originally belongs to him), huffing and puffing your cheeks while you shoot around his kitchen, bags scattered along the island as you berate him.

Jack, how many times have I told you. Yellow is for plastic and cans, blue is for paper, green is for glass!

And wouldn’t it be so hard for him to fight back a smile, heart bursting with joy? A lovesick fool, happy to be lectured on the complex recycling system if it means having you, half naked, half awake, frowning at him as soon as you notice the shake in his shoulders.

Sorry, sweetheart. Promise it won’t happen again… And his hands finding your waist, pinning you to the marble counter-top so there’s nowhere for you to run from his mouth, trailing molten kisses up the expanse of your neck, lips lingering just to feel the steady thrum of your carotid pulse, physical evidence that you’re real, and here, and in his arms-

The blaring of a horn pulls Jack Abbot back onto the sidewalk.

You’re still in his arms but his lips are far from your neck and the speed of your heart is testament only to the anxiety speeding through your veins.

“Yeah. Maybe. I- I’m not really sure,” try as he might, he can’t remember if he ever moved your can from the bench. Is it still there now, half empty and waiting for its owner to return? “I’m sure someone’ll throw it away.”

Like you can’t dwell on the thought for too long, you move on, and finally say what’s really been troubling you.

“I don’t know if I-” the words catch on your throat, dry from the beer and raw with emotion. “How do I go back?”

Vague, unspecified.

Jack, with years of becoming fluent in you, understands.

“You find a way.” He wishes he could give you something more helpful, more reassuring. All he can offer you is the truth. “It’ll be hard. Different to how it was before.”

“I don’t think I can-” once more, emotions cut you off.

You’re not crying, not yet.

Stubborn as he knows you to be, steadfast in your need to remain strong until the very end. It wounds him in a way that feels a little too deep for a man who should see you as nothing more than a coworker.

Attending physician. Nurse. Colleagues.

Those are the only three words that either of you should use to describe the other. Jack knows, has known so for years. So, why does he keep having to remind himself?

“I don’t think I belong there, Doctor Abbot. You saw it, I froze. I hesitated. You had to ask me twice for the scalpel, and then- We lost him. If I had just- I should have-”

The hand at your midriff finds your shoulder, turns you around, and then his eyes find yours.

“Stop that, now. That man, he was good as gone when he reached us,” it’s a brutal truth but one that needs to be said. Jack knew it then just as much as he knows it now; that red wristband was destined for peeds. “You could have handed me that scalpel at the speed of light, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing, okay?”

You take a steadying breath.

It doesn’t work.

Instead, Jack watches it shake right through your frame. Your eyes drift from his own, like if he stares too long, he might catch a glimpse of every self-blaming thought racing through your mind.

“D’you even realise how many lives you helped save today?” The question comes tumbling out before Jack can stop it, some enate part of himself screaming at him to reassure you, to scramble up all the fractured pieces of you and slot them back together. That’s an attending’s job, right? To keep watch over the crew, to take care of the crew. So what if you’re off-the-clock? “One-hundred and six.”

“I only worked on-”

“Doesn’t matter who you personally worked on. Every one, you hear me?” He gives a squeeze of your shoulder, tells himself it’s because he wants to get you to look at him. If the touch happens to ground him too, it’s a coincidence. “Every life we saved tonight, you had a hand in that. You being there mattered, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

The words settle over you like a blanket, wrapping you in warmth and promising you shelter.

They don’t erase the sadness, don’t make it dissolve into a puddle on the ground, left to be forgotten on the dirty surface of the sidewalk. But they do enough to ease the tension between Jack’s brows and to wipe a layer of uncertainty from your eyes.

Then, unable to help himself, Jack adds, “I know I certainly couldn’t. Can barely intubate without my favourite nurse at my side.”

You laugh, slightly.

It eases something in Jack’s chest, nonetheless.

“Doctor Robby says it’s not right for attendings to play favourites.”

Now Jack is the one laughing.

You take the chance to pry your bag from his grasp, throwing the strap over your shoulder. The first act of Goodnight.

“Yeah, well, come to me again when Robby starts taking his own advice.”

There is no grand goodbye between you.

Just an exchange of fractured smiles, a subtle nod of approval from Jack as you take the first step towards the building’s entrance, and the wave of your hand before you turn fully and dash to safety.

Before you can slip through the crack you make in the building’s heavy door, Jack calls out, “I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.”

Once again, not a question. An order.

The second time is all about convenience.

It’s the last night of your monthly seven-days-on, the kind of shift where the hours stretch themselves impossibly thin and it feels like you’re crawling towards the end, a goalpost that keeps moving an inch out of reach each time you start to feel relief. By the time you officially clock out, shooting off towards the locker rooms before Whitaker can ask you to accompany another patient for a CT or Princess can enquire on any night shift gossip, you’ve worked an extra two hours and the bags beneath your eyes feel so heavy, they may as well be dragging by your feet.

Out of your scrubs, back into clothes that only partially carry the sterile stench of bleach and blood, you busy yourself with cramming things into your bag while trying your best to let Mateo’s generosity down softly.

“It’s fine, really,” even you have to admit that you don’t sound as sure as you mean to be. For a moment, you mull it over, imagine the comfort of letting yourself sit back and relax in the passenger seat of Mateo’s car. The sooner you’re home, the sooner your week off can start, right? Still, something within forces you to decline. He lives on the opposite side of the city and, with gas prices rising and his body’s tank running on empty hours before his next shift, the last thing you want to be is a nuisance. “I don’t mind the walk, gives me the chance to decompress.”

Your fellow nurse looks at you with a level of distrust, doubting the reassuring smile you cast his way.

“Are you sure?” Mateo pushes, dragging his tired body along the lockers until he stands behind yours. His curls, freed at last from the constraints of a hair-tie, peek out from the door. “I really don’t mind taking you. I mean, no offence, but you look like you belong on the set of Night of The Living Dead right now. Don’t wanna send you off just to later find out you tripped over air and wound up back here as a patient.”

Slamming your locker shut and giving his shoulder a shove — with no force behind it and doing little to move the man — you roll your eyes, “I’m fine, dingus.”

“Dingus? What are we, five?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one treating me like a toddler.”

“Like a toddler-?! I’m trying to be a good Samaritan. A gentleman!” You dodge Mateo’s hand as it reaches for your duffel bag. “Now quit being stubborn and let me make sure you get home safe-”

Everything happens so suddenly, your brain is forced to compartmentalise every action, step by step, as they unravel.

Mateo reaches for the bag, again.

You dodge it, again.

You glide to the left.

You run shoulder-first into a solid wall of warmth.

And there he is. Jack Abbot, freshly changed out of his scrubs. Hair wet from a shower, an overly woodsy scent clinging to damp skin, black t-shirt stretched a little too tightly over his chest. Despite his attempts to scrub the night away, he’s thrown on the same pair of cargo pants he spent the last fourteen hours rushing around in.

You almost want to chastise his stupidity, until you remember you can’t.

Not only is he your colleague, he’s your senior.

What business do you have telling a man like him to do anything?

“I’ll take her home.”

Never a question, always an order.

Unlike weeks ago, world turned upside down and veins full of sickly beer, you have half the mind to turn him down this time. To inch away from where your body collides with his. To reinforce your grip on the pink strap of your bag. To shake your head and offer a polite, though bashful, smile.

“Doctor Abbot, it’s fine, really! You don’t have to offer me a ride, I really do prefer walking-”

“I’m not offering you a ride,” Jack shuts you up with a pointed look, eyebrows jumping as though he’s daring you to shoot him down again. “Car’s in the garage, something’s up with the exhaust. I’m walking your way anyway, may as well let me keep you company.”

The truth is, you’re not sure why you are so hesitant to accept his offer.

Jack is a good guy, and he’s certainly not a stranger.

You’ve known him since you first stepped foot in the emergency room. Younger and brighter, the both of you. Back then, he was still new. Back then, you were still a student. Time passed, as it tends to do; Jack became a trusted figure of authority, you graduated right into the night shift. Brief exchanges of good morning, good night, and how are you? during the shift handovers blossomed into good job, good call, and I need you with me.

Lena likes to tease you, throwing looks over the top of her glasses every time he saunters up to the nurses’ station, raps his knuckles upon the desk and tilts his head towards whatever room he needs you in.

He likes me because I talk to the patients, is typically your explanation while Lena looks at you otherwise. Keeps them busy while he works.

He likes you because you’re a pretty young thing, Lena never fails to retort between answering the every whim of the staff, like the charge nurse she is. Gives those hazel eyes something to ogle.

“C’mon, are you really gonna run away from a disabled vet?” Jack pushes, shooting you that infamous silver-fox smirk. Damn him and those arms, muscles pulled taut as he crosses his hands over his chest, impatiently waiting for you to give in. “What if I stumble and there’s no one there to catch me? That’ll be on you, kid. Think you can handle it on your conscience?”

“Yeah, imagine you come back next week and find out gramps here split his head open on the curb,” Mateo chimes in from the sidelines, only for the amused expression to melt the moment you pin a glare on him. “What? The man made a good point!”

“Yeah, kid,” you barely have the chance to register how swiftly Jack tugs the duffel out of your grip, staking claim over your belongings and securing himself as a guardian to guide you home. “I made a good point. Now, are you gonna keep me waiting? ‘Cause I’d really like to see the tail end of this place at some point today.”

So you let him walk you home.

Steps less swayed, back more stiff, you try your best not to think about the last time you both walked this path. You, drowning in sorrows; him, swimming effortlessly with his head above the water.

The sun is rising slowly, rays of golden warmth kissing over the city. It’s not enough to fight away the bitter chill of winter, sending your hands diving into the pockets of a flimsy coat, reaching for a warmth they never quite find. Beside you, Jack is unshaken, barely bothered by the way his breath reflects back at him with each exhale.

“You did good today,” Jack says today in place of last night, the true mark of what the night shift does to a person’s perception of the world. Daybreak becomes dusk, while dusk becomes sunrise. Where others prepare to start their daily ritual of adhering to capitalism, you’re crawling into bed and giving in to the sweet relief of sleep. “Calmed that kid right down.”

You know immediately who he’s referring to.

James. A sweet baby boy, barely a day past 6 months, running a fever of a hundred and three, and sporting a nasty ear infection.

Understandably, he had been screaming up a storm.

Unfortunately, a certain patient nursing a headache was screaming even louder, profanities that pleaded for someone to Shut that fucking baby up!

Jack had offered to shut the patient up.

You had a more peaceful idea.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” god, you feel pathetic.

Praise is far from something foreign to you. Patients, colleagues, and friends alike are always firing off at you, sweet words that affirm the simple gestures and quiet good you bring into their lives. Whether it’s through fluffing a pillow, aiding in procedures, or gifting out your time freely; praise always worms its way into your ears.

But this is different.

Jack is different.

Every good job, every well done, every thanks, kid; it shoots right through you. Lightning that electrifies you, takes you from a state of near asystole to tachicardic in as little as the few seconds it takes his lips to shape the words. Your cheeks warm, your palms sweat. Words run from you, leaving you to grab at the few you can manage and stumble over half-formed sentences.

Worst of all, you think he knows.

He has to, right?

A man like him has lived through enough — lived long enough — to recognise the tell tale signs of the effect he has on people. Hardly anyone is immune or safe from his charms, from college kids that wind up in a gurney after having a little too much fun with a fake ID, to elderly women rushed in by their panicking children, afraid a bad cough or a sore back could be the sign of something far more sinister in the aging body.

“How did you know it would work?” It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realise Jack is talking again, head turned to watch as you walk alongside him rather than focusing ahead. “Flipping him over?”

Right.

James.

The crying baby.

Your peaceful idea.

That’s what you’re both talking about.

“Old wives tale,” you finally answer, mind drifting back to the memory of your quick thinking. The screaming baby, the screaming patient. Your hands, gentle as they picked James up. The questioning look from everyone in the room as you flipped the infant over, face down and hovering a few inches off the basinet. And then, silence. No more screaming baby. “My mum used to do it to me, flip me over when she couldn’t get me to stop. It just, y’know, shocks the system. It’s like flipping a switch, turning the baby off.”

“Huh,” somewhere above, a bird chirps, singing a song of good morning. “I’ll have to remember that.”

And then, before you can think any better or question the possible implications, you open your big mouth, “Why? Thinking of stepping into fatherhood?”

Jack gives you the worst possible answer he could have come up with: “No such thing as too late, right?”

“Yeah, maybe. If you’re a man,” you huff. “I, on the other hand, am running out of time on my biological clock as we speak.”

“Then you should get to work on changing that. If you ever need any help with it, I’m always here.”

He says it so casually, like each syllable doesn’t inch you closer to an imaginary ledge.

But his words aren’t what move you to silence.

It’s the imagery they conjure.

Positive tests and hospital visits.

The cold touch of gel on your belly, the warmth of a hand clasping your own.

Sweat rolling off your skin, limbs tangling with yours upon a mattress.

You have to physically shake yourself out of the… Fantasy? Nightmare? Mortifying hell-scape where you’re envisioning what it would be like to let a very handsome attending bend you over and get you pregnant?

“Oh my god,” you half whisper, half yell. “Doctor Abbot, did you just seriously offer-”

“Oh, you’re a pervert!” he has the audacity to exclaim as he swings your bag and bumps it against your thigh, the mischief in his eye the only thing that gives him away. This is Jack, after all, a notorious and shameless flirt. His words didn’t mean anything beyond making you flustered. “I was just offering up my kind and professional aid, as a healthcare provider and an avid champion behind women’s health.”

Head shaking and shoulders bouncing; you’re caught under the influence of Abbot’s charm. Completely unaware of the false sense of safety he’s lured you into, taking you by the hand and dragging you out to sea, waiting until your feet no longer reach the bottom, and then he let’s go, leaving the currents to pull you under…

In simpler words, he asks you the very thing you’ve been avoiding: “How's therapy going?”

“Good. Great. Yeah, I definitely feel a lot… Better. Thanks,” the words taste bitter on your tongue, bursting out of you with an urgency.

Maybe, you figure, if you say it fast enough, there will be no space to doubt it, no time to notice the lie.

“That’s amazing,” he nods curtly, only for that easy-going lilt on his lips to twist into something a little more sinister, a little more interrogative. “Cause when I spoke to Caleb, he said you haven’t been showing up. You wanna pretend you found someone else, or are you gonna tell me why you’re not using the help that’s there?”

You knew this conversation was bound to happen, from the moment Jack referred you to the PTMC’s trauma specialist, high-strung and hell-bent on fast-tracking your progress to mental wellness.

Jack hadn't known about the nightmares.

Or the sickening doubt.

Or the fact you remember every face you treated that day.

Even then, he knew you enough to notice the shift in your demeanour in the days following the Pittfest tragedy. He knew you enough to pull you aside and introduce you to Doctor Jefferson.

Deep inhale, slow exhale. Eyes focused on the pavement ahead, you finally answer, “I just… I don't like it.”

Jack scoffs.

“Nobody likes therapy.”

“It makes me feel… weak. Like I'm not cut out for this.”

You make it to your apartment building sooner than you expect, despite knowing the exact time it takes to trek from your door to the entry of the PTMC.

Any smarter woman would use it as an escape plan, as an excuse to duck out of a conversation that has you shifting weight from one foot onto the other and searching for anything to look at other than the whirlpools of brown that the doctor has pinned on you.

It turns out, you’re not as smart as you think you are, because your feet remain planted on the ground and there’s a feeling hollowing out your chest at the thought of parting from his side.

You will yourself to strip your bag from his grasp.

“Look, kid, I can’t force you to go. I don’t want to force you.” It would be easier to focus on what Jack is saying, if he didn’t have to sound so distracting. Soft-spoken, deep voice, on the verge of begging at an altar if it will get you to listen. “But I know what this job does to people, how it rots away at us if we don’t cure our wounds. I’ve lived it. I’ve seen it. I don’t want that for you. So just… Try, would you? If not for you, then for the poor old attending who really needs the help of his favourite nurse and her magic hands that manage to soothe even the weepiest of babies?”

Echoes of Mateo’s voice ring in your ear, his overly enthusiastic exclamation of The man made a good point! on loop.

There’s every chance you’ve been damned by some higher power, afflicted to live this life with a particular weakness to the man before you. It’s the only thing that makes sense, truthfully, when you find yourself conceding without a fight.

“Okay.”

How unfair it is, for eyes like that to light up so easily, “Okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll give it a try.” This time, there’s no bitter aftertaste to your agreement. Just the cold hard truth on your tongue: you’ll take a step down the path towards help, the path Jack put you on. “Can’t make it any worse, I guess.”

“That’s my girl.”

His words hit you like a sucker punch, straight to the gut and leaving you winded.

You stumble, both on your words and on the stairs, as you bid him goodbye and dash into your apartment building.

Safely tucked away at last, a whole week ahead without the threat of mortifying yourself in front of Jack Abbot.

The fourth time is a matter of protocol.

Jack once heard Dana ask Robby, “is it really a shift in the ED if you don’t end it wanting to quit?”

Today more than ever, he feels an itch to see resignation papers.

Not his own.

Yours.

Wrapped up in the active war zone of a multi-vehicle collision, Jack’s hands, eyes and mind were too focused on the woman actively bleeding out on the table to notice you slipping out of the OR, called upon by the charge nurse.

She needed you to check on a patient.

A favour, quick and simple. That’s all it was supposed to be.

There was never supposed to be a grapple for power. Or the clatter of metal meeting the ground. Or the crack of a skull following suit. Or the sickening sound of someone calling code Hula Hoop, when Jack’s hands are too occupied to run towards the source of violence.

It takes him twenty-eight gruelling minutes to make it free from the trauma rooms.

Jack strips himself of the PPE with haste, gloves and gown practically disintegrating under the force of his need to get out of the room and find out what happened, who it happened to.

He knows the answer is you before Mateo even gets the chance to speak.

Lena is on the phone, barking orders down the line. By the few words he manages to catch through his own deafening panic, the police no doubt sit on the receiving end of her call.

There are other patients to attend to, and other matters that are far more pressing — from an outsider’s point of view — that call for Jack’s immediate attention. He brushes them all aside, near blind to any consequence as something commands his feet across the department floor and straight for Exam Room 3, where the tiniest glimpse of you waits behind glass.

Shen is already tending to you, planted firmly by your bedside while the Pitt’s newest resident, Nazely, runs through your vitals. One of your arms is bent backwards, holding a compress to the back of your head. There’s a spatter of blood down the shoulder of your scrubs, splotches of a deep red staining the grey fabric. If Jack looks at it for too long, he’ll throw up, so his eyes shift to your face instead.

When he finds you smiling, a flood of anger finally collapses the immovable dam within him.

Jack frowns before he can even think to stop himself.

“What the hell happened?” Disgust stains each of his words, bleeding all over the room and stiffening the shoulders of those who potter around you, Nazely and the nurses alike.

Only Shen is unmoved by his outburst, turning to meet him with a deadpan stare and a mocking finger pressed to his lips, before he breathes out a gentle shh. “Watch it, old man, my precious patient’s got a nasty headache.”

There’s a likelihood Shen doesn’t get the chance to witness Jack’s eye roll, as the older man slips right through the gap between your gurney and his fellow attending. Without a word of acknowledgement tossed your way, he pries the cold compress from your fingers, commanding you to drop your arm and yield the task of holding it against your head over to him.

This time, Jack speaks a little softer, “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know, Doctor Abbot, there’s this thing called HIPPA-”

“John, I swear to-”

“It was my fault,” your voice cuts through the bickering of the two attendings, snapping the heat of Jack’s gaze off of Shen and onto you. The frown lines along his forehead ease ever so slightly, against his will, as you insist on flashing him an even bigger smile than before. “Lena, she told me- warned me the guy was in an altered state of mind. I shouldn’t have- I know better than to turn my back on a patient in that state. But it’s fine-”

Jack starts up immediately, hackles rising on the back of his neck as he takes the stance of a defensive mutt, ready to fight tooth and nail to protect its owner, “It’s not fine-”

“I’m fine, Dr Abbot,” pathetically placid, the brush of your fingertips as they graze his arm is enough to neutralise his outrage, nostrils no longer flaring with each puffed out breath of frustration. “He grabbed me, we tussled, and then I slipped on my own untied shoe lace.”

“And where is he now? This altered patient,” his grip slips slightly on the compress, apologies flooding his tongue at the slight wince the action wakes in you. Ignoring your pain, you take more notice of the hostility in his stance, quirking an eyebrow up at him in a silent question. “Don’t give me that look. I’m a doctor, I want to make sure he’s getting the standard of care he deserves.”

When you try to shrug off his interrogation, Shen finally proves he can do something other than get on Jack’s nerves this evening and unveils the truth, “He took off, slipped out the ambulance bay when they called the code.”

“Son of a-”

“CT’s back,” Nazely, quiet as a mouse, had managed to slip out the room unnoticed, and now shoulder-barges her way back in, carrying your results and cutting off Jack’s foul mouth. “Other than a nasty bump, you’re in the clear.”

It’s not that Jack doubts the intern’s ability as a doctor.

And it’s certainly not that he doesn’t trust Shen.

It just so happens that, when the young resident goes to hand-off your CT scans to one of the attendings, Ellis comes knocking on the door, demanding the input of her most trusted attending.

Jack’s never been more relieved to come in second.

Hawk eyes scan over black and whites images, and only once he’s confirmed with his own two eyes that you truly are in the clear does Jack feel that tension in his shoulders begin to unwind.

In a room that now only houses two, he lets himself stand as close to you as he needs, shifting his stance to keep watch on the doors on either side of the room — a guard dog that can never deny it's nature to protect, even as it nestles into its owner.

He doesn’t quite nestle into you, careful to obey that fine line of decorum that exists between colleagues, between a junior and a senior, between a girl your age and a man as weathered as him. No matter the itch in his palm that begs to be scratched by skin no other than your own, he resists the urge to touch you.

Until you move.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Puzzled by the sternness in his usually nonchalant voice, you gaze over your shoulder at him, now sat upright and with both legs swung over the other side of the bed, “To finish… my shift?”

And that is how his hand finds your arm, a grasp that is gentle yet firm, allowing him to guide you back into your previous position. In his other hand still sits the ice pack, as he continues pressing it to your head.

“Uh-uh,” the denial is followed by a tsk, as he slips back into Doctor Abbot mode and puffs out his chest, taking on the persona of big, bad, commanding professional who knows exactly what his patient needs. “Your shift ended the moment that head of yours hit the ground. And since that asshole-” a pointed look shoots his way, warning in your eyes. Jack corrects his previous verbiage, “altered patient who did this took off, new protocol says I can’t let you leave hospital grounds on your own. Now unless you know someone kind enough to pick you up at 4 am, I suggest you take the opportunity to get some rest. I’ll come wake you when the morning shift zombies start strolling in.”

He leaves no room for debate.

He leaves the room, drawing the curtains and switching off the light.

If Jack were even a modicum more brazen, he’d shamelessly have locked the doors, ensuring you can’t slip away to return to your duties. In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about catching you back out on the floor, as when he checks on you some time after five fifteen, Jack finds you curled into the bed, the ice pack now fully melted and discarded halfway down the foam mattress.

By the time he wakes you, the clock has long struck seven and Robby is breathing down his neck, urging him to open Exam Room 3 back up to actual patients and not just that nurse you like to ogle.

Something in your demeanour has shifted.

Quiet, slow, weighed-down. You don’t walk; you drag yourself to the lockers. Head turned to the floor, body pulled in on itself, voice soft as you bid people good morning and goodbye.

Jack follows in your footsteps, hovering in the periphery of your every move, from your locker out into the street.

You don’t acknowledge him, barely even look at him, yet you yield easily to the way he takes the weight of your bag off your shoulder, slipping it onto his own. And so he gives you your space, walks a few paces behind as you both inch along the path back home — your home.

A shiver forces him to break the silence.

It creeps down your spine, from top to bottom, and settles into your hands, a subtle shake that not even shoving them into the pockets of your coat can quell.

“Wait a second, would you, kid?”

Jack’s never fought so hard to keep his voice soft. Despite his efforts, you startle at the interrupted silence. When your feet pause on the concrete, it’s unclear if it’s because of his request or your shock.

Instead of dwelling on the thought for too long, Jack focuses on his self-assigned task, shrugging his bag off of one shoulder and manoeuvring it to lay against his chest, allowing him to observe the contents as his hand riffles through it. Digging way down past rolls of bandage, a tube of specialised moisturiser, a few odd pairs of compression socks, and various other miscellaneous wonders, his fingers finally happen upon what they’ve been seeking: hand warmers.

“Here,” he starts up, as he hastily rips a packet open and shakes the bag. “This should get the cold out your bones.”

Jack has always prided himself on his rationality. Controlled and composed, with eyes that have payed witness to more horrors than the heart can cope with, it is a rare — if not impossible — feat to catch him sporting a heart rate higher than seventy three.

Watching you envelop the warmer in both your palms, soothing out the shake brought on by early morning chills and the residue panic from your attack, he’s tachycardic.

Months of awaiting the rise of an opportunity — since that second time he walked you home and watched you attempt to hide your skin from the wind’s bite with the flimsy pockets of your coat — buying those hand warmers has at last payed off.

He’s not quite finished digging through his bag.

Untangling the ball that has become of his wired earphones, Jack awaits permission before slipping one bud into your ear, the other into his own. He plugs them into his phone, swipes along his catalogue of playlists, and hits play on the first one that catches his eye. Medicine in the form of music, doctor’s orders.

And just like that, you’re both on the move again. The silence between you now carries a soundtrack, a mixture of eighties rock and seventies funk marking the beat of each footstep. Jack no longer hovers a few paces behind, welcomed back to your side by the short string of wire dangling between you.

Halfway through The Cure’s Just Like Heaven, Jack catches himself entranced in the shape of your lips as they mouth along to each lyric, and it strikes him, then and there, that maybe a moment like this is what inspires a musician to write, to eulogise an emotion through the eternal art of music.

For a man who long ago stopped talking to any version of a god that may exist, walking along by your side, hands brushing occasionally, bodies drifting closer to each other’s orbit; it’s as close to heaven as Jack may ever get.

Jack doesn’t leave you at the entrance to your building.

He holds the heavy door open for you, follows you in. Learning quickly that you live on the third floor, he bites back a comment about how shaky the elevator is, enduring the ride up. Following as you weave through the hall, right down to the end, he keeps quiet as you pause outside a door.

For a moment, he thinks that you’re going to say goodbye. That you’re going to thank him for walking you home, again, even after he’s told you it’s no bother. That you’re going to fish out your keys and slip through the door, starting the countdown on the clock of when he’ll get to see you again, later tonight for another shift in the pitt.

What Abbot isn’t expecting is for you to turn to him, cheek already streaked by a rogue tear, with another dancing on your eyelashes and promising to follow soon.

You take a moment to find your voice, lips parting and delivering the promise of your voice, “I’ve never felt unsafe at work.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, wanting to let your words simmer.

You have other plans.

“But when he-” the crack in his heart echoes the one in your voice, lips trembling over silent vowels as you fail to speak.

Tears roll down like waves, crashing against your chin and dripping onto the neckline of your sweater. And all Jack can do is clench his fist, hold it close to his side as blunt nails tattoo their print into the flesh of his palm. He cannot risk letting his guard slip, risk acting on an impulse you might not welcome.

“I was scared.” You breathe out, like the words you utter are a grave sin, the weight of guilt at last ripped off your shoulders. “Which is stupid, I know. I was fine, it was just a- I shouldn’t of-”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts, daring to take a step closer, hands still glued to his sides. “You were attacked.”

Like hearing it spoken aloud clicks something into place, gravity kicks in and you finally come crashing down, waves of tears now aided by a storm of overwhelming emotions. Shoulders shaking, breath stilling, eyes landing on every inch of the hallway but the place he stands.

Jack is no stranger to stomach-churning sights.

He’s withstood the horrors of a war zone, watched bullets hit their marks and shrapnel claim countless victims — his leg, to name one. From the brutality of war to the chaos of an emergency department, he’s bit back the acrid burn of bile at the back of his throat; it comes with each life he fails to save. There are nights where he cannot count the dead on both hands, never mind one. He has reckoned with the missing piece of him, where empty space now occupies the flesh that once extended below his right knee. Perched upon a shower bench, or throbbing with a phantom ache, or soothing vaselines and creams into an angry red stump, Jack learned to endure the pain.

But this — you, breaking down before his eyes, barely a step between you both — brings on a pain like no other, something he can't quite describe.

Cracks are forming in his composure, a trait he wears like armour, threatening to spill onto the dirtied floors of the building's hallway. His fingers slip, no longer balled into fists but pressed flat against the top of his thighs, drumming a nervous rhythm into stained cargo. When Jack tries to clear his throat of the ball forming within, he nearly breaks out in a cough, choking on the comfort he longs to speak into existence.

You interrupt his collapse of self-control.

Two steps is all it takes for your forehead to kiss his shoulder. Dampness overcomes the grey fabric of his shirt, your tears staining it a darker shade. Jack freezes at first, hands unwilling to move beneath the growing fear of touching you wrong, scaring you off. Then, slowly, as the weight of you presses deeper into the crook of his neck, his arms find themselves taking full possession of you, fingers splaying up the length of your spine and pulling you tighter against him.

For a moment, the outside world holds no consequence. Jack is not an attending, you are not a nurse. There's no decade of time between the age of your bodies, nor a quiet though respectful history of admiration between you as coworkers. That acceleration of his heart is not a reason to panic but a reason to rejoice, no fear of any wicked woes from years gone by sneaking back up to remind Jack of troubles past.

No, none of that matters in this moment but you, Jack, and the syncopation of your breathing.

One of his hands finds your hair, equal parts warm as it is large when it cups the back of your head and smothers you closer into his pulse point. Suddenly he’s grateful he reached for the expensive cologne today.

Clearing his throat, Jack attempts to self soothe from the sharp pain in his chest that grows with every sniffle from you, “Fear doesn’t make you any less brave.”

Your reaction is delayed, barely acknowledging the fact he spoke at first, until you’re bursting into a fit of subdued giggles.

While laugher wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for, Jack can’t help but feel like he's succeeded at something.

“Who knew you could be so deep, Jack,” he wrestles with his body at your soft reply, willing himself to not imagine you mentioning deep and his name in a much racier setting, preferably splayed out on the navy of his bedsheets, hair a soft halo that further cements your image as an angel… An angel he wants to commit every carnal sin against.

You move too soon for Jack’s liking, who nearly clings onto your figure until logic kicks in and reminds him how pathetic of an image that would paint. There's a streak of colour down your cheeks, stains where tears have dragged away the subtlest hints of makeup, yet Jack swears he’s never seen you in a prettier light than this: beneath the cold, buzzing light of the hallway, stepping back from his arms with a look in your eyes far lighter than the one you sank into him with.

“Easy on the teasing, kid,” the nickname has never felt more like a lie, sour on the back of his tongue. The last thing Jack Abbot considers you is a kid. Younger? Of course, but nothing short of a woman, in shape and in mind. “I stole that quote from my therapist actually, I’ll have you know.”

Then, for reasons less related to muscle memory than he would dare to admit, Jack shoots a wink in your direction.

Goodbyes exchanged and apologies for wet shirts successfully curved, Jack lingers by your door until he hears you twist the lock shut behind you, a solid frame of wood bringing the abstract divide between you into the world of the tangible.

Right then, right there, still running on that same spike of adrenaline from when he first heard the horrid cries of code Hula Hoop, Jack Abbot is struck over the head with a horrific realisation.

One taste of you in his arms is not enough, and it never will be.

Jack needs more.

The fifth time is a matter of routine.

You’ve always been a fiend for structure; a creature of habit. Doctor Jefferson reckons it’s the perfect trait to balance out the chaos your field of work brings into your life — when you reiterate that explanation to Jack, him retying his laces for the third time in a row and you reshuffling the same stack of papers for a fifth time, the attending is quick to agree.

“Have you seen yourself eat a sandwich?” Jack’s defensive retort comes no sooner than a moment after your hand teasingly swats his shoulder. Unbeknownst to you, the sudden sway he gives has less to do with the force behind your hand, and everything to do with how your touch grips at his soul. “You’re the only person I know that takes the exact same order of bites, every time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” your protest is far from filtered through any seriousness, words that are soon followed by an amused snort. “No I do not!”

“Uh yes, you do,” back on his feet and standing straight, Jack’s gaze lowers to meet your own, sitting prudently at your desk and finding any measly task to occupy your hands for five more minutes, if only to continue giving your feet the break they need from running here, there, and everywhere. Force of his own habits, or perhaps a nervous tick, you watch as the attending occupies his hands with the shape of his stethoscope, two fists dangling from his neck as he curls his knuckles and tugs on the object.

With your apparent eating habit now dragged into the spotlight, Jack dismisses himself with nothing more than a cheeky lift of his lips, and a muttered Duty calls! as a set of EMTs come strolling in with a gurney.

The rest of your shift passes in a Jack-less blur, your eyes and ears too occupied as you trail next to Parker.

She had lay claim over you no more than seven minutes into your shift, face lighting up like a Christmas tree at the sight of you strolling out from the locker room, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your body familiarised itself with the shape of your scrubs. Without even so much as a hello, Ellis grasped a hand around your forearm and tugged you off towards triage, paying no mind to Jack’s questioning gaze as you both shot right past him. All she offered him was a, “Sorry, Abbot, your girl is mine for tonight.”

Abbot didn’t correct her.

Your girl.

Every part of your psyche is aware it’s a minuscule thing to get hung up on, to feel your stomach fluttering with an unknown anxiety each time you replay the scene; yet it happens all the same.

As you assist Dr Ellis, passing her a scalpel.

As you rip off dirtied gloves and replace them with a new pair.

As you stir sugar into your third coffee of the night, eyes staring blankly ahead while Ellis talks your ear off, venting about her recent misadventures in love.

“And then guess what she said!” Parker’s voice may as well be going in one ear and out the other, because you’re far from listening, eyes too busy following the shape of Abbot as he cuts down the length of a hallway, one of the younger residents glued to his side and pitching their newest case.

Has the casual dominance he wears like another layer of clothing always had this effect on you, firing off error warnings in your mind as you watch him steer his resident out the way of an oncoming gurney — a motion that reads as second nature, not even so much as a moment’s thought running through him before he’s executing the action.

Ellis snaps you out of it, fingers clicking in your face and blinking her back into focus.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Huh? What?” It’s torture not to let yourself get wrapped up in Jack again as he perches himself across from you both, elbows braced on the nurse’s station and arms straining at the seams of a navy top you swear is purposefully two sizes too small. “Yeah, of course I am.”

“Then guess what she said next,” despite the distrusting glint in her eye, Dr Ellis spares you the humiliation of telling you she caught you staring at her attending.

“Uh… That she’s not ready for a relationship, even though you met on a dating app?”

“Worse!” she exclaims, right as you notice Jack’s hazel gaze meet yours, intrigue practically dripping off his eyelashes with every involuntary blink. “I don’t date Virgos. I mean, can you believe that? The girl is navigating her love life by letting goddamn starry shapes guide her!”

“Hey,” you feign a face of offence, hand clasped your chest as though to shield your heart. “Some of us just like the comfort of fixed compatibility.”

You watch as the betrayal settles over Doctor Ellis, glazing over her already dead-pan stare with a look of pure judgement, “Et tu, brute? Go on then, shove your knife deeper, would you ever date a Virgo?”

“I don’t know. I guess? I’ve never really thought about what signs I wouldn’t date,” you pause, the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention as a strange sensation of being watched creeps over you. But as you look back over in Jack’s direction, you find him engrossed in his phone. A pitiful feeling dawns over you, baptising your heart with a hollow ache only disappointment can conjure. “Weirdly though, all my exes have been either a Pisces or Gemini. I don’t know what that says about me but-”

You finish on time, for once.

No last minute emergencies, no lingering to help Jack as he squeezes one last case into his already-finished shift, no letting your scrubs overstay their welcome; you pry them off like they are caught ablaze. And then you linger.

Hands occupy themselves with minuscule tasks, organising and rearranging the items in your locker; then unzipping your bag and going through each of your belongings. Eyes take the occasional peek towards the entries of the lockers, and ears perk up each time footsteps grow closer.

It’s only when Jack steps through the door at last, defeat written all over his face, that your mouth moves. First, stretching into a smile, and then forming a few words.

“Rough night?”

Relief ripples his features at the sound of your voice — like finding a streak of sunlight on a rainy day— bringing the tiniest spark of joy back into his sunken eyes, “Thought you’d have gone by now, kid.”

You waver, something about his question feeling accusatory, even if he delivers it in the gentlest of voices.

Why haven’t you left?

A troublesome cat, an unfinished box-set, and a bowl of leftover pasta sit in the confines of your apartment, practically begging you to race home back to them and delve yourself into comfort, that momentary pause to the chaos of the PTMC you struggle to find in the hours between shifts. A few months ago, you would already be a glass of wine deep and settling in for just one more episode of many, far from lingering like a bad scent amongst the lockers. But then again, a few months ago, the road home was a lonely one.

At what point did that seventeen minute walk become the highlight of your day?

Something warm meets your nostrils, dragging your attention across to where Jack now stands, spritzing his sweat-ridden neck with a few pumps of cologne. You don’t mean to notice the bottle has less than a quarter of its amber liquid left. You also don’t mean to reminisce on the first time you saw the bottle, clasped in Jack’s hands. The memory was one you thought would be singular, never once before having witnessed the older man groom himself after a shift.

Instead, it’s become his signature.

Clock out, hit the lockers, drown the stench of bleach with a warm musk, and then…

“Do you have any gum?”

You know this scene all too well, you almost get ahead of the script and answer before he even asks. Fortunately, you manage to play it cool, “Uh, let me check… Yes!”

Jack doesn't need to know that you didn’t really need to check.

And Jack definitely doesn’t need to know that you never used to carry gum, not until the first time he asked.

But does he need to move closer, that cloud of freshly sprayed cologne enveloping you in its arms, just to pluck the strip of gum from your outstretched hand?

Mint blankets over the notes of bergamot and black pepper, and Jack washes away the stale coating in his mouth, jaw wound tight as he crushes the white rubber beneath his molars.

He doesn’t inch away, retreat back to where he once stood. Instead, his hand finds your own, fingers bumping against yours and silently commanding you to relinquish control… Of the strap of your bag, of course, index and middle finger hooking beneath the padded fabric and slinging the bag over his own shoulder.

“You know,” you say, because you have to. If you don’t distract yourself with speech, you’ll drown in those hazel eyes, too close for comfort and, yet, nowhere near close enough. “You should really start bringing your own gum. Or a toothbrush, if you’re that scared of having a bad breath. What if I switch to day-shift, huh?”

Maybe Jack scoffs in disbelief, knowing there’s not a version of reality where you elect to work days. Or maybe the scoff is a way of downplaying his irritation at the thought, possessive over the sheer possibility of losing his girl to the likes of Robinavitch, hot-head extraordinaire with a touch of suicidal tendencies.

Whatever his reason, Jack is quick to mask the original expression on his face with an easy smile, one corner of his lips twisting upwards as he shrugs, “It’s less to do with not wanting a bad breath, more to do with the fact I like being in your debt.”

Frozen in shock, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowing, you barely register as Jack starts to make his way down the hall, snapping out your trance only as he calls your name.

Like a dog called to heel, you scurry off to join his side.

Jack stops informing you that he’s walking you home.

Without fail, every shift, he shows up, steals your gum, invades your space, and takes your baggage hostage, guiding you out of the ER with the ghost of his touch against your lowers back, steering you through the crowd of ailing folks and stopping you from diving in to help.

Conversation is no longer something the space between you demands, a comfortable silence settling in; the wind down of a hectic shift sound-tracked by the sound of a city waking up, the smack of your footsteps hitting the ground, and the occasional exchange of words.

Like today, as you pass by a unit under construction and Jack reads over the sign: a soon-to-open sushi restaurant.

“You ever been to Japan?” He asks, curiosity practically beaming from his eyes.

“Never. You?”

“Once, when I was young-” he hesitates, like he intended to add -er to the end of his word but decided against it. “Would you ever go?”

“To Japan?” He nods. “Yeah, maybe.”

His reply arrives like a confession, gentle and lacking the confidence you’ve come to associate with Jack, “I’ve been meaning to visit again.”

Silence keeps you both company the rest of the way, until your feet come to a halt outside your apartment block. Jack doesn’t intend to follow you to your door, not like the last time. Instead, he shrugs off your bag and helps you slip it over your own shoulder, using those large hands to scoop your hair up, rescuing you from the sharp sting of feeling the strap pull down on it.

Then Jack announces, just as lacking in confidence as the last time he spoke: “I’m not a Virgo.”

You stare at him, blinking slow, letting his words settle into the grooves of your brain and sink down until some part of you starts to make sense of them.

The more he speaks, the clearer it becomes what he’s attempting to say, “Or a Gemini. Not even a Pisces.”

Suddenly, those moments as you stood listening to Dr Ellis’ romantic woes, with the nurses station between you and Jack and fleeting glances snuck between nurse and attending, it all feels less innocent, less casual. More intentional.

Jack had been listening, hanging on to your every word as you entertained Parker and pretended to allow astrology to rule over the romance in your life.

“Just, thought I should let you know,” much to your dismay, Jack’s fleeing quicker than you can chase him, a sheepish smile overcoming his face and a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “In case you were ever wondering.”

Finally, there is the time where lines blur.

“Come on,” the tell-tale whine of a tipsy Trinity Santos rings out of your phone’s speaker, interrupting an intimate evening for three: you, your cat, and a cheesy horror movie, where the only thing scarier than the lacklustre VFX are the plot inconsistencies. “Even Crash- Ow! Sorry, I mean, even Vic is here!”

The last thing you want to do on your night off is to squeeze yourself into a pair of jeans and spend it in the presence of the exhausted day-shifters, four-drinks too deep for you to ever catch up, no matter how many shots you throw back.

Unfortunately for you, the only thing more convincing than Trinity’s pleading is Whitaker’s tipsy bellow of your name, followed promptly by, “I need a karaoke partner! Santos ditched me for Mel!”

It’s only with a groan that you agree, “Okay. Fine, yeah, whatever. I’ll come. But I’m having an early night! No seven am walks of drunken shame like last time!”

“Don’t worry meemaw, we’ll get you tucked into bed before three, latest,” Santos’ laugh rings down the line, the alcohol coursing through her veins amplifying the humour she already finds so easily in her own words. “Now hurry, the bar closes at eleven, then who knows where the night might take us!”

You enter the bar, already braced and ready for the impact of the Pittlings swarming you, like bees drawn to honey, a tangle of arms wrapping themselves around you. Only as Mel let’s you go — the last to do so — do you notice a figure you had not anticipated.

Dr Robby, sat in all his grumpy glory, greeting you with a tightlipped smile and a single wave of his hand. Before you can even open your mouth, ready to return the greeting, you take a step forward, heel landing in a puddle of spilled drinks, and nearly slip… only to find there’s a presence at your back.

Not touching you, but there; hovering, lingering. A buzz of energy trapped in the minimal space between the small of your back and the warmth of a hand.

“Careful, kid. There’s better ways to fall head over heels.”

Without even having to turn your head, you know it’s him.

You do so, anyway, and welcome in the sight of Jack Abbot clad in a pair of dark jeans, dark boots, and a white button up, sleeves rolled below his elbows and with the buttons undone enough to tease the way his collarbones sit dusted by freckles. Familiarity is in his scent, a cloud of his cologne settling into the atmosphere above your head, and the low lights of the bar catch on his pupils, reflecting warmth.

A million thoughts run through your head: how he’s no doubt come to keep Robby company, how the sleeves of his shirt are practically choking his biceps, how wrong it feels to see him surrounded by the Pittlings, how much of a relief it is to see him.

But all your mouth can manage is an unpleasant, “Why are you here?”

The table’s chatter comes to a pause, all eyes on you two as an exchange of chuckles, whistles, and even a soft ouch crawls its way out of Robby’s lips.

“No! Sorry, I-” hellbent on embarrassing yourself, it seems, you groan as your face dives into the safety of your palms, cheeks hot to the touch. “That’s not what I meant-”

Fingers seize your wrists in a gentle grasp, momentarily soothing over your rapid pulse point before they tug your hands away from your face, putting you back on display to the rest of the bar. All you see is Jack, in front of you, biting back laughter and fighting off a teasing grin.

“I know what you mean,” by the grace of something merciful, he lets go of you, sending your hands dropping back down to your sides. “I swapped with Shen. He needs my Sunday off.”

At the mercy of God, or the universe, Samira puts an end to your humiliation ritual and jumps out her seat, lacing her arm with yours, and drags you off in the direction of the bar, “Let’s get you a drink. Alcoholic, preferably!”

A half hour passes in the blink of an eye, clock striking ten and beginning the countdown to the bar’s closure. You down your first drink - a concoction of fruit juice, and syrup, and cheap liquor. The second is one you treat a little kinder, nursing your glass of vermouth and giving it the attention it deserves, each sip a chance to let the flavours melt into your tongue. By your third, the sweet feeling in your chest is enough to counter the bitterness of any drink, and so you move onto the cheap beer Trinity clings to like a lifeline.

Jack sits furthest from you, alternating between sophisticated sips of a bourbon and gulps from a beer bottle his hand engulfs entirely too easily. Despite the fact he sits knee-deep in conversation with Robby — who has spent most of his night complaining, no doubt, about a recent run-in with Gloria — while you lend an ear and a smile to Dennis as he pleads his case to you on why his friendship with a certain widow is perfectly innocent, the two of you orbit each other.

With eyes that wander, drawn from one side of the table to the other. At first, it’s bashful: whenever you catch him, Jack’s neck snaps his attention right back to his fellow attending. But as the drinks flow and time ticks on, it grows bolder, transitioning into a challenge; hazel eyes pinning your own into a staring contest as they watch you over the rim of his glass. You lose, conceding to whatever force draws your eyes down like magnets to the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

With fingers that toy a line between distance and friction. When you reach for the handful of nuts at the centre of the table, Jack’s fingers meet your own in the bowl. The graze is minute, barely a whisper of contact between skin, yet it shakes you to the core. Familiar fingers meet your skin as Jack makes his way around the table, excusing himself with needing a trip to the bathroom. It’s as he passes you that he strikes, a teasing drum of fingertips against your shoulder — mimicking the call of someone searching for your attention — that has your head turning to the right, only to find no one there. By the time you catch onto the fact it was Jack, he’s standing in a queue for the toilets and offering you a challenging raise of his brows. What the challenge is, you don’t quite know yet.

You’re not given the chance to dwell on the thought, not when Santos slams an empty bottle down into the centre of the table and declares, “Time to find out all your dirty secrets. Truth or Drink!”

A chorus of groans echo from the surrounding party, yourself included… Yet you all entertain her all the same, no one daring to challenge her pointed stare as she spins the bottle.

It lands on Mel, whose excitement lasts all of the seven seconds it takes Trinity to dish up a question.

Have you ever tried to break up a marriage?

Mel drinks.

Victim #2, much to Trinity’s delight, is Javadi.

Javadi, who already is nose deep in her glass before a question can even hit the table, slamming her empty cup down onto the table with a sheepish smile.

“Dammit, I was gonna tell Mel to ask about Mateo,” comes Santos’ disappointment.

The younger girl is just as quick to reply, “Why do you think I drank?”

Poor Robby ends up roped into the game next, following in the footsteps of the previous players and drinking instead of answering Javadi’s interrogation, “Do you follow me on TikTok?”

It’s when Dennis takes a swig of his colourful cocktail that Samira groans, surprising the entirety of the table as she throws her head back and exclaims, “Oh my God, you people are so boring! All too chicken to answer!”

Jack seems to take that as a challenge, for when the bottle comes to a halt, neck pointed in his direction after Dennis spun it, his arms remain firmly crossed over his chest.

“Shit. Wow, okay,” the younger boy is startled, no question burning on the tip of his tongue for a man he barely knows. So he settles with something simple, something impersonal, something with no deeper intention behind it to humiliate the man: “When was the last time you lied?”

Jack doesn’t answer immediately.

No, he makes a show out of turning his wrist up to his eyes, squinting as they read of the dials and his face settles into an emotionless expression, “Like… an hour ago?”

Quick as a whippet, Trinity dives at the first chance to investigate, “Who did you lie to?”

“That’s a different question,” Jack fires right back, reaching for the empty bottle to spin.

For some reason, his eyes are pinned on you. Even as the bottle lands on Trinity, they linger on your frame, that same unknown challenge in his stare.

The bar spits you all out at four minutes past eleven, bodies spilling out into the street. It’s chaos, voices of strangers mingling in with those of your coworkers. You’re being tugged each and every other way, a million questions fired in your direction.

C’mon, don’t you agree we should go Downtown?

No, no! We have to head to Passion!

Ew, Passion sucks. Every surface is… sticky.

Can’t we just go anywhere that offers karaoke?

Poor, unsuspecting Dennis is left flinching back in shock as a unified bark of No! comes from all the girls, disgusted eyes burning him for so much as daring to suggest such a thing.

“Wherever you kids are going, it won’t be with her,” Jack, emboldened by the booze in his veins, finally lets that hand of his fully press against your lower back. Your head turns to find him already watching you, amused by your puzzled look. “You’re working tomorrow.”

“So are they!” You exclaim, hand pointing out to the crowd of Pittlings. “They have work sooner than I do!”

“And that’s Dr Robinavitch’s cross to bear. You, on the other hand,” a finger drags down the slope of your nose, taping against the tip as Doctor Abbot leans down to your ear, like you’ll suddenly lose the ability to hear him over the noise of the city streets. “You’re my problem.”

It’s hard to breathe; the night air too cold, too thick, too drenched in Jack’s cologne.

You know his reputation; you’ve been victim to it. Jack Abbot, shameless flirt, tongue always locked and loaded with a comment capable of shaking even the most stable of heartbeats. But this is different.

This is his hands on you, this is his voice claiming some form of ownership over you, this is his stare tearing through the fabrics of your being and embedding itself inside your chest, awakening a kind of warmth that even the hottest Pittsburgh summer day would envy.

“Boo!” It’s Victoria who cries out, cutting right through the budding tension between nurse and attending, one-too-few seconds away from blossoming into something far from the professionalism of colleagues. “You’re leaving already!?”

Your mouth opens, ready to answer.

Jack steals the words right out your mouth, “Yes. I think it’s about time we leave, don’t you agree?”

Spotlight pointed at you, he puts you on the spot for the entire group to watch how you fumble over a simple, “Uh, sure.”

The hand against your lower back sticks to you like a magnet the whole way home.

A journey longer than the one you usually stumble down with Jack by your side. It would have made more sense to hail a cab, any rational adult would recognise that, yet neither of you dare to suggest it. Crowds of drunken fools spill out from bars and invade the sidewalk — the kind of stumbling messes that activate a cynical part of you, wondering just how many of them will wind up in the care of your colleagues before the end of the night — Jack answers their invasion by drawing you closer, footsteps fading to the back of yours as he guides you to walk ahead of him, the burn of his hand reminding you that he’s there, that you’re safe, that no wave of foreign faces is going to sweep you up and drag you away.

Even as you make your way up the stairs to your apartment floor, elevator out of service, Jack lingers a few paces behind, watching your every move.

It’s as your fumbling around in your purse, fingers blindly rummaging through loose change and half-empty lip gloss tubes in search of the keys to your apartment, that Jack takes it upon himself to start spewing revelations.

“It was you,” he says, pauses and, when met with your questioning eyes, glancing back at him over your shoulder, clarifies. “The last time I lied, tonight. It was to you.”

A few seconds pass in silence, and then, “Oh.”

“Shen doesn’t need Sunday off.”

“Oh.”

“I knew you were off tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he leans down, enters your orbit and invades you with the knowledge of how solid his chest feels pressed against your back, and how warm his breath feels, brushing against the shell of your ear as it mimics your repetitive exclaims of shock. “‘S that all you know how to say?” Before you can politely beg him to back up, for the sake of your sanity and your fraying willpower, hanging on by a single thread that seems more than eager to snap and unleash the burning in your loins upon the older man, Jack shuffles a few steps back and takes a deep breath — the kind that has his shirt straining against the growing width of his chest. “It’s not the first time I’ve lied to you.”

“Oh- Wait,” Cut off by your own confusion, you spin on your heel a little too quickly and stumble forward, hand inches away from rediscovering the meaning of balance against his chest. “What have you lied about?”

“There we go, finally using that pretty voice properly again,” if you had known this was what a tipsy Jack Abbot behaved like, you would have offered him a drink months ago. Especially with the way his cheeks sit blushing in red, a shy imagery to contradict the growing boldness in his words. “My car was never in the garage. I even drove it to work that day. But you wouldn’t accept Mateo’s offer for a lift, so I figured I’d need a real good excuse to walk you home.”

Clarity washes over you not in repeated waves, but in one single tsunami.

Overwhelming, a wall of emotions flooding over your being. You mentally retrace each step you’ve taken in his company. Each walk home, each careful conversation exchanged between you. Every cloud of worry that hovered overhead, convincing you of a reality where your presence and the act of accompanying you home is nothing but a burden to Jack Abbot, a simple kindness that’s gotten out of hand and now he does not know how to back out of.

But his words bend that reality, until it snaps in half and ceases to exist. Because here Jack is, telling you he orchestrated reasons to walk you home, excuses to linger in your presence after the night shift came to an end and patients are no longer a force that brings you into one another’s proximity.

Jack Abbot wants to be around you. So why on Earth would you part from him now, just because your finger had hooked itself around a keyring?

“Jack,” in the quiet of the hallway, his name echoes off your lips, uttered more intimately than ever before. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

Your confidence is a case of easy come, easy go; dissipating before you can even wait for a proper reply from the man. Anxious thoughts dialled up and overloading, you turn back to face your front door, shakily shove the key into the door, and unlock something that feels a little more than just your apartment, a point of no return awaiting in it’s premises should Jack choose to accept your offer.

Walking in before Jack can speak, you get your answer with the gentle closing of the door behind you and the clearing of Jack’s throat, swallowing back what may just be a similar ball of emotion swelling within your own.

If you had anticipated Jack Abbot standing in your living room tonight, you would have at least attempted to tidy up.

Then again, if you had anticipated this, there’s other things you would have done differently… You would have made sure you actually had something to offer him to drink, for starters.

“Uh… I don’t have any beer,” you mutter, more to yourself than Jack, one hand holding the fridge door open and the other rummaging through the half-empty shelves, like you might somehow unveil a surprise bottle of anything-worth-drinking. “I can offer bourbon? Maybe? Or I’ve got leftover wine. Might have gone bad though. Shit, sorry, I really don’t have anything to offer.”

Closer than you anticipate, hovering by the entry to the kitchen, Jack rasps a careful, “Just you is fine. ‘S all I’m really here for.”

Like two opposing magnets drawn together by an unseen force, distance becomes null and void as eyes meet and you both inch closer, devouring the space between you with careful steps. Face to face at last with everything that has been brewing beneath the surface of your interactions, you barely squeeze out a whisper of his name before Jack claims your mouth as his prisoner.

Lips lock like shackles, trapping you in place against the older man. Hands find one another’s frames, his large palm staking claim over the back of your neck and tilting your face into the perfect angle for him to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing with a graze over your lower lip, the beginning of a chuckle bubbling in his chest as you answer his touch with a pitiful whine, before he finally licks into your mouth. Your own hands carve out a path for themselves, sliding over the expanse of his broad shoulders, curling around the tightness of his biceps, trailing down his waist to find the worn out leather of his belt, two finger hooking beneath and drawing his body closer — like any space still exists between you.

He lets you move him all the same, walking yourself backwards and dragging him along until your back hits whichever wall sits the closest. Any memory of the layout to the apartment you’ve spent the last five years living in has melted away in the heat of Jack’s mouth, kissing you like he has something to prove and this is the only chance he’ll ever get.

Squeezed flush against one another, no barrier but clothes sitting between, you feel the shape of him pressing into your hip and making you painfully aware of the fact Jack Abbot, the older attending you forced yourself to learn to observe quietly and cautiously from a safe distance, now has his semi-hard cock straining against you. That realisation must run through you too viscerally, for Jack’s soon tearing his mouth away from you.

“Shit- Sorry,” he just about gasps the apology out, lips incapable of drifting too far for too long, a smatter of kisses meeting the edge of your jaw as you feel Jack angle his hips away from you. “Been a while since I last-” He’s cut off by his own groan, reactionary to the weight of your hand landing atop the bulge of his jeans, palming at the length of him in hopes of finding out just how hard he can grow. “And I’ve just been thinking about this, ‘bout you for so long. Just-” greedy mouthed, even his desperate please for apology are interrupted by the drag of his tongue over your pulse point. “Ignore it, I’ll keep myself in check. Don’t wanna come on too strong, scare you off.”

It’s a bit late to retreat now, is what you want to say, with the way your thighs are squeezing together in search of any friction and the cotton of your panties sticks uncomfortably against your folds.

But Jack is blushing enough as it is, tips of his ears as red as you imagine his hair once was, face burning hot as he burrows it deeper in your neck. So you spare him some kindness and settle on the buckle of his belt, choosing direct action over teasing words.

A switch seems to flip at the brush of your fingers as you reach for Jack’s belt, attempt to dive beneath the waistband of his boxers. The older man stiffens against you, in more ways than one, head rising from your neck like a cobra enchanted by the notes of a flute. Thick fingers curl around your wrist, prying your hand from him gently yet accompanied by the disapproving tut only an authority figure could conjure, moments away from teaching you a lesson.

His chastisement isn’t vocal but physical, dragging your wrist up to his mouth and greeting it with the gentlest press of lips, right where your pulse recounts a soliloquy on the affect this man has on you, heart rate spiking. Jack lingers, face turning to brush the tip of his nose against your skin while his eyes slip shut, like he’s drowning himself in the fading notes of your perfume. Then, he jumps right back into action, manoeuvring both your arms above your head and pinning them against the wall.

“No one ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself, sweetheart?” No man’s condescension has ever sounded so appealing, so soft. A softness he pairs with the brush of fingers, his free hand tracing a path for itself down the length of your torso, catching on the waist of your jeans and lingering, only to continue its descent over the shape of your thigh. “‘S okay, I don’t mind being the one to teach you.”

“Doctor Abbot,” you breathe, something stirring in your bones the longer the man stares at you, eyes spilling secrets of every degenerate thought passing through his mind.

“Really?” Jack reclaims your skin with his mouth, teeth scraping over your clavicle before his tongue tastes your flesh, a slow drag of the wet muscle halfway up your neck. Your pulse, a bass drum thrumming against the restraints of your veins, brings him to a pause, luring him into peppering a series of chaste kisses over the spot. All the while, his hand is familiarising itself with the curve of your thigh, fingertips dragging over the seam of your jeans and following its journey north, inching towards your clothed core. “Still calling me that, even while I’ve got my hand between your thighs?”

Maybe the alcohol is clouding your judgement, eradicating any hint of the usual hesitation that has ruled over past encounters like these, leaving you shy and bashful, and far from the kind of person willing to rip their aching desire right out their chest and present it to it’s new owner, heart in hand and lust in eyes.

The unexpected confidence boost has your hips shamelessly rolling into the palm of Jack’s hand as he engulfs the expanse of your core. Breathing stalls as the inseam of your jeans brushes against your lace-covered clit, pulsing with anticipation of whatever the older man plans to do with you.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” It’s unfair, hearing such earnest words falling from his lips, a touch of breathlessness to further sweeten the desperation in his voice; all the while one hand tightens it’s grip on your fidgeting arms and the other, firm and steady, undoes the button of your jeans and begins drawing the zip down at an agonizing pace. “Dangerously so. Might have to file a complaint soon, tell the board how inappropriate it is of you to distract me with just a smile while we’re meant to be saving lives.”

A sigh, delicate as silk, robs you of the satisfaction of replying instantly, body too busy accustoming itself to the intrusion of his hand on your skin, explorative touches that dip beneath your waistband and drag slowly through your folds.

Stealing yourself and silencing the part of you that wants to melt into his hand and let him remould you into something new, you eventually manage an amused, “I can always change departments, Dr Abbot. They’re always looking for extra hands with the inpatients.”

“Do that, and I’ll drag you back, kicking and screaming, if I have to.”

Beneath your clothes, the tip of Jack’s middle finger has taken to dipping between the warmth of puffy lips, collecting a dollop of your liquid pleasure, and lathering it over the desperate nub of your clit in gentle circles. His movement is casual, careless, not a hair out of place or a shaking of nerves evident on the man in front of you. Just the hungry eyes of a man in control, ready to take his time tearing you apart bit by bit, in a way only he can put you back together after.

“Fucking soaked,” Jack’s comment feels aimed at his own ears, a passing acknowledgement of your state that you just so happen to hear as he brings a second finger up to lazily play with your clit, all the while the wet patch soaking into your panties grows, no doubt seeping through lace and staining denim. “‘S actually a little pathetic, kid. I’ve barely even touched her and she’s weeping for me.”

Heat burns at your cheeks, the foul nature of the words leaving his mouth bringing you to a confusing state of embarrassment mixed with the headiness of lust, clouding your better judgements and axing whatever part of your brain is in charge of overthinking, just in time to halt a spiral down into the dreaded pits of sleeping with a coworker, a man you’ll have to continue to see nearly everyday, for better or for worse — everything hinges on how tonight ends.

There’s no time to worry about the end when Jack is just beginning.

Those same fingers that teased at your clit dip lower, nestling themselves between your folds. As though shocked by your warmth, you feel more than hear the man groan into your neck, a half-bitten back string of curses parting from his pretty lips.

“Can I, sweetheart?” His plead for permission pulls you out of your body momentarily, mind drawn away as it attempts to recall the last time a man bothered himself with asking before taking. “Need to know how she feels, ‘s all. Can you let me do that, hmm? Let me fill her with my fingers? Promise I won’t ask for more, won’t push my luck. Christ, already know I’m pushing it now, thinking an old man like me has any business messing with a pretty thing like-”

“Yes, Jack!” Cutting off his rambling mouth, your hips keen into the tantalising drag of his fingers through your slit, a back-and-forth motion he’d spent his whole monologue performing idly, with an occasional torturous catch of his fingertips on your entrance, threatening to delve deep only for him to course-correct and set them back on the track up the length of your slit. “Please, God, just- Touch me.”

“Greedy girl,” he tuts, face winding it’s way out from your neck just for his hazel eyes to observe your face as he finally breaches his fingers past your entrance. “Am I not already touching you?”

Replies are lost to the kitchen air, breath knocked out your chest in one foul swoop as he burrows his fingers knuckle-deep. Your lips part, your eyes roll back, and you grind down against his hand, as if by some grace of god he’ll hit some place deeper inside, fingers already pressing against that spot inside you as Jack curls them towards himself, putting the come in come-hither.

The angle is awkward, movement hindered by the tight squeeze of your jeans around his wrist, yet Jack works through the strain, digits pulling out at a slow, agonising pace, only to slip back inside equally as slow. It’s like he’s making you savour the feeling, imbedding every ridge and wrinkle along his fingers and knuckles into your memory, so the next time you find yourself hot under the blanket and struggling to sleep at night, your own hand won’t bring you half the relief.

His fingers fall into a rhythm, a back and forth tease that sets your nerves ablaze and unravels a ball of desire you long ago tossed aside, four weeks into working at the Pitt and telling yourself that those pesky butterflies you felt every time a certain attending crossed your path were nothing but newbie nerves. Marking the tempo of his touch, the repeated squelch of your cunt being filled by his fingers rings out; the deeper he dives, the wetter you grow. Your moans follow along to his beat, a perpetual huff of half-formed whines and hitched breaths, echoes of pleasure that claw their way out your throat and shamelessly sing him a song of praise.

“Ah, ah,” Jack mimics you, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he feeds your moans right back to you in a tone so condescending, you feel your toes curl. “‘S that all you know how to say?”

Those same words and that same mocking tone from the hall have your skin crawling with need. A need to press yourself closer, until all your frayed edges tangles themselves in Jack. A need to fight against the hold of his hand, wrists squirming and fighting for release in hopes of winding your arms around his broad shoulders. A need to give in to the overwhelm, dive head first into the waves of desire that roll over you… So you do.

Jaw slack, toes curled, head thrown back. An orgasm crashes into you with the force of an ocean, sweeping you under and flooding the palm of Jack’s hand with the sticky sweet evidence of how good he’s making you feel.

His fingers fuck you through the experience, lazily curling and stroking the fire, drawing out your pleasure for as long as your body allows him, until a dry sob racks through your chest and tears dance along your lash line, head shaking as you protest the overstimulation.

The retreat of both Jack’s hands, slipping from the waistband of your jeans and relinquishing the grip on your wrists, it does not grant your poor heart respite, a chance to calm the beating it’s delivering against your chest. Instead, he doubles the speed, raising the fingers stained in your own slick and brushing the tips against your lower lip.

“Say ah,” not a question, a demand. Jack is an expert at ordering you around in a manner soft enough, confident enough to have your head reeling and will bending to his every wish.

Under the effect of his darkened gaze and the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixing with the beer on his breath, how can you do anything but let your mouth fall open?

Your first thought is disbelief, running cold down your spine at the unexpected sweetness that coats your tongue; sweetness that melts into a sharp tanginess, giving way to a thirst like no other, glands going into overdrive and wetting your palate. Drunk on yourself, you let your eyes slip shut and your lips wrap around the stretch of Jack’s fingers, a pleased hum bubbling up your throat as his digits apply the slightest of pressure against your tongue, testing the waters of your gag reflex as he slowly pushes himself deeper in your mouth, soaking himself in your spit.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Jack’s spare hand has found its way down to your waist, slipping over the slopes of your curves and perching itself atop your hip, where he delivers a firm squeeze. “Made a real mess of my hand, ‘s only right you clean it up.”

By the time Jack pulls his hand back, a string of saliva connects his fingers to your lips and a craving is reawakening between your thighs. Afraid to fracture the fragile atmosphere between you and the attending, you choose to lead with action again, one hand grappling at the buckle of his belt while the other begins to hastily drag your jeans down the swell of your ass, skin-tight fabric stubbornly refusing to give way and grant you the freedom of air against your legs.

You only make it so far, barely managing to pry apart his belt when Jack intercepts your desperate touching, hands reclaiming possession over your own and shooing them away. With a pause for consideration, the mental cogs visibly turning behind his eyes, you watch as the attending descends the path of your body, peeling down your jeans along the way. A hiss is bitten back as he bends his knees, one foot planted firmly on the ground the other — his right knee — kissing into the kitchen floor, prosthetic calf laid behind him.

It’s the brush of a breath against your thigh that has you lurching back into your body, ignoring the worried nagging voice that wants to drag him off his knees for the sake of his health and comfort… and instead focusing on the part that wants him off his knees for a far more selfish reason.

“Jack,” your attempt at protesting is pathetic, a well-intended firm call of his name fracturing midway and collapsing into a whine as the man takes to laving his tongue up the expanse of your inner thigh, inching dangerously close to where you can feel your centre throbbing, crying out for him in morse code, desperate for the simplest of touches so long as the one delivering it is the older man currently kneeling on your kitchen floor.

Fingers wind in greying curls, the faintest burn of auburn and copper tickling against your knuckles. You attempt a tug, gentle enough to do no harm yet firm enough to get the point across of what you want: Jack, up and on his feet.

The man does not take the hint, instead he inches further up your leg, nose nuzzling against your mound. Blood rushes in every direction as you witness him pull in a sharp inhale, flooding himself with the intoxicating scent of your would-be pheromones.

“I want to taste you,” he says it with a fire behind his eyes, words impassioned by an animalistic desire; any woman would be mad to not throw herself at him, plead him to take anything and everything from her, however he should please.

Which makes the confusion burning his features more than understandable as he takes in your shaking head and your gentle mutters of no, followed swiftly by, “I need you to fuck me, Jack.”

Hands seek purchase on your hips, grip squeezing a little tighter as he steadies his prosthetic back onto the floor and brings himself back to his standing height. You can see the hesitation, in his eyes and in his fingers, as he slowly continues the undoing of his belt, slow and calculated movements that drag cracked leather free and loosen the clutch his jeans have around his waist.

“Who knew the Pitt’s sweetest nurse could be so demanding?” he muses, like joking might distract you from the cloud of doubt that has so visibly rolled in and settled above you both.

You entertain him, even if only for a moment, “Only when I don’t get what I want. Are you gonna deny me, Jack?”

“So you’re a brat,” bypassing your question, Jack drags the zipper of his pants down and leans his face in, lips brushing against your own with the ghost of a kiss. “Noted.”

His kisses paint a pretty picture of distraction, peppering affection over inches of skin that had spent so long being neglected, you’d nearly forgotten they existed. Over the swells of cheeks, down the slope of a throat, onto the point of a shoulder and back up to the shells of an ear. While your heart wants to sink into the feeling, fall back and let him lather you in every mouthful of affection he can sear against your burning skin, your brain takes the reins of the situation and forces your hands onto his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” Direct and to the point, you avoid the time-waste of skirting around the subject and confront the change in his demeanour head-on, the sudden hesitancy. A sense of panic licks up your spine, filling your mind with thoughts of Jack regretting having started this, crossing over the safe lines of coworker and marching across into trickier territory. “If you don’t want- I’d understand, okay? If you say it was just the heat of the moment, and the beer, and that you no longer want-”

“What? Baby, I promise this is anything but- Fuck,” Jack practically collapses into the groan that tears out of him, hand falling over his face and pressing into the corners of his eyes as he struggles to get the words out fast enough, a soul-crushing need to put an end to the rejected twinkle in your eyes as you offer him a gentle smile, the kind offered by politeness instead of happiness. Jack hates it on you. “I don’t know how to explain without sounding conceited.”

“Oh-kay,” your confused exclaim melts into acceptance, though your eyes remain sceptical as they trail over the attending’s face, awaiting further explanation. When it doesn’t come, your eyebrows jump, a visual nudge that has Jack finally spilling confessions all over your kitchen floor.

“I’m… Big.”

And cue the laughing track.

Watching as the tips of his ears bleed a bright red, you bite back and swallow down a comment about how his height is a little over average at best. Because when a puppy-eyed Jack Abbot warns you of his size in a manner that implies real danger, the last thing you should do is turn his panic into a joke.

“How big?”

“I don’t know-” Then he cuts himself off, like reality has struck him over the head and he remembers he is, in fact, a medical professional and, though he may never have measured his own endowment, surely he can guesstimate. “Maybe like eight. Inches, I mean. And, um…” what a thrill to see Jack reduced to a mumbling mess, a man so usually consumed by his flirty nature, a charm so potent that it pours off him in rivers, soaking all who wind up in his vicinity. Yet here he stands, barely enough space for a deep breath between you, shyly detailing the heat he’s packing beneath the waistband of his trousers. “I’m- I mean it’s pretty thick, too.”

Silence haunts the space between you.

A sick satisfaction pools in your loins, knowledge renewed on the fact you’re bare from the waist down yet all the power seems to sit in the palm of your hand in this moment, Jack’s fate hanging in the balance of however you choose to react to his assumed shameful confession.

So when all you offer is cocked head and a tongue poking against the inside of your cheek, Jack just about falters into insecurity, seeking validation before you even have time to utter a word.

“I’m not bragging. Or, you know, talking myself up. It’s just- I don’t want to hurt you, or to-”

“Take it out.”

His neck practically snaps as his gaze flies from the floor to your eyes, hazel rings that grown thinner under the enlarging of his pupils, lust bleeding into his stare as he managed a careful, “What?”

“This big dick of yours,” emphasis to your words, you finally let yourself look down and catch sight of him, firm and heavy beneath the confines of dark blue denim. The view of his bulge alone is enough to have your mouth watering, but you can’t let it slip, not when your grip on the reins is finally secured. “Let me see it, Doctor Abbot.”

The switch is instant.

Bashfulness melts away and the cloud of doubt is blown away as a cockiness overcomes Jack’s features, face splitting into a shit-eating grin. Fingers work fast this time, dipping beneath the elastic of his boxers and granting his cock freedom at long last.

No trace of a lie in his words; Jack is big. Uncut, with a rosie red tip that’s already made itself known, glistening with the rogue drops of precum that smear the mushroomed head. At the base sits a bush of hair, groomed enough to show you he cares enough to trim it yet overgrown enough to tell you it’s been a few weeks, silver locks threaded through a valley of dark auburn. Freckles dust his skin in subtle specs, while a vein draws a colourful line up the length of him.

You can practically feel yourself throbbing, calling out for him with each moment that passes, your eyes glued to the phallic shape. Jack, evil incarnate, has the gall to lick a stripe up his palm, hand wrapping around himself and daring to give a slow pump.

“I’m gonna need you to stop looking at me like that,” Jack cuts himself off with a hiss, teeth taking his bottom lip hostage as a chuckle rustles out from the depth of his chest. In that moment, you swear nothing has ever been more attractive than the gentle disapproving shake of his head as he rakes his stare down the shape of you, eyes clinging to where your thighs sit squeezed together, stealing any amount of friction you can find. “‘Else I might cum all over myself like some desperate college kid.”

You reach your hand out, searching for traction and finding it in the belt loop of his trousers, still clinging to his tree-trunk thighs. And thank god for that, for it allows you to tug the man closer, chest to chest, knuckles brushing over the hood of your clit as he works his hand over his cock one last time.

“Then give me a reason to stop looking, Doctor Abbot,” swallowing back any lingering shame or shyness a less hornier version of yourself possesses, you curl a hand over the top of his and stare into pools of hazel as you speak, “Don’t you want to make my eyes roll back?”

Never has a man looked so eager to part your legs, the skin of his knuckles burning white as he takes a hand to the back of one of your knees and hooks it over his waist. Left with no choice but to keep your thighs spread, you indulge yourself by glancing down at the view. Visual sin, erotica live in emotion, Jack guides the blushing tip of his cock up the length of your cunt, soaking himself in your arousal. A mutual gasp echoes out into the kitchen on his second swipe, head catching on your entrance only to be denied easy access, hips rolling only to watch himself press against your clit.

“Don’t care if it hurts,” bordering on lost in lust, you barely register the words as your mouth moves. Jack, on the other hand, clings to every syllable, awaiting whatever salvation they promise to bring him. “Just wanna feel you, Jack. All of you, please.”

“Shh, shh,” his hushing is full of mockery, like the last thing he really wants is to silence the desperate plea in your voice. He does so, unintentionally, by finally lining himself up with your entrance. “Don’t need to beg, baby. I’m gonna give it to you, all of it. Just be sure to cry real pretty for me if it gets too much.”

Something animalistic comes over you as Jack feeds the first inch into your cunt.

The burn is there, the stretch of long-unused walls remoulding themselves around the shape of Jack. But any pain is sweet, the kind that tickles at your nerves and has your heart speeding up, adrenaline activated and intoxicating your bloodstream.

Jack, conscious of the crease between your brows, is tentative, careful. He gives a barely-there thrust, letting himself inch just a little deeper into the pulsing warmth of your pussy. There’s a vein across his forehead that makes itself known, the force of his concentration paired with an accelerating heart rate drawing it to front and centre stage of his face. All it does is make you want him more, deeper, quicker.

Words cease to serve any purpose as the two of you give in to the physical, hands that grasp and pull and anchor themselves atop one another’s skin. You think you breathe some version of his name, but the letters are knocked out of you as your fingers tangle themselves in grey curls and, in the blink of an eye, Jack’s pelvis sits flush against your own, cock buried right to the deep hilt and face collapsed into your own, foreheads exchanging sweat as his temple kisses against yours.

A pitiful whine claws its way from you, suddenly painfully aware of how well Jack fills you, stuffed to the brim in a way no man before has quite achieved. You feel him in your cunt, in your guts, in your lungs with every shaky breath you pull; you are drunk on the attending and the feeling of his cock pulsing deep within your gummy walls.

“Sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” apologies are overflowing from the fountain of Jack’s mouth, brushing against your cheek in tiny puffs of breath as the older man blesses you with a whimper so pathetic you nearly come undone right then and there, cunt ready to spill all over his throbbing cock. “Didn’t mean to- shit. Wanted to take it slow, ease him in, but god… You’re just so tight. And warm, and- Ahh! And your nails, they- they scrapped against my scalp and you were tugging on my hair and I couldn’t help it, baby.”

How can you even contest or complain, when you feel like a live wire, thrumming with a deadly kind of energy that threatens to burn everything and anything that touches you and isn’t Jack Abbot?

His hips rock back slightly, only for him to fuck back into you, tip to cervix. The leg hooked around his waist tightens around him, holding Jack as close to you as possible. The scene between you plays out with an intensity one could cut with a knife.

Slow and shallow rolls of hips, punctuating each shaken breath you pull and forcing the air out of you in pitiful whines and moans, songs of praise for Jack's viewing pleasure.

Foreheads together, breaths mingling until it’s hard to tell where your exhale stops and his inhale starts. Both nurse and attending, junior and senior, woman and man; whatever title you and Jack may be addressed by, you’re equal measures of the same mess, staining one another with nails that scrape over freckled skin and five o’clock shadows that burn at cheeks.

“Look at you,” Jack marvels, one hand scooping up to cup your face and remind you of how big his hands look — hands you spent weeks wishing would reach for yours during quiet walks home. Yet now one cradles you while the other grips at your body, tilts your hips at angle that drives him just that little bit deeper. “Taking it like a good girl, no whining or complaining that it hurts.”

What really hurts is that he is still moving at an agonisingly slow pace, torturous drags of his thick length along your walls. If you weren’t speechless under effects of his ministrations, you’d maybe find the ability to tell him this.

“You’re just grateful to have something to fill this pussy, huh?” Something catches in Jack’s throat, a fractured groan that raises a sudden alarm. It feels different to previous ones, born from somewhere deeper, more painful in his chest. “If I knew you’d be do eager, I wouldn't have waited this long to come inside.”

You stomach three more measured rolls of Jack’s hips before you cave into the anxious feeling hollowing your pleasure, the wince on his face having grown deeper and more concerning.

All it take is a hand to his shoulder and a barely formed Jack, wait, for the man to tear himself off you, putting immediate distance between you despite the hand that remains on your face, holding it steady as his gaze sweeps over you in search of evidence of your well-being.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Just like that, you watch him slip back into the practised role of a caretaker, Dr Abbot taking centre stage and relegating Jack, the man keen on seeing you come undone at his touch, to the wings. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I told you- Warned you, baby.”

His rambling would be endearing, if you weren't aware of the sudden empty feeling of your cunt clenching at nothing and, worse, the bitten-back wince of pain that pronounces itself across his face as he shifts weight from one foot onto the other.

So you take matters into your own hands to silence his spiralling mind.

Literally into your hand, fingers wrapping themselves around the thick swell of his cock, standing at attention and smearing the evidence of your lust over Jack’s lower abdomen. The reaction is instant: hips bucking into your touch in a stuttered thrust, mouth falling agape and silent as you envelop him in your gentle touch.

“You didn’t hurt me,” quite the opposite, the tight fit of his dick bordering on nothing short of heaven. “But you’re hurting yourself.”

Before Jack can demand a much earned explanation, you trade his cock for one of his hands, threading yourself to him and enduring he can’t let go as you begin guiding him to your bedroom, the gentle jingle of his loose belt slapping against his thigh announcing each step he takes.

Lit only by the silver light of moon, you turn to him as you reach your humble queen size bed and try your hand at that stern yet caring look Jack has mastered — the look that’s held your heart hostage since you first witnessed it directed at you.

“Your leg. It’s hurting,” now you wish you had opted for switching on a light, because you swear you see the subtlest hint of a blush taking over Jack’s cheeks, guilty and caught when he thought he was doing such a good job to mask the dull ache of his limb. “Take it off, Jack. Or at least let yourself rest on the bed, let me do the work.”

Your silver fox puts up little fight, mouth opening and swiftly closing before any empty protest can flee. The mattress squeaks beneath his weight as Jack sits down on the edge, both legs bent at the knee and feet planted on the floor — he makes a conscious effort to keep his boots from touching the small carpet that runs along your bedside, unwilling to taint the cream coloured fur.

As he hunches over, hands peeling back the leg of his trouser to expose the sight of his faux-calf, a fragile quiet befalls you both. You watch entranced as he removes the prosthetic, a practised ritual he performs with the ease of a man who long ago came to terms with the cards that were handed to him. Freed at last, unwinding a strip of bandage from the stump, Jack takes to removing his clothes next, while you take to filing away his previous movements into a part of your mind labelled later, a future in the shape of a question mark, the possibility of some day needing to remove it for him.

There is something decidedly cruel about the sight of Jack Abbot sitting at the edge of your bed, completely undressed and pinning you beneath his stare as his hands now occupy themselves with more nefarious actions, one gripping at his cock and indulging himself in a languid stroke while the other takes claim of the bottom of your shirt, balling the fabric up in a fist as he tugs you close so abruptly, it’s only natural that you slip and tumble into his naked lap.

An awkward repositioning is punctuated by your own nervous laughter, a shy giggle making itself known as you straddle the doctor, the hand between his legs now teasing at your core, dipping into your honeypot just to soak himself in your sweetness before diverting his attention to your clit, pointer and middle finger rubbing an agonisingly slow circle over the nub.

“You’re gorgeous,” Jack whispers, honesty rolling off him in waves as his eyes ravage the newly exposed sight of your naked chest, t-shirt and bra tossed behind you in the blind chaos of falling into Jack. “You know that, right?”

There is urgency in his voice, like his worldview might just collapse if you tell him otherwise, and the desperation is enough to have you giggling all over again, a noise that quickly is intercepted by a gasp, eyes slipping shut as the man welcomes himself to the taste of your flesh, mouth swooping forward to take the right nipple between his lips, “You might have mentioned it before.”

“Then let me mention it again,” mumbled into your chest, he marks the sentence with a kiss to the opposite nipple, “And again,” the next kiss lands back on your right nipple. “And again.”

Both of you groan at the other’s ministrations, your hand threaded back in the silver locks of his hair and tugging at them just sharp enough to have Jack’s hips rutting up into you, bodies searching for the sweet release of friction yet neither of you rushing to give in as you slowly wade into the depths of lust, grinding desperately against one another like a pair of inexperienced college students.

“Jack,” you breathe his name, hand tilting his head back from your chest and granting you the freedom to plant your mouth against him, tongue dipping into the cavern of his mouth, the taste of beer and bourbon still on his lips.

“Hmm,” Jack hums, hand cradling your cheek.

Between you, tensions rise as your folds spread around his cock, rubbing up the length of him as he rocks himself against you.

“Are you going to fuck me,” is all he lets you get out before he drags you in for another kiss. “Or are we going to sit like this all night?”

“I don’t know, feels pretty good to me,” he’s teasing you, enjoying the sight of you growing more and more dishevelled by your own carnal needs, your nails digging into his freckled shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Sighing with nothing but sexual frustration, you recapture those earlier reins and slip your hand between you both, grabbing at Jack’s cock and lining it up at your entrance, thigh muscles burning as you hover, “Well I would.”

You sink down onto him slowly, eyes incapable of resisting the urge to roll to the back of your skull as you feel that sweet familiar burn of him stretching your walls.

Jack is speechless, but far from quiet, mouth open and singing you the prettiest songs of guttural praise. His hands are on your hips, gripping you in a way that threatens to bruise, all the while you are savouring the flush press of your bodies, your soaked folds kissing the base of his cock with a creamy ring.

When you finally begin to move, a careful raise of hips, you condemn both of you to a world polluted by lust, and pleasure, and the aching need to keep stimulating friction.

The rhythm comes naturally, a slow build-up of you fucking yourself down onto him, stuffing your cunt full to the brim. Jack has given in, handed himself over to you for you to use how you please, while his hands rake over every sliver of skin they can reach. Smoothing over your thighs, grabbing at your waist, pinching at your hard nipples, guiding your mouth down to meet his, a kiss that is more an exchange of breaths than a battle of lips.

A symphony composed entirely of sin, the darkness of your bedroom is set ablaze by the wet slap of skin meeting skin, a squelch punctuating each time he fills your cunt and a new wave of your arousal drips down his thighs and stains your bedsheets.

“This fucking pussy,” Jack speaks like you have personally wounded him, your forehead meeting his shoulder as you let out a squeak, the hands on your waist no longer sitting idle but now guiding you, bouncing you down to meet the upward rut of his hips. “‘S so tight, and warm, and perfect. You’re perfect, letting me stretch this little hole. Taking all of me.”

“Love it, Jack,” You’re babbling into his shoulder, mind turning to unusable mush the faster Jack slams you down on him.

“Love what, kid?”

“Your cock.”

“Yeah?” Oh, the smugness in his voice should be illegal, but you have only yourself to blame. “Who knew my pretty nurse was so good at taking dick. Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me all this time.”

A chord is winding inside you, drawing tighter and tighter as Jack continues to bounce you down on his cock, pausing every few thrusts to let you savour the full stretch, grinding up and biting back laughter as you greet him with the whites of your eyes.

“Holding- ahh! Out?” Your walls flutter around him as you feel yourself closer to the edge of an orgasm.

“Yeah, sweetheart, holding out,” a kiss lands on the side of your head, as though Jack is incapable of not showering you in as much physical affection as possible. “Ignoring all my flirting, never giving me a sign that you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Flirting?!” Head out from his shoulders, you gaze down at him in disbelief, refusing to take the blame for why it has taken so many months for the pair of your to wind up here, naked and desperate and staining your sheets together. “How was I supposed to know? You flirt with everyone- Jack!”

His name is more shriek than moan, tearing out of you as his fingers press themselves to your clit and send you head-first into an orgasm.

Jack fucks you through it, slower rolls of his hips stretching out your state of euphoria and granting him a longer view of your mouth spewing profanities and your eyes rolling back and your hips bucking atop him, both fleeing from and feeding into his touch.

A sudden bang interrupts the scene, cutting your bliss short and forcing you to swallow back a moan.

Frozen in place, fingers to your clit and cock half-way buried inside, Jack’s wide-eyed gaze watches you with a questioning glance. Silence isn’t given the chance to settle fully between you, as soon another sound — from the same direction as the bang — echoes through your bedroom.

“Hey! Keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep.”

Jack is the first to react, laughter shaking his shoulders. His head tilts back, disbelief gripping him in its clutches. Collapsing back onto your bed, he drags you down with him, sweaty chest pressing to sweaty chest. You follow him into laughter too, your own muted chuckles spilling into his neck as you shyly bury your face away, mortified by the thought of one of your neighbours hearing you and Jack.

Apparently, it has the opposite affect on him.

Because instead of crippling mortification, Jack has already begun rutting back into you, shallow thrusts that he somehow manages to deliver, despite the fact his cock already fills you to the brim. Nerves aflame from a ruined orgasm, your body is quick to submit to him, hips tilting to welcome him deeper, back arching into his body. But the moment your lips dare to part, a chastisement is quick to follow, a disapproving tut coming from the man beneath you.

“Shh,” despite his hushing, he makes no attempt to slow his thrusts, the very cause of your fracturing sanity, mouth no longer in control of the noises you let out. Neighbours be damned, you would happily dare any of them to feel the sweet release of Jack stretching them out and not turn into raving banshees. Well, not quite so happily, for you are very quickly growing not only fond but possessive of the attending. “I know, kid, I know. Feels good, right? So good you just wanna scream, don’t even care if someone hears?”

Whether you realise it or not, you nod along to his mockery, desperate please for more, please, just like that, Jack proving his point perfectly: you don’t care.

The only thing you can do is feel him, all of him.

“That’s it, let it out,” he croons, faux sympathy in his voice while he cups your face and swipes away at a tear, the overwhelm of feeling so full and so close to cumming for a third time finally getting the better of you. Tear gone, the hand on your cheek drifts down to cover your mouth, smothering you into silence, muffling the shriek you let out as his hips grow sloppy, desperate, fucking you deeper, harder, faster each time, his own orgasm creeping over the horizon. “I’ll take you to my place next time. ‘S a detached bungalow, can be as loud as you need to be. And, god, I plan on giving you reasons to be loud, put you in every possible position, make you cum so many times you lose count.”

Every moan and groan and whine of his name that leaves you is muffled by the heavy palm of his hand… Which turns out to be a blessing in disguise when a third and final orgasm collides, head first, right into you, leaving you a mess. As you writhe and wriggle, one of the muscles in your calf cramping as your toes curl and your body pulls itself taut, Jack is fighting his own personal battle, hips stilled and limiting the friction as much as possible while you fall apart atop him.

Fingers tangled in his hair, face engulfed by his heavy hand, thighs squeezing around his hips; the image of you cumming is the kind that pushes a man to pick up a paint brush, all in the hopes of memorialising the art in motion onto canvas. Jack can barely focus on you, however, eyes squeezing shut as he steadies his breathing and struggles to hold back a flood.

“‘M gonna cum, baby,” Jack strains out, pulse near visible along his jugular as his heart rate shifts into overdrive. “Need you to lift these pretty hips off me or else- ahh!”

The whimper you pull from him is damn near heartbreaking, right from the gut and full of a fractured sincerity. Unwilling to so much as let him finish any thought of pulling out, never mind his sentence, you’ve staked your claim, shook your head, and cemented yourself flush atop him, cock stuffed to the brim and left no choice but to spill into the pulsing heat of your walls.

Hot, thick ropes of Jack’s cum flood your pussy, painting a pearly white mess inside of you. Overflowing and with nowhere else to run, you feel the unmistakable stickiness of his cum, now mixed with your own orgasmic bliss, leaking out of you and staining both your skins in the act. Breathless and minds drifting far away from the physical plane, you crash down atop Jack, overstimulated and overspent, and drift into the comfort of his arms enveloping you, holding your sweaty figure against his own in an embrace that says stay without uttering a single syllable.

Frozen in time, the pair of you remain glued to one another. Your breathing falls in sync, each rise of his chest matching perfectly with your exhale, and a gentle rocking remains between your bodies, an invisible stream of desire that ebbs and flows, manipulating Jack into rocking up into you and teasing you into grinding down to meet his movements, in spite of the teeth clenching sensitivity tingling at your skin.

You are the first to move, a careful rise from his chest. Already softened within you, his cock slips out of you and you pull a breath in through a grimace. The muscles in your thighs have turned to mush, more unstable than jelly, and so it is nothing short of a miracle to feel Jack’s steady touch settle itself on your hips, hands supporting the dead-weight of your lax body and guiding you to hover over his lower abdomen. You quickly realise he has less than pure intentions, as you watch satisfaction creep back into his pupils when a string of his cum dribbles out from your cunt and drips down onto his skin.

Admiring the picture you paint over his lower stomach, Jack has the nerve to mock the tired whine he coaxes from you as fingers swipe through the white mess and slip between your folds, feeding his spend right back into your walls.

Back hitting the mattress before you can protest, you struggle over a gasp and a barely stringed together sentence while the attending slips down the length of your body, pausing only when his head reaches your thighs.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Jack, with reflexes quick enough to match his wit, intercepts your legs before they can crush his head between them, your hips bucking and your heart unsure whether you are trying to chase after or run from the teasing stripe he licks up your cunt. “You cleaned your mess, now let me clean mine.”

Your heads hit the pillow as the Sun hits the horizon.

By nine, birds chirp by the windowsill and sunlight cuts through the sliver in your curtains, forcing your half-asleep form to retreat into the safety of Jack’s chest. He answers your cry for help instantly, arms pulling tighter around your waist as he continues to venture through a land of dreams, lips parted in the softest snore.

By noon, the city is awake. Cars honk their horns, voices fill the streets, doors slam from floors above and below. But in your apartment, not a creature stirs, bodies clinging to one another and sleep with equal fervour. If you drift left, Jack soon follows. If Jack flips onto his front, your palm is quick to flatten itself over his back. Magnets connected by an unseen force, the pair of you toss and turn beneath wrinkled bedsheets.

By four, the bathroom mirror is fogged. You are a nervous wreck contained behind the nervous smile of someone who is trying their best to be supportive despite the shampoo stinging at your eyes and the grown man you are supporting against your frame. Unwilling to let you drag one of your leather dining chairs into the cubicle, Jack had insisted he would be fine to shower standing, so long as you kept him company.

By six, your apartment is empty. Clad in the familiar shapeless clothing that is sure to keep you comfortable throughout your shift, you’re struggling to find the right time to ask Jack to hand you your bag back, too used to his habit of prying it out your hands to even notice he had done so as you both departed from your front door. No choice but to throw on last nights clothing, Jack is silent at your back, one arm pulling you against him as yet another neighbour slips into the confines of the elevator — freshly fixed yet sending a shiver down your spine with each shake it gives in its descent down to the ground floor.

By some miracle, you make it out onto the street.

Which maybe, now that the fresh air hits your cheek, you are beginning to lament. Because this is it, the point of no return; where you go one way and Jack will go the other, trailing home to enjoy the rest of his night off while you no doubt will spend your entire shift dreading where the events that transpired between you — the stolen kisses, the lustful whines, the rolling hips — leave you both standing.

Taking your bag from him seems like the correct first move to make towards goodbye, but when you reach your hand out, Jack answers your silent plea with his empty one threading itself into your hold, fingers entwined in a manner so perfectly it has you reminiscing on how your bodies lay atop your mattress.

The attending has already tugged you halfway down the street before your mouth catches up with your feet, choking out a dumbfounded, “Where are you going? You’re off today.”

“So?” Jack barely offers you a bothered shrug of his shoulders, glancing back at you with a look in his eyes so warm, you worry you might just melt into the asphalt. “That doesn’t mean I can’t walk you to work.”

+ extra hyde!

· this fic was meant to be short, believe it or not... my first proper fic of 2026, yippee! · olivia, girl... never stop making albums for me to cry to. · pov: jack abbot, the biggest flirt who turns into a bumbling idiot when faced with the person he actually wants:

You had no ill intentions when you sought Jack out on the beach. Truly. None whatsoever.

Your conscience was pristine. Clean enough to eat off of, if a person were inclined toward that sort of thing. And Jack would more than likely be inclined toward that sort of thing.

Which is neither here nor there and definitely not the point.

The point is that he happened to be the first available person you spotted who wasn’t elbow-deep in the cooler, manning the grill, hauling folding chairs closer to the water or otherwise occupied in some way that would’ve made your request an imposition.

He happened to be seated in the shade, sand-dusted calves stretched out and both hands conveniently free. You happened to wander over with your sunscreen and your very normal, very defensible need for help reaching the center of your back. 

Never mind that your eyes tend to find him first everywhere.

Your first choice, always. In the hospital, in crowded rooms, in Friday-night bars, and now here, on a stretch of beach sand full of towels, melting ice cubes and boozy coworkers.

If Jack is there the geometry of the universe settles. 

Noise levels drop. Potential catastrophe politely steps back in line. Statistically, things improve by, what, twenty percent when he’s within arms reach?

The only time Jack’s presence ever seems to tip from reassurance into danger is when Robby is nearby.

Your brother, his best friend, currently planted beside the grill with a pair of tongs in one hand and a beer sweating in the other, wholly unaware of just how intimately you know the man sitting a few yards away from you reading a book. 

No idea that you even know Jack beyond hospital stories and holiday small talk. No idea that you’ve counted the freckles on Jack’s torso the way other people count blessings. No idea you know the small mole just above Jack’s hip because you’ve watched it disappear beneath the push of his own thigh when he’s folded you open beneath him. No idea you know how his forearm looks when it flexes beside your head, that raised vein appearing when your heels hook into his back and he grunts your name into his mouth. No fucking idea you know the pale scar on his ribs that becomes your personal tactical obsession whenever he cages you against a doorframe and breathes against your ear, quiet, sweetheart, unless you want your brother to ask questions. 

You slip into the little wedge of shade cast by Jack’s umbrella, hip brushing the arm of his chair. 

It takes half a second for Jack’s gaze to lift. First to your face, because he is decent, or because he has spent forty-nine years perfecting the performance of decency and can probably do it under sedation.

Then his eyes dip lower, catching on your chest and the heroic and doomed labor of your bikini top, the poor thing doing its absolute best with limited resources and no meaningful administrative support, and for one brief, gorgeous second, Jack Abbot’s whole face goes blank. 

You unscrew the sunscreen cap with the patience of a saint and the moral character of someone much worse, pretending you don’t see a thing. It’s easy. You’ve been playing dumb your whole life, and Jack happens to make it especially rewarding. 

“Hi, Jack.”

He blinks as though dragged out of a dream he has no intention of describing in mixed company. 

The paperback folds around one finger; he swallows civility into a single neutral “Hey,” though his ears are flaming traitors. 

You bounce once on your toes just to watch his eyes track the up-and-down movement. “Mind helping me with my back?”

A phantom movement ripples down his arm, the muscle memory that usually ends with his thumb sliding up the tender inside of your knee.

Half-second later he remembers the clause you made him swear to the night before you left, the one you recited while sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but your earrings and a very serious expression: no contact during this trip. Not in front of Robby. Not in private. Not even the little absent-minded touches Jack was so fond of giving and so terrible at pretending were accidental. 

He had listened with the patient, faintly amused face — oh, of course, let’s discuss boundaries — all while his hands were already easing your thighs apart, palm spanning half your quads. “That’s smart, sweetheart,” he had murmured, barely out of his mouth before he fucked you so hard you spent the first two days of this trip remembering him every time you sat down, crossed your legs, climbed stairs, breathed wrong, existed.

Day one started with Robby squinting at the careful, not-at-all-in-pain way you eased into the passenger seat. 

“Pull something?” he asked, suspicion crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

Jack, loading your suitcase into the trunk, had only said, “She’s fine — just overdid the beach volleyball warm-up.”

Now, beneath the umbrella, he eyes the bottle in your hand.

“You’re asking me to put sunscreen on you while I’m currently under express orders not to touch you,” he clarifies, mouth twitching. “Little contradictory, don’t you think?”

“It’s medicinal, Jack. Doctor-ordered sun safety. That puts it squarely under the ‘acts of basic care’ exemption we definitely agreed on.” 

There is, of course, no exemption. But you say it with such polished confidence, such gorgeous little liar convocation, and Jack’s eyes keep distractedly slipping to your cleavage, you figure you might be able to gaslight him into believing otherwise.

Jack tilts in, voice dropping to bedside-manner dark. “Preventive exams are also acts of basic care, sweetheart. I offered to give you one last night. Head to toe. Very thorough. You didn’t seem to keen on the idea. Funny how selective you are with these exemptions.”

He knows perfectly well keenness was never the issue.

Keenness had been present and accounted for, actually, sitting upright in bed with a racing pulse while Jack spent nearly forty minutes vibrating your phone off the nightstand at one in the morning, apparently deciding the no-contact was less a boundary and more a diagnostic puzzle he could brute-force with persistence, semantics, and an irresponsible number of filthy hypotheticals. 

How firm is the rule?

You had answered, Very.

Define very.

Jack.

I’m serious. Are we talking legally blinding or more of a strong suggestion? 

I can’t sleep knowing you’re down the hall.

I keep thinking about your ass in that tiny fucking bikini.

And your mouth.

And the noise you make when I’m tasting your pretty pussy.

So if "very" has any flexibility, now would be an excellent time to disclose it.

You had flushed at that, instinct dragging your hand south, fingertips tucking beneath the elastic of your pajama shorts, privately checking how much trouble you were in.

Spoiler: a lot. Still, you forced your breathing steady and tapped out the grown-up response you promised yourself you’d give him.

Too risky. Robby’s awake. 

Riskier to ignore symptoms.

You seemed flushed at dinner, baby. Could be heat exhaustion.

Standard protocol is immediate evaluation. Full tactical assessment of any sensitive areas.

Better I handle it now than you collapse tomorrow, right? 

“The walls here are paper thin. I just didn’t want everyone to hear you,” you murmur, eyes flicking toward the grill where Robby still holds court. 

Jack’s gaze drags over your face, patience fraying.

His head cants. “Me?”

An accusation rather than a question.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too hard.

It’s bullshit.

Jack makes sounds in bed, sure, these low rough little things he tries to swallow down into silence, but you are, historically, the problem. You are the one who forgets walls even exist, who gets whiny and breathless, saying his name too sweet and loud.

Still, riling him up is half the fun.

“Mhm. All those grunts you do? Very compromising. You really should work on that. I was just protecting your reputation.” 

His mouth tugs into that bare-bones smile, parched and cutting, like a fence post bleached under Georgia sun. 

“That’s interesting, doll, because I seem to remember you nearly getting us thrown out of that hotel in Atlanta.” He pauses, eyes steady on yours. “Had to clamp a palm over your mouth halfway through just so the folks next door would quit pounding on the wall.” 

You make a thoughtful, entirely disingenuous sound. “I don’t recall.”

Liar, you think, but only to yourself, because the scene is seared onto the backs of your eyelids: big palm, slick with sweat; your own pulse popping under his thumb.

“Convenient,” he says. “Concerning, too. Memory loss at your age.”

The urge to fire back — your age, grandpa — sparks under your tongue, but you swallow it, knowing you’ve already won.

He’s picturing that night, too. You can see it in the way his jaw resets, in the way his fingers flex like they’re aching to reprise the role of impromptu gag. 

“Memory loss and melanoma.” Your fingers skim your collarbone, then your shoulder, making a tiny show of your poor exposed skin. “That’ll be on your conscience, and you have so many sins already, Jack.” 

Jack’s glare fractures, concern muscling past amusement. 

“Turn around,” he orders.

His palm resignedly lands on your back and the first sweep of cool lotion is an instant balm, a hush in every raw, sun-tight cell that’s been screaming since day one of this self-inflicted separation.

Water to a dying flower. Oxygen after a held breath.

The peppermint chill kisses the nape of your neck, then fans outward in broad strokes, each pass ironing the ache right out of your skin. 

Three whole days without his hands, seventy-two hours of pretending you didn’t need this, and now his thumbs slip beneath your bikini straps like they own the territory, tracing the warmed skin that’s been begging for him with every salty breeze. 

“Missed you,” you murmur under your breath, words a little wobbly and petulant.

He huffs a soft laugh and bends to brush his mouth against your shoulder blade. “Yeah, missed you, too, angel.”

He smooths another cool ribbon down your spine.

You angle yourself towards the grill to allow him better access only to see Robby nudging the spatula at Mateo like a relay baton. Take over, man.

Mateo blinks, grabs the grill tools, and Robby wipes his palms on a dish towel as he starts striding across the sand.

Panic sparks hot in your belly. Abort, abort —

Jack’s fingers press reassuringly at the base of your neck. “Easy.”

Robby arrives, squinting against the glare. 

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, straightening just enough to greet him over your head, palms still settling the lotion. “Need a second set of tongs, man? You were talking about that pineapple glaze.” 

“Yeah, figured you could baste while I flip,” Robby says, oblivious.

“Sure thing.” Jack rubs the last of the lotion on your shoulder before flicking the cap back on the bottle. 

Robby tips his chin at you, hooks an arm around Jack’s neck like a big brother claiming turf. “And watch it, man. Give her an inch and she’ll have you painting her toes next.”

Jack shoots you a wink. “Wouldn’t put it past her, bit on the spoiled side, isn’t she?”

You don’t get to be alone with Jack again until later that evening.

After a twelve-hour gauntlet of being herded from one little duty to the next, karmic punishment apparently being less fire-and-brimstone and more Robby glued to your elbow, Samira asking about plates, Dana hunting for towels.

The house had stayed swollen with noise, doors opening, voices carrying, bodies constantly moving through every room, leaving nowhere private enough to breathe, let alone get a second with your secret boyfriend. 

And you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like torture, spending the whole day brushing past Jack close enough to catch bits and pieces of him but never close enough to keep it, catching his stare across the deck and breaking first because if you hold it too long, even for one more second, your face will say everything your mouth has forbidden to.

By the time you get into the shower, you’re wound so tight you feel one wrong move might split you straight down the middle. Steam flattens the bathroom, fogging the mirror in milky layers while condensation beads along the floor beneath your heels. 

The water comes down nearly scalding over skin still balmy from the sun, rinsing the day off you in slow, glittering streams. Salt, sunscreen, sweat, sexual frustration, little crescents of sand, all of it spiraling together toward the drain. 

You brace both palms against the wall and hiss when the spray finds the tender knot tucked between your shoulder blade and spine.

You don’t have time to decide whether the sting is pleasure or pain because suddenly the door latch is clicking.

You spin, palms crossing over your breasts, ready to apologize for… something (what, exactly? You’re not sure, because last time you checked you weren’t the person barging into an occupied bathroom.) 

But then the silhouette resolves into Jack and the apology dies on your tongue.

He shuts and locks the door with a soft snick, arching a brow through the haze.

You hiss under your breath, “What — Jack, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks. His gaze drags leisurely, like a hand down your body, over your breasts, the water-glossed dip of your waist, the slick shimmer on your thighs, then hovering at your bare pussy before climbing back to your face. 

He looks utterly unhurried. A man content to feast with his eyes first and speak when the hunger becomes unbearable. 

Fire pools low in your belly and you shift, thighs pressing together in a useless bid for modesty. “Seriously, what if someone saw you come in?”

He closes the distance until your breath clouds a small circle on the glass pane between you.

“Just grabbing my razor,” he says, offhand, like you’re the one overreacting as he tips his head toward the shelf behind you. “Promise I’ll be two seconds. In, out.”

You give him a long, squinting once-over, as though you can spot the lie on his skin. He just wiggles his fingers — see? Harmless — so you huff a tiny laugh and shift aside. 

“Fine. Two seconds,” you mutter, watching him carefully.

You pull the slider door open.

The instant rush of cooler air leaves gooseflesh in its wake, and Jack’s shoulders seem suddenly much broader than you remember as he steps through. 

“Appreciate it, honey.”

He ducks under the spray, and the stall feels two sizes too small.

Jack plants himself in front of you, torso filling your peripheral vision, trunks plastered to powerful thighs.

He doesn’t touch you, but the warmth radiating from his body seems to crowd every spare inch of space.

When his chest rises you feel the ripple in each breath through yours.

“You okay?” His tone drips false innocence as he reaches around you for the razor, the damp fabric of his trunks gliding over the sensitive swell of nerves between your legs in a feather-light pass.

You suck in a harsh breath.

He straightens as if nothing happened, twirling the razor between his fingers, eyes glinting with pleased mischief.

Dick-Face.

Your vision goes momentarily starry, the lost friction leaving you empty.

You rally with a shaky grin. “‘M fine.”

“Mind if I shave in here, then? Better water pressure and keeps the sink hair-free. Know you hate that.”

You squint up at him, water streaking your lashes. 

“Jack…” One elongated syllable loaded with I know exactly what you’re doing. 

“Relax, angel. Two seconds,” he reminds, though the slight tilt of his hips say otherwise. 

He angles the razor at his jaw, drawing the first careful stroke. You watch the silver path he leaves on skin, the way tiny beads of water race after the blade. His face, stripped of stubble in increments, is almost too handsome. Straight nose, freckles you could count, lips made for kissing yours. 

He catches you gawking and smirks. “Gonna nick myself if you keep staring like that.”

You tilt your chin, droplets collecting at the curve of your collarbone, mustering your usual sparkle, “Then focus, doctor. I won’t be held responsible for self-inflicted injuries.”

He lets the razor dangle forgotten at his side as he studies you a beat longer. His hand slides forward, knuckles skimming the silky bloom of your hip, then dipping inward to follow the hollow where muscle meets bone.

A shiver flutters through you. He feels it and grins, this slow, predatory spread of lips.

“Focus is a tall order,” he says, thumb brushing a streak of water off your stomach. “Pretty as you are.”

Your breath stutters as his thumb skims lower, and you grab his wrist. “Uh-uh. Hands to yourself, remember?”

“Don’t make me beg, sweetheart.” The husk in his voice slips through you from head to toe. “Because I will, if that’s what you want — say please a thousand times, just to prove how badly I need you.”

Before you can answer, he sinks to his knees.

Once again he doesn’t touch, free hand splayed on the grout, but his mouth hovers near the crease of your hip, close enough that every exhale fans liquid fire over your pussy. 

His eyes flick to yours, desperate, waiting for the single syllable that will break every rule you set.

“I can keep my hands to myself, if that’s the rule. Just let me use my mouth, please. Need to taste you, angel.”

“I — Jack, we said —” 

Your grip on his wrist feels fragile, ceremonial.

“That a yes, baby? Gotta hear the word.”

Steam curls between your bodies and it’s almost suffocating now, filling up your throat and nose and ears until you start to feel a little dizzy.

Rules clang in your skull — not here, not now — but the week-long ache in your belly chants louder: need, need, need.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, eyes slipping shut.

When they open again, the answer is already there, shining in resignation. “Yes. Please — yes.”

He doesn’t waste another second.

He dives in like a man reprieved from drought. Three days and three nights and water turned to wine in his tongue. He presses it flat, dragging through your folds until your knees threaten to buckle.

The first targeted flick to your clit punches a helpless cry out of your throat and the second has you clawing for purchase on the handlebar to your left.

Jack mumbles something that feels like so sweet against you, vibration sparkling up your spine, then seals his lips and sucks hard, alternating pressure in prodding intervals.

You don’t think you’ve ever gotten to that blissful edge so fast before, seconds away from splintering, vision tunneling as pink and blue stars flare behind your lids.

It all comes crashing down when a brisk tap-tap-tap cuts through your near-climax.

Jack freezes, mouth still full of you and hot on your cunt but now motionless, eyes snapping up to meets yours. Beautiful eyes with pupils blown.

Santos’s voice filters through: “Whoever’s in there, hurry up!” 

The pulse that was about to break erupts into silent, aching stasis instead. You bite your fist, whole body trembling on the cliff-edge he’s left you hanging from. 

You choke back a whimper and call, “Be out in a sec!” 

And like you said, you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like pure fucking torture.

Jack tries to remind himself that he has, by every measurable standard, survived worse things than this.

War, for one. Heat that cooked straight through the soles of his boots, nights sawn open by rotor blades and gunfire. The terror of deciding who needed his hands first when everyone needed them at once.

He lost a leg and learned how to walk again, then somehow went back to medicine because apparently nearly dying had not cured him of the instinct to run toward other people’s emergencies. He has cracked chests, led resuscitations, talked shaking interns through their first patient death, spent his free time embedded with SWAT because golf had always seemed both dull and something he wouldn’t thrive at. 

He knows pressure. He understands discipline. He has built an entire life around refusing to be governed by fear, pain, adrenaline, or lesser impulses. 

None of those facts seem to feel reassuring right now as he watches you from across the bar.

You’re burrowed into the center of a brand-new constellation of people you just met, telling one of your well-worn stories with the same sparkling conviction you gave it the first time, chin tipped up, bracelets chiming as your hands sketch the scene into the air.

Jack knows every beat.

Knows when your eyes will widen, when your mouth will pull into that scandalized little O, when you will pause just long enough to make everyone lean closer before delivering the line that sends the table into laughter.

And they do lean closer. Even the bartender’s polishing rag pauses mid-swipe.

That is the thing about you. You make strangers feel chosen. Make a whole room feel handpicked, lit from within, as if you opened the door just for them and meant it. Then you’ll drift away, leaving them there in the aftershocks, still facing the space you occupied like worshippers after the god has already one.

Jack knows exactly how dangerous that is because he has made that mistake himself.

More than once.

Sat across from you and read too much into every smile, every soft little lock of your focus, every gooey, honey-thick stretch of your attention. Mistook being seen by you for being chosen.

And then life, perverse as ever, let him be chosen after all. Let him earn the real thing. 

Which only makes watching other men bask in the counterfeit version feel worse.

The feeling metastasizes when one of the men catches the opening after your final line and moves into it, all expensive veneer-looking teeth and effortless posture, bending toward you as though the room has naturally made space for him there.

He says something Jack cannot hear over the bass, punctuates it with a small, self-satisfied shrug, and wears the expression of a person who thinks being near you is already a kind of accomplishment.

Jack studies him. 

Young. Smooth. Unscarred, at least where the world can see. A body that has probably never needed to be negotiated with before something as simple as walking barefoot across a beach. No prosthetic to strap on before dawn, no phantom pain flaring where flesh ends, no inventory of what still works and what must be accommodated. 

He looks right beside you. No one would glance twice, no one would do the math. Robby could clap him on the shoulder, laugh at his jokes, maybe even approve.

Certainly wouldn’t have to excavate a grave under the rental deck. 

Jack counts that as strike three.

“Jack.” Robby’s voice breaks across the table, dragging him back by the collar. “Tell ‘em I’m not making this up.”

Jack blinks, wrestles his gaze off you, and pretends he’s been part of the conversation all along. Dana and Baran blink back at him.

“You’re usually making something up,” he says and it earns Victoria’s laugh, though he hasn’t the faintest idea what improbable tale he’s just failed to corroborate.

It seems to be enough of an answer for Robby though, because he laughs too, his hand thumping Jack’s shoulder hard enough to slosh the liquor.

Jack drinks anyway, holds the bourbon like a tongue depressor to his worst instincts. Swallows. The burn chars every jittery nerve that wants to turn around and see if Mr. Linen Shirt is still siphoning oxygen out of your orbit.

But he wants to know. Wants to know whether the man has moved closer, whether you’re still smiling, whether Jack is about to make a decision that leaves the bastard sipping his own drink through a wired jaw. 

He shouldn’t go that far. Healing hands and all. But he can make exceptions.

He lets boredom rasp across his tongue as he clears his throat. “Your sister know those guys?”

Robby looks over on reflex. Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Robby’s face will tell him everything. “What guys?”

“Dunno. Thought one of ‘em looked familiar.”

Robby squints past the crowd.

“Nope. Don’t think I recognize any of them.” Robby decides, pushing a tired breath through his teeth, knuckles rasping over two-day stubble. “She does this everywhere she goes. Draws attention like wildfire. I swear, half my blood pressure medication is because of her.”

Jack’s arteries would corroborate that, but he lets the confession smolder unheard behind the rim of his glass. 

“Well, can you blame ‘em? She looks like that.”

And Dana’s comment is the invitation he’s been waiting for. Lets him gorge on the sight without raising suspicion.

The little dress, the glossed-up lips, the endless stretch of your legs under the bar light. Your hair falling loose around your shoulders, your face animated as you talk, every feature sharpened by laughter into something almost indecently alive.

A cherry-red straw clacks against your teeth when you sip your rum punch, each drag leaving a perfect lipstick crescent on the plastic rim.

You are beautiful in every standard category and several highly specific ones Jack suspects may exist solely to inconvenience him. 

“Don’t mean she needs a swarm,” Robby grumbles, waving his bottle at the cluster around you. “She treats everybody like they’ve known her ten years, then acts shocked when half the room starts trailing after her. And somehow I’m the prick when I tell ’em to give her some space.”

“I don’t mind being the asshole,” Jack pipes up. Across the table, Dana’s attention narrows, and Jack realizes, half a beat too late, that he may have sounded a little too willing. So he adds, “If you’re tired of the job, I mean.”

Robby snorts. “You’d scare the hell of ‘em.”

“That’s generally the point.”

He lifts his bourbon before the thought can show on his face, lets the rim conceal the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.

Robby, thankfully, is already smiling, visibly seduced by the prospect of outsourcing his least charming brotherly obligation. 

“Be my guest,” he says. “Tell her I sent you.” 

Jack tips his glass, drains what remains, then taps the rim against the tabletop.

Signal received. Assignment accepted. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

By the time he is halfway across the room, you’ve already noticed him.

Your eyes flare with a brightness he can feel from here, and whatever polished little nothing Mr. Smooth is feeding you dies unattended between one word and the next. 

He keeps talking anyway, poor guy, unaware that you’ve left the conversation without moving an inch. By the time Jack reaches the bar rail, your attention has funneled to one point, him, and nothing else.

It stirs something dormant in him, the same dark pull he felt in the shower, his pants suddenly tighter, less cooperative. He sees exactly what he would do without the table of coworkers and one eagle-eyed best friend behind him. 

He would hook a hand around the back of your neck, pull you flush to his chest, and kiss every little thought clean out of your head. Kiss you until the gloss smeared, until your lipstick feathered over his mouth, until your lips went swollen and every polished stranger nearby understood, without needing it explained, who had put that dazed look in your eyes. 

Instead, he leans one forearm against the bar and says, pleasantly, “You drinking enough water, sweetheart?”

“I could be persuaded to drink more.” Your lips curl around the straw again, eyes fixed on Jack with a private little shine.

The younger man follows your attention to Jack and gives him an affable nod. “Man, your dad’s on top of it. Mine would’ve let me dehydrate out of spite.”

Jack nearly coughs up his previously swallowed drink.

He can feel every one of his years arrange themselves in descending order between you. The gray at his temples. The scars. The apparently paternal concern over your fluid intake. 

Fuck’s sake.

He parts his lips to correct the record, a dry little execution already waiting on his tongue, but you beat him to the trigger. 

“Oh, he’s the best,” you gush, peering at him sideways. “Always checking on me. Sunscreen, hydration, curfew. Super over-protective.”

Jack gives you a long, level look, one that says he knows exactly what you’re doing and plans to deal with it later.

“She keeps me busy. Full time job, most days,” he finally says, playing along.

And it is a full-time job.

Just not remotely in the way this poor kid is imagining. You are a twenty-four-hour on-call position with no protected sleep and an astonishingly generous benefits package.

You need to be kissed before he leaves the room, touched whenever he passes within arm’s reach, listened to with grave concentration while you explain some internet drama involving some show he’s never watched and a man named Sincere he will never meet.

Then there is the other hunger, the one that wakes beside him already stretching toward his body, that has you squirming into his lap after dinner or whispering again against his mouth when any reasonable person would be asleep.

Jack is always on his toes with you, anticipating needs you have not articulated yet, figuring out whether a pout means hungry, horny, tired, or all three braided together.

It is exhausting in the way a life worth living is exhausting.

He has never minded work when the work matters, and taking care of you has become the most selfish labor he has ever loved.

The younger guy clears his throat, trying to recapture the momentum. “Anyway, like I was saying about the jet-ski tomorrow —”

“Actually,” Jack interrupts, “we’ve got to get back. Curfew, you know.” He aims a polite nod at the man, who now looks decidedly dejected, then drapes a guiding hand along the back of your stool in perfect over-protective-father form. “Appreciate you keeping her company.”

Your mouth twitches around the straw. Jack can already tell you’re going to make him suffer for this. The prospect improves his mood considerably. 

He starts to walk you back to the table, when he spots Robby, who’s laughing much too loudly at something the new intern just whispered in his ear.

The girl is angled toward him, smiling with that shy, pleased little tilt people get when they think they’ve successfully surprised him, and Robby, miracle of miracles, looks genuinely interested. 

That is information worth preserving. Worth interrogating later, too.

But for now he takes that opportunity for what it is and herds you into a corner out of view.

As soon as you’re tucked between a stack of surfboards and the dim EXIT sign, his fingers close over the curve of your backside, giving a quick pinch.

A startled “hey!” pops out, alcohol-loose and breathy, and you bat at his knuckles.

He catches your wrist, holding it against his chest as amusement darkens his gaze. “You’re testing me, angel. Missed me so much you had to start getting other men’s attention just to see if I’d come take you back?”

“Missed who? The pervert or the overprotective dad?”

Jack clicks his tongue and leans in until the tips of your noses nearly touch, crowding the joke right back into your mouth. 

“Hated every damn second of that. Couldn’t lay a finger on you while that kid flirted his ass off. And you knew exactly what you were doing. Wanted to see how fast you could make your old man lose his cool?”

“Thought you liked being challenged?” You tilt your chin, lashes dipping. “Besides, you’d been ignoring me all night. What was I supposed to do, sit there looking pretty for no one?”

“You know that isn’t how it is. I’ve been following the rules you set, angel. Your rules.”

“Yeah, well, last night kind of blew those up, don’t you think?” You lean closer. “The line’s already smudged. Seems silly to keep pretending we can still see it.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve got no attachment to that line. I’ve wanted my hands on you from the second I saw that dress.” He leans closer, voice dropping into something meant only for you. “But you’d better mean it. You don’t get to rile me up all night and then act surprised when I collect.”

Your eyes flick toward the neon Restrooms sign, then back to him, lashes heavy. “Meet me by the bathroom in sixty seconds. If you’re late, I’m starting without you.”

One quick sweep confirms the coast is clear.

“Bought and paid for, angel. Be there in fifty-nine.”

You giggle, turning on your heel with a bounce that sets your dress fluttering. He tracks every inch as you stroll off, head cocked like you know he’s staring; the last thing he sees is the curve of your ass rounding the corner.

He waits just long enough not to make it obvious, then starts toward the hall, pulse already ticking off the seconds.

Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.

“Jack.”

Shit.

Dana catches him mid-stride. When he turns, she is watching him over one lifted brow, empty glass raised loosely in her hand. “You getting another round?”

His gaze flicks toward the corridor before he can stop it. Mistake. Dana follows it, then looks back at him.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re on a mission.”

And what can he say to that?

Yeah, Dana, good eye. I am on a mission to follow my girlfriend into a seedy beach-bar bathroom and fuck the living daylights out of her before Robby notices either of us are gone. By the way, she is his little sister and young enough that, from a distance, strangers apparently assume I helped raise her.

So Jack does what any sensible man would do under pressure.

He lies. 

“Just gotta take a leak.”

Dana lets out a low hum, the kind that says she believes exactly none of him. “Sure.” And Jack thinks that’s it, but suddenly she shakes her head. “Just do yourself a favor and be careful.”

“Careful about what, exactly?” Irritation flicks hot across his scalp, mostly because it coats the thin, unfamiliar ache of fear. 

She tips her chin, eyes dull with shift-long exhaustion, offering him nothing but that tired little smile that says You already know. 

“Don’t make me say it out loud.” Her gaze dips toward the restroom sign, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it. Jack doesn’t. “I don’t care about the sordid details. But secrets like this don’t stay contained forever. People get hurt when they come out.” Her expression softens by a fraction. “And she has more to lose than you do.”

He doesn’t get the chance to answer before Dana slips past him, already lifting two fingers toward the bartender and calling for another round. 

She has more to lose than you do.

Jack knows that. Or at least, he should’ve.

He is established. Difficult to shame in any lasting way. People already know who he is, have decided what sort of man he is, and most days he can live with that. 

You, meanwhile, are still being decided. Every room you enter is another jury, every mistake fresh evidence for peers and others alike. 

And men tend to survive a scandal differently.

Jack might lose Robby, take a hit to his reputation, become the subject of a few whispered conversations at work. Then the weeks would pass, another crisis would arrive, and people would remember he was useful. 

The world permits men to outlive their mistakes.

It does not extend women the same courtesy.

You would be remembered through it, reduced to it. People would search backward through every bright smile and short skirt as if the proof had always been there, call you foolish where they called him weak, promiscuous where they called him lonely.

Even the people defending you would talk as though you needed defending from your own decision.

Jack suddenly feels sick because Dana is right, and because somewhere along the way he let himself pretend the risk belonged equally to both of you.

Half his, half yours. Fair.

It never had.

Jack lets the sixty seconds expire and stays exactly where he is, rooted with his hands by his sides and the first honest understanding of what protecting you might actually require.

Tonight, when you go looking for Jack, your intentions are not merely ill.

They are terminal. Premeditated. Your conscience is nowhere to be found, certainly not sparkling, certainly not clean enough to eat off.

Whatever small moral voice usually lives in you has been smothered beneath a white-hot blend of anger and a bruised ego, two things currently holding hands and skipping merrily through your bloodstream. 

The house has only just begun to settle after several hours of drunk postmortems, everyone still riding the bar’s momentum and apparently determined to delay sleep through sheer noise pollution alone. Somebody had thrown up in the upstairs toilet, although nobody was admitting to it and Whitaker had somehow staggered into Jack’s room and passed out starfished across his bed, fully clothed, one shoe still on, leaving Jack exiled to the downstairs couch.

It’s almost completely dark when you creep down the stairs.

A small lamp glows beside the sofa, casting a little island over Jack and the book open in his hands.

The rest of the room dissolves into shadow, cluttered with the aftermath of everyone else’s good time: cups lined along the coffee table, half-empty glasses, plates abandoned with crusts and smears of dip.

You ghost past him without a glance, feet soundless on the hardwood.

Only when he murmurs, “Can we talk?” do you pause, but only long enough to throw a breezy, “Later — busy,” over your shoulder.

Jack pushes off the sofa, trailing you a step. “Busy with what, exactly?”

Busy making your life a living hell, you think, scrubbing dried food from a plate. Busy returning the favor. Busy ensuring he experiences even a fraction of the private humiliation you swallowed in that bar bathroom, standing beneath a flickering light panel while sixty seconds stretched into two minutes, then five, your invitation curdled into foolishness.

And when you had finally emerged, Jack was back at the table with the others, but every stiff line of him betrayed where his attention really was. Fresh drink in hand, barely touched. Shoulders set. Gaze locked on the corridor.

He had chosen not to come, but he had not stopped watching.

Jack would sooner lose his other leg than abandon you tipsy in a strange bar, and even furious, you knew that. He had been keeping vigil over the door, tracking who went in, who came out, waiting for your face to appear. But that garnered no brownie points from you.

When you approached, confused and annoyed and still stupidly hopeful, he had only leaned close enough to breathe, “Later,” against your ear.

As if it were of no significance. You were of no significance.

You snatch up another abandoned cup and tip its watery remains into the sink.

“This,” you say. “Some of us respect shared spaces.”

“Mm. At two in the morning?” Jack leans one hip against the counter, arms folding over his chest. When you dont stop, he adds, “All right. Scoot over. I’ll help.”

Jack has never encountered a mess, emotional or otherwise, that he did not believe could be improved by putting his hands on it. A wound, a crisis, a woman mad enough to scrub ceramic like she means to erase the glaze. Same instinct. Reach. Steady. Fix.

You turn before he can.

Dishwater slips from your fingers in clear little tracks, the oversized sleep shirt grazing high over your thighs as you square yourself toward him. 

“No, thank you.” Your gaze stays fixed on his. “I’ve learned I can manage without help.” 

He comes closer, and closer still, until your damp fingers have nowhere sensible to go except flat against the edge of the sink. 

“That’s very independent of you, honey,” he says. “Always loved that about you.” His hand lands beside your hip, bracketing you in. His gaze searches your face, lightening at the edges. “But I don’t think we’re talking about dishes anymore, are we?”

You tip your chin up, refusing to let the gentling in his eyes sand down your irritation. “No, we’re not. We’re talking about you saying one thing and doing another. Apparently promises are more of a loose suggestion when they’re coming from you.” 

“Give me a chance to explain, sweetheart.” The words slip out on a breath, softer than the rattle of the faucet.  “You can be mad after. Hell, you probably still will be. Just hear me out first.” 

You do not want to hear him out.

Explanations are unpredictable things, doors that open both ways, and you already have the sickening suspicion that whatever is waiting on the other side will hurt worse than not knowing. 

Because yes, objectively, Jack failing to follow you into a bathroom means very little.

No fidelity breached, no grand betrayal, no concrete proof of anything beyond bad timing and worse communication.

But the small flutter in your stomach does not care about what your mind tries to litigate away. 

It knows this feeling. Knows this small retreat before someone leaves, the subtle cooling, the moment affection starts becoming obligation. 

Maybe he has simply had his fill of you. Maybe the novelty wore off and now you are no longer the bright, entertaining little thing he wanted to sneak around with, only a woman who talks too much and needs too much and has begun expecting permanence from something built in shadows.

And maybe now he has seen enough of the real thing to know he cannot imagine building a life around it. 

So you do not give him the chance. 

“Nothing to explain,” you say, seizing the sponge and escaping the cage of his arms for the opposite counter.

You start cleaning with theatrical diligence, collecting bottles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs into your palm as though the fate of the rental deposit rests entirely on you. 

But you did not come downstairs to rescue countertops. You came because you need proof that Jack still wants you.

Any kind of proof. Emotional, physical, desperate, selfish. You would take whatever he gives you.

And if you cannot bring yourself to ask whether he still sees a future with you, then you can at least find out whether he still wants to put his hands on you.

So when you bend to retrieve a fallen fork from the ground, you let the hem of your sleep shirt climb unchecked over the backs of your legs until it bares you completely, exposes that you are wearing no underwear, your thighs parted just enough for Jack to see every soft, private inch you left uncovered for him. 

Cool air brushes your pussy.

His stare burns hotter.

“Jesus Christ, honey.” The words leave him rough and disbelieving, dragged up from the well below his throat. Behind you, the counter creaks faintly beneath the sudden weight of his hands. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You count to one before straightening. 

You turn with the fork still balanced between two fingers, arranging your face into its sweetest approximation of confusion.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Right,” he murmurs. “Must’ve imagined the whole thing.” 

You drop the fork into the sink with an accusing clatter. “Probably. Memory goes with age, remember?”

He steps in behind you before you can turn away, chest brushing your back, one palm flattening over your stomach while the other slides beneath your shirt.

His knuckles skim the soft inside of your thigh, then settle exactly where you’re naked. 

“Yeah,” he growls against your ear. “Didn’t imagine a damn thing.”

A whimper threatens and you bite it back so hard your jaw aches. In that stilled heartbeat the fight drains out of your muscles and your body answers him first, arching back, begging in the only language it trusts. 

But the panic bubbles back up in fiery waves.

“Please don’t,” you say, and the plea is not the one he expects.

Jack’s hand freezes.

You close your eyes. 

“If you’ve changed your mind about me, just say it.” Every word hurts your throat. You turn your face just enough for him to see what the anger has been hiding all night. Fear. “If you don’t want me anymore, then don’t touch me like you do. Don’t make it harder than it already is.” 

Jack’s hand vanishes so abruptly from beneath your shirt, your knees dip with the loss.

Then he’s turning you, big palms framing your cheeks, thumbs parked just under your cheekbones. Your own slick glosses his knuckles. He tips your chin up so you can’t look anywhere but straight into the brown storm of his.

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about, baby?”

Your mouth opens, but what escapes first is a wet, hitching breath.

The tears rise fast, flood-waters breaching the levee before you can blink them back, Jack’s outline smearing into watercolor.

“I don’t know,” you hiccup, which is not true at all. You know too much. “You left me there. And then you acted like I was being dramatic for expecting you to show up when you said you would.” Your fingers curl around his wrists, not pushing him away, just holding on. “And maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s about how easy it would be for you to wake up and realize I’m not… serious-person material. I’m fun, I know that. I’m pretty and I make you laugh and I’m good in bed, but that’s not the same as being someone you actually want a life with.” Your lips tremble. “People always like me better at first.” 

Immediately his face caves, all the structure in it imploding: brows hitching, mouth parting, a stricken slackness that makes him look ten years younger and infinitely more breakable.

“Don’t say that,” he says, too sharp at first, then immediately dampens. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Say whatever you need to say. I’m just…” He shakes his head, jaw tight, eyes shining with something close to a fear that matches yours. “I hate that I made you feel like that.” 

His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, holding you there as if he needs you to understand this with your whole body. 

“You are serious to me. More serious than anything I’ve let myself have in a long time.” He exhales shakily. “You think I don’t picture a life with you? I picture it constantly.” 

You just stare, lungs cinched tight, tears marooned mid-cheek as though gravity’s on pause. The room narrows to the pulse thudding in your ears. 

“You’re… you’re serious about me?”

Jack makes a quiet, wounded sound. His hands come back to your face, thumbs stroking the wet tracks beneath your eyes. 

“Christ, baby. Yes. Of course I am.” He bends closer, as though proximity might help drive the truth into you. “I don’t know how I let you believe otherwise… I didn’t follow after you tonight because I got scared for you, not of you. I should have told you. I should have found you, explained, apologized. Instead I left you alone with your worst thoughts. That was cruel, even if I didn’t mean it to be. Please let me fix it.”

Another hiccup rattles through you as you try to process the words at face-value. “Scared for me how?” 

“Because if this blew up, I didn’t want you caught in it.” He says it simply, like there is no question which of you matters more. “I don’t give a damn what people think of me, baby. I care what it does to you.” 

You shake your head inside the cradle of his hands.

“I don’t care what people think either. I don’t care about any of it.” Your voice snags, but you push through. “I love you, Jack. That matters more.” 

His eyes close for half a second, like the words are almost too much to take standing up.

When they open again, he kisses you senselessly soft, both hands still holding your face as though you might vanish.

He kisses you once, twice, a third time, each one a little messier than the last.

“Love you too, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”

The brine of your tears slick the seam of your mouth. Jack doesn’t flinch, drinks it in like proof of living.

You surface for one ragged sip of air, barely enough, your lips still grazing his, fists knotted in his shirt like ballast against weightlessness. 

“You mean it? You’re really serious about me?” you whisper again, softer this time, almost shy with it. 

Jack lets out a low, guttural sound and grazes the corner of your mouth. 

“So serious, honey.” Another kiss, deeper now, his hands sliding from your face to your waist, pulling you flush. “Want to put a ring on that pretty little hand. Want a house with your clothes everywhere and your shoes in places I’m gonna trip over.” His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your gasp before he adds, rougher, “Want a kid, if you want one. You want a baby with me, angel?” 

“Yes, please, Jack.”

The words are still warm in the air when he fits his mouth to yours, a groan vibrating through both of you.

His palms squeeze your waist, then lift, your stomach swooping as he sets you on the cleared stretch of counter. Cool laminate kisses the backs of your thighs, shocking against the furnace heat of him stepping between your legs.

Your sleep-shirt scrunches between his hands, creeping, creeping, until the hem gathers at your hips and you’re bared to him again.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You’d give me that?”

You nod so eagerly the room tilts, fists in his collar, yanking him closer. “Anything.”

“My perfect girl,” he breathes, kissing you again, softer now, as if the tenderness makes what follows any less filthy. 

His hand slips beneath the gathered cotton at your waist, fingers gliding south until one settles between your folds. He drags the wetness up in a lazy sweep, humming appreciation that burns brighter than the touch itself.

“And what’s all this, hm?” he asks, studying your face while his finger toys idly with your clit. His eyes darken, attention dropping to where his hand disappears between your legs. “You sittin’ here imagining me filling you up with a baby, sweetheart?” 

Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, chasing pressure he has no intention of giving you yet. 

“No teasing,” you whimper, breath breaking around the words. “Please, Jack. I need you inside me.” 

Jack swears under his breath, hand leaving your clit only long enough to undo his pants. The zipper drops. Fabric loosens. Then he is back between your thighs, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds once, twice, gathering the wetness you have made for him.

The sight of him nearly makes you stupid.

It has only been a few days, which is nothing, really, barely enough time for a normal person to miss anything, but your body has become accustomed to him, used to the heavy stretch of his cock at least once a day, sometimes twice when neither of you has somewhere to be. 

You’re practically drooling, inner muscles fluttering around emptiness while he takes his sweet, sweet time wetting himself in what you’ve made for him. 

You shift on the counter, thighs widening of their own accord, a needy sound slipping free when the head catches against your entrance and pulls away again. 

“I know, honey. I know.” His voice roughens as he traces the head up your inner thigh. “Should’ve given you what you needed hours ago.” 

Then he finally does. 

He braces one hand at your hip and pushes forward in one long, steady stroke, the thick head breaching you first, then every heavy inch following.

Your cunt flutters, welcoming, molding around him until there’s no space left unexplored. 

The counter shudders with the low sound that tears out of both of you. 

The inexorable pressure sutures the empty ache that’s haunted you, stuffing it full until there’s no room for jealousy, no space for worst-case scenarios.

There is only Jack.

Your thighs cinch hard around his waist, heels gouging into the backs of his legs like spurs demanding more.

He doesn’t stop until pelvis meets pelvis, forehead thunking against yours while both of you gasp as if you’ve sprinted a mile in the sand. 

He retreats a heartbeat’s width and your walls seize around him, possessive. He curses under his breath.

“This tight little cunt missed me, didn’t it?” he asks, already driving back in.

He starts pumping into you at a saint’s tempo, each drag of his cock thick and thorough, his hips grinding flush against you at the end of every thrust.

Your arms lock around his shoulders as your body rocks with him, bare thighs trembling against his sides. 

Pleasure gathers everywhere at once, starting at your pussy and climbing until your whole body feels tuned to the rhythm of his hips.

You try to tell him that. Try to say yes, missed you, feels so good, but what comes out is a breathless spill of syllables, half his name and half a sound you would be embarrassed by if your brain were still capable of embarrassment. 

His hand slips between your bodies, two fingers finding your clit. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you? All mine,” he growls, cock still working inside you. “And I’m yours. Never gonna be anybody else’s, you hear me?”

Your answer is a helpless chain of nods and breathy mewls, but he isn’t satisfied with that.

He catches your jaw, thumb pressing your cheek until your eyes snap to his. 

“Look at me. Hear me.” 

“Y-yes, Jack… yours — love you, love you s’much,” you babble.

“Love you, angel.” He presses a kiss to your trembling lips. “Want me to fill this pretty pussy up? Want me to leave every drop inside where it belongs?” 

“Yes, please. Need it — need you — m’so close.”

The first warning licks up your spine. A trembling in your calves, nipples pebbling hard against your shirt.

Pleasure stacks in breath-stealing layers, so heavy it feels like quicksand pulling you under. 

Jack’s tells flare with yours. His hips snapping hard, hands tightening on your waist until his knuckles blanch.

Sweat beads at his hairline, drops down to your skin, and your walls clamp down in greedy pulses, each flex beginning for the flood he’s a second away from letting go.

“Keep looking at me,” Jack pants, curling a hand from your waist to the back of your neck. “Need to watch you fall apart.”

“Can’t — can’t hold it,” you whimper, thighs shaking.

“Don’t hold a damn thing,” he growls. “Give it to me, come on, baby.”

The quicksand finally liquefies and the world folds to white noise.

Jack breaks with you, a strangled — fuck — on your lips, thrusts turning short as he empties himself in thick bursts.

You cling to one another, quake for heartbeat after heartbeat, until the tremors fade into breathless, boneless warmth. 

When Jack’s breathing finally steadies, his mouth roams in slow increments. First your collarbones, up the column of your throat, over the quiver of your lips. 

He eases back only to reach for a paper towel, thumb already swiping at the mess seeping down your thighs. 

“Don’t,” you plead, catching his wrist. “Wanna keep it.”

Jack huffs a low laugh before moving to kiss away your protest. “Sweetheart, you’re not making it five steps up those stairs with that sliding down your legs.” 

Even as he says it, he dabs gently between them.

The light friction has your hips ticking forward, little whimpers breaking free. 

“Sensitive, huh?” he tuts. 

“Thought you wanted to put a baby in me?” you argue.

Jack’s thumb circles your thigh. “Oh, I plan on it — but not until there’s some extra hardware shining on your hand. One thing at a time, yeah?”

Old-fashioned as he is, you probably should’ve expected that.

Jack Abbot is the kind of man who still opens doors, calls restaurants instead of booking online, and apparently requires jewelry before intentional procreation. There is probably a proper sequence filed away in that stubborn head of his: ring, vows, house, baby. 

You find, to your own surprise, that you do not mind the order at all. 

You tap his chest with a teasing finger and dopey smile. “I can live with that. I do love shiny things, after all.”

What he does not tell you is that the shiny thing already exists, hidden in his sock drawer, waiting for the right moment. 

You won’t find that out for another two months, until after the two of you finally sit Robby down and tell him everything, until after Jack takes one clean punch to the face without even trying to dodge it, because fair is fair, and until after Robby’s anger burns itself down into something survivable. 

By the time Jack slips the ring onto your finger, his lip is healed, your brother is calling him Jack instead of Dick-Face (you can’t be sure where he learned that insult from), and the future no longer feels like something borrowed.

It is yours. 

MARIA NOTE this lowkey was supposed to be like 1k words and the ideas just kept flowing and it turned into a full psychological case study on why making ur brother's best friend jealous is both a terrible idea and, unfortunately, very effective. also jack saying ring first, baby later made me briefly black out. hope u enjoyed!! <3