Jack liked to believe he could pride himself on his willpower. That whatever he set himself towards, he could do. Including the simple act of getting off to his own fantasies instead of relying on strangers on the internet to feed it to him with fake smiles and even faker moans. It wasn't like he was against the idea of porn—his track record of stolen Playboys and single college nights would prove that hypocrisy quick—it was just something about the internet aspect of it that made him feel…perverted.

Maybe it was the knowledge that he could be watching anyone post their body or their sex with the intention of other strangers getting off to it. Maybe it was the realization that most people who did the posting were half his age. It was there for a reason; it shouldn't have mattered, but he still felt like he needed to make excuses to justify why he turned to it.

Luckily, that pestering voice in the back of his mind always had an excuse to justify what he was doing. When he relented long enough to grab his phone, it was "to check the work email". When his thumb gravitated towards the internet safari, it was "to look up the Pirates' score" (when he knew full well baseball season was practically over). But the excuses started to fade when his free hand drifted over the front of his pants and palmed the bulge that was only growing larger with each second he tried to ignore it. Damn blood flow and its resolute persistence.

So, without any self-pitying justification to soften the blow, Jack Abbot succumbs to a weakness he'd never admit he has and pulls up the first website that pops up when he keywords amateur.

That was the one thing he wouldn't budge on when all the other willpower faltered. When cold showers and "imagination" couldn't solve the problem and he reluctantly turned to the wide scope of the internet, the one necessity was the lack of production value. He didn't want stage lights and camera crews and actors with more plastic than flesh. He didn't want a movie with advertisement. He wanted something as real as filmed sex could offer. Something he could envision actually happening that was actually desired by the performer.

And Jack couldn't decide if that made him more or less of a pervert. On one hand, it was a surefire way to feel like the world's biggest voyeur. On the other, he figured being so picky made him less of a target for the internet's average depiction of a pervert.

So picky, in fact, that he'd scrolled to the fifth page of this website and still struggled to find something that caught his attention. This was exactly why he didn't watch porn; the hand still lazily palming the outline of his dick was probably the only reason any blood kept flowing there. But he'd gotten past the hardest part of justifying it to his own brain—he just needed to pick something to jerk off to and deal with the post-nut clarity and regret when he got to the other side of it.

It was the sixth page that held the video he finally settled on. Nothing extravagant—as that was one of the qualifiers—with barely any views. Based on the thumbnail and title, it was a solo video. Just a woman, sat on her bed, getting herself off. Simple and easy and exactly what he wanted to see.

As soon as the video starts, he's met with less-than-ideal lighting that makes the camera fuzzy. Not enough to turn him off of it, just enough to give that homemade feel he preferred for this type of thing. The woman in question could be seen just fine; the angle cut off at the neck and highlighted everything from her chest and downward. She's sporting a thin little slip, body softened by the camera's grain, her skin highlighted by the soft glow of what Jack assumes is late afternoon sun filtering through beige curtains. The quality doesn't obscure the curves of her body or the soft pink of her cunt. Hell, he swears he can see her drip when she rubs circles against her perky little clit.

The video itself isn't unlike others he's seen. His dick seems to understand that as well as his brain, thickening behind his briefs to the sight on his phone. The fight's bled out of him by now; no need to justify himself when he fishes his cock out and strokes himself lazily. Especially not when the woman on-screen is spreading her own slick on her fingers and mewling sweet little sounds that make him twitch against his hand.

And that's exactly what he's focusing on by the time he spits into his palm to slick up his strokes. The little sounds that escape her—soft moans, choked breaths, and split-second whines—land straight in his gut. He can almost tell she's trying to stay quiet. Like if that camera inched up just a bit, he'd see her with a lip caught between her teeth. But she lets a little moan escape as those nimble fingers sink inside her cunt and Jack can't help but respond in vain with his own guttural sound. He tries to match the pace of her hand with his own, pumping his cock in time with her fingers disappearing into her slick hole, in some sort of pathetic mockery of actual sex. It's wet and sloppy and every kind of desperate. And it satisfied that itch just as quickly as he feared it would.

As the video comes to its (literal) climax, he can't help but imagine how her brow might furrow when she cums, how swollen her lips might look from biting back moans. Trying to picture a face as cute as the body on screen. That was another weakness he'd never admit to—always too curious about things he had no business wondering. He'd gotten off to a stranger's body and, before he'd even wiped his stomach clean of his own spend, he was wondering if she was always this quiet. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the question of why she was so quiet. Where was she? And why did she record in the middle of the day? Before the video cut off and turned the screen black, he wondered if the band poster on the wall behind her naked body was her favorite.

Jesus, he was getting old. Embarrassingly sentimental over a stranger in a porn video.

He tosses his phone onto the mattress beside him with a dejected sigh. The voice in his head that had initially come up with excuses to justify it had swiftly turned sour with guilt. There were enough things in life that lingered with regret (and this surely wouldn't be the last), but on the list of offenses, it sat pretty low. It was just a lapse in judgement he'd surely forget by tomorrow when he's wrist-deep in someone's chest.

But Jack most certainly did not forget about that video.

To be fair, it never popped into his mind while he was working. The never-ending onslaught of the hurt, sick, and broken didn't allow much time for his mind to wander where it didn't belong. This was when he had the right to be proud of his willpower. When, after three back-to-back traumas in the middle of the night, he was still focused on directing a team and getting the job done.

The weakness only came when loneliness settled too heavily on his shoulders. When he came back to an empty home after nearly 13 hours managing lives and had to pretend like taking care of himself was something easy. He liked to tell himself that being alone didn't bother him. Or that the quiet got easier to exist in. But the argument quickly died when he pulled up that same video only two days after the first time. The same video, borne from the same lapse in judgement—only this time it carried more guilt. Because it was bad enough to turn to the internet and take whatever it offered, it was another thing entirely to seek out something specific because he had an affinity for a goddamn stranger.

It wasn't every day, thank God. Some days, after working himself to the bone in hopes of clearing his mind, the only urge Jack came home with was the desperate need to sleep. That was how he operated; no opportunities for weakness to seep into his synapses and make another bad decision if he was overworked and dead on his feet, right? But the curiosity eventually became worse than the loneliness. And it was that same curiosity that led him back to that explicit sight to seek out that same woman, scroll through her profile, and see what else she'd shared with the world.

And that might've been the worst possible thing he could've done. Because seeing that small collection of videos only gave him more to latch onto. Gave him a reason to be disappointed when he saw every single video was dated eight years ago. Gave him a choice in favorites that he'd prefer over the others. (Right now, it was a short video of her grinding against a pillow—he could see the slick left behind on the fabric when she circled her hips like that.)

No matter how many times he fought his own brain, it always ended with that same woman on his screen and a hand choking his dick while he fantasized about being the one to draw that pleasure out of her. It was unlike him to get so attached—Christ, he hated even using that word—but something in him was addicted. She was just so…sweet. Her body, of course, but it was also the mannerisms that snuck their way into her videos and those cute little sounds she made when she felt good. She felt so real.

Jack Abbot was definitely a pervert.

"Jesus, this is the longest shift of my life."

You groaned into your hands as they ran over your face. Barely halfway through your scheduled twelve hours, your feet already ache, you're starving, and it seems like the universe has cursed you with some of the most insufferable patients. People freaking out over gas pain, MVA injuries that could've been avoided had anyone decided to wear a seatbelt or call a designated driver. Nothing that made you feel like the "savior" this job sometimes afforded you.

"So, not up for a double, then?" Shen circles you at the nurse's station, slotting one of the staff tablets into its charging slot. "Bummer," he sighs, "I thought you loved it here."

You laugh, bracing your hands against the countertop. "Don't start." Your head aches when you look up at the patient board and see the assortment waiting for you. The list of complaints sits like a taunt to your exhaustion. "I'm this close to walking out and leaving you fools."

"Oh, quit that." Lena doesn't even have to look up the papers in her hand for you to know she's talking to you. Forever observant, the nurses were. "Don't give Abbot more reason to be grumpy." That's when she looks up at you, peering over the rim of her glasses. If you didn't already agree, her glare would've convinced you to.

"Yeah," you roll your eyes and they land on Shen, "he doesn't need that."

You don't miss the little smile on Shen's face when he rounds the curve of the counter. "C'mon, you won't leave." He carries himself to one of the computers, scanning his badge with an accepting beep. "What've you got going on that's better than this?"

"Okay, ouch."

"No, I mean—"

"I do have a life, John."

"I…bet you do." He concedes with a shrug of his shoulders. "You just…" he takes a breath, searching for the right word, and you're already bracing for something too blunt. "Y'know, you work a lot."

You roll your eyes even as the back of your mind acknowledges his words to be true. "Which is why I need the break. You guys are driving me crazy."

"Big happy family." Shen gestures to the space around him as if to highlight the constant rush of people.

That almost earns another eye roll. You snatch a tablet off of the rack and tap through the screen prompts, checking for test results that should've been back ten minutes ago. "If you have to know, I'm meeting up with an old friend. Met her back in med school—"

"She teach you not to kill people?"

"Ha ha. I haven't seen her in a while since she moved out of town for her residency." Bingo, test results back. "Unlike you freaks, she's actually nice."

Shen responds with a laugh that comes out as a snort. "Don't leave us for too long. One taste of freedom and you really will ditch this place, I'm sure." Lena echoes the sentiment with a short 'don't tempt her' as she scurries past.

"Are we working or are we talking?" Abbot's voice seems to barrel over the emergency department's constant, hectic buzz. He braces two large hands against the countertop's edge, occupying the space between you and Shen. He looks between the two of you with that arch of his eyebrow that never seemed to soften.

Shen relents first, taking your silence as an opportunity. "She's leaving us, man," he gestures towards you with an accusatory glance.

Jack's eyes land on you, brow furrowed. "Leaving us?"

"No—Don't say it like that." You'd smack Shen if you could reach him. Especially after seeing him smile as he types away at a chart he surely had no interest in.

Jack straightens, sliding his hands off of the counter. He looked at you with that same assessing stare he gave everything he couldn't quite figure out. "You better not be. You're not allowed to leave."

You sigh, silently damning yourself for opening your mouth. "I took tomorrow off. You won't even miss me."

Before you even registered he'd moved in your direction, Jack stops just behind you. Stood with his hands behind his back—the same way he always did—he peers over your shoulder to look at the scans on the screen in your hands. A low sound rumbles from his throat. "I'll miss the extra hands." You look back over your shoulder to find his eyes on you instead of the screen. "At least go do your job before you leave us, yeah?" He holds that look, something indecipherable and intense, as he steps away.

You have to take a breath to level yourself. Jack could be such a difficult book to read sometimes; it was hard to tell what went on in that head when he wasn't working through an active trauma. You could tell he'd lived too long of a life to put up with nonsense and waste time on whatever he deemed unnecessary, small talk included. Slipping in and out of conversation to occupy himself with the responsibility of his job as an attending wasn't uncommon. Still, you liked to believe that unique brand of sarcasm was how he chose to show affection.

The smile Shen flashes in your direction, complete with a raised brow that seemed more intrigued than accusatory, only confirms that belief. "Wow. He might actually miss you while you're gone."

"Shut it." You sigh, sore feet carrying your body back to one of the patients waiting for your care. You just hope Jack doesn't realize you're cherry-picking the easier cases for the sake of your sanity. If he knew you were cherry-picking, he might've kept you charting well into day shift. At least then you could argue he wanted to keep you around.

Clocking in on Sunday reminded you exactly why you never took days off for social events. The rhythm of the night shift had been interrupted and you were left to live in the consequences. It was a fun day, but the change in sleep definitely had you dragging your feet. Shen made it a point to tease you with a pointed 'this is why you can't leave us!' And as hard as you rolled your eyes, the chaos did comfort you in some strange way. Still, the chaos would've been a little easier had you not been exhausted.

Ellis, never one to mince words, was the one to urge you towards the coffee in the break room when she saw the hunch in your shoulders. "You need to wake the hell up," she'd told you, "go get some of that coffee and figure it out."

So, figure it out you did. Even though the break room coffee had run cold and thick, sitting bitter in the pot, it was better than trying to brute force another eight hours. You yawn as you pour the lukewarm brew into a mug found in the depths of the break room cabinet. It was a wonder there were still clean dishes left to choose from.

Footsteps sound out at the doorway. You peer up with tired eyes to see Shen beelining for the fridge. He nods toward you, a sweet little "hey" dropping from his lips. The fridge creaks open under his hand. "Haven't had a chance to ask about your day of freedom," you hear from behind the door as he reaches inside.

"It was good," you nod, "I'm…exhausted now, though. Didn't get much chance to catch up on sleep."

Shen hums a sound of acknowledgement. He straightens up, now holding a half-empty cup of fast-food cold brew. "Hope your friend was worth it."

Your nose wrinkles at the bitter taste that hits your tongue when you take another sip of your own coffee. Man, something sugary and sweet and overly caffeinated sounded heavenly right now. "Yes, she was worth it. I missed her. She lives over in Philly, so we never really get to meet up anymore."

"Philly?" He whistles with a shake of his head. "Man, all for you?"

"No, for her family. I just met up with her for lunch." Another sip of bitter, thick coffee has you setting the mug on the countertop before continuing, "You don't think my company's worth the four-hour drive?" You look up at him with a cocked brow, but when his lips press into a thin line, you raise a hand to cut off whatever snarky response he could come up with. "Don't answer that." Shen holds his hands up in mock surrender—the same way he always did when his sarcasm was stopped before it could manifest. "We took some pictures while she was here…"

You pat the pockets of your scrubs, searching for your phone in the fabric, and pull it out with another yawn. Half a cup of lukewarm coffee didn't seem to do much in terms of waking you up, it seemed. You inch closer to Shen as you thumb through your phone and pull up the few photos from the day before. One of you and your friend smiling at the table of a cafe, another taken outside, a few silly photos that Shen doesn't find as hilarious as you do. But he humors you with a quiet aww that almost sounds like the reaction to a cute animal rather than a photo of his coworker.

"Well, look at you wearing something other than scrubs!"

You nudge him with your elbow, "Yeah, I told you I have a life."

Another set of footsteps crosses the threshold of the break room door, but it's the sharp whistle that follows that catches the attention of both you and Shen. It's Abbot, hovering like always, eyebrows raised at the sight of you two hunched of your phone. "Scatter, kids," he urges, thumbing back towards the bustling hall, "C'mon, no gossiping."

"M'not gossiping! I'm bragging about my day off." You turn your phone around, screen facing outwards to show off one of the photos from yesterday.

Jack doesn't seem to pay it much attention as he moves to pour his own cup of coffee. "Yeah?" He humors you long enough to look at the screen for a moment. He nods, as if granting his approval. "How was that?"

"Uh, great." The emphasis you put on the word is dramatic enough to prove your point. "I met her back in med school, but she moved to Philly for her residency. Haven't seen her in a while. But we were both happy to just…be out of the hospital for a day." Turning your phone in your hand, you scroll up through your entire collection of photos in search of a particular photo from years ago. "I'm sure I have a picture of us from back then. That was…God, eight years ago?"

"Eight years?" That seems to pique Jack's attention. You think he's poking fun, but the look on his face is one of disbelief. "You were in med school only eight years ago? Christ, way to make me feel old."

"Feel old?" Shen pipes up. You shoot him a look that he reciprocates before hiding his smile behind a sip of his cold brew.

"Oh, here we go. Wow, I look like a baby…"

An old photo from nearly eight years ago pulls up full-screen on your phone. It's of you with the same friend, both eight years younger, in the apartment you resided in during med school. You didn't look much different aside from a fuller face devoid of the stress lines your job had come to give you. But showing the photo off made the image feel like it was from a lifetime ago. Shen makes a cheeky comment about the unique style you sported back then. It's when you show Jack that something seems to land awkwardly.

You don't notice it, but the photo lands like a punch to the gut. Not only was it a shock to his system to see a young, twenty-something you fresh into med school, but he knew that room. He knew those sheets, the band poster hung over the bed, the curtains framing the window at the foot of the mattress. He'd seen it countless times on his own phone screen until the layout was burned into the recesses of his brain. Jack takes a deep breath to will away the sudden thrum of his heart.

"That's…" He clears his throat when the word comes out broken, "that's your apartment?"

"Yeah. Well, was. Don't judge it!" You laugh, turning the photo back towards yourself. "I know it looks shitty, but I was broke in med school. Cut me some slack."

Shen mutters something about it being 'not that bad' as Jack practically chugs the rest of his coffee. He sets the mug down in the sink harsher than any of you expect and straightens with a huff; the sharp clink of ceramic catches your attention, but the hard set of his jaw keeps it.

"Get off your phone," he grumbles without turning to look at you. He carries himself hurriedly, like he's trying to get out of the room as fast as he physically can. "Get back to work. People need you out there."

Your eyes follow the broad set of his back as Jack slips out of the break room. His absence leaves his tone to settle over you and Shen—who shares a look of disbelief your way—and something unwelcome shifts in the air. You slip your phone back into your pocket, embarrassment and uncertainty tightening in your chest. It was his job to keep you in line and on task; a simple reminder shouldn't have weighed on you the way it did.

"Yeah, told you he wouldn't miss me."

It was childish, sure. Unprofessional, definitely. But you cared too much about what he thought. You liked to tell yourself it was strictly about the job and that staying in the good graces of your attending would make life easier. And that was true, to an extent. But you didn't often let yourself acknowledge the curiosity in the back of your mind that constantly questioned what went on in his head. It would only serve as a distraction to concern yourself with whatever he stressed over. The easiest thing to do was just catch him when the night offered a break and he wasn't pulled in ten different directions. He was fine when he wanted to talk. The hard part was just finding the right moment.

And, unfortunately, that moment never seems to come. The night had its lulls, which were nothing more than minute-long breaks that allowed you to catch up on a paragraph of charting at a time. And, to your surprise, Abbot wasn't hovering or breaking heavy tension with dry humor that only he ever found funny. Well, he was…just not with you.

What you thought was just another sour mood slowly turned into the realization that your attending was treating you differently. Rather, he wasn't acknowledging you at all. He didn't turn the other direction to avoid you—he just looked past like you weren't even there. He didn't check in with a little tap on your arm and a thumbs-up that silently asked, 'Are you still with us'. It took a few hours to realize, but once it hit you, it settled heavy on your shoulders.

It really came to a head when you had to present a case. You slunk up beside him when he'd finished a conversation with one of the nurses, deliberately trying to catch him before he could busy himself with another task. The entire time you relayed the patient's status—test results, symptoms, possible diagnoses and why they didn't fit criteria—you looked up at Jack and waited for him to meet your gaze. But it never came. Instead, he signed off on another scan, handed the tablet back to you, and scurried off like the interaction had wasted his time.

You didn't consider yourself a favorite, but it was really unlike him to be so short with you. And when he brushed you off so easily over something work-related, the last thing you wanted to do was confront his attitude. You settled for the next best thing: interrogating your coworkers.

Ellis was the first one you landed eyes on. She was clearly on a mission, carrying herself from one room to the next, but you still sidled yourself up next to her. "Hey, uhm..." You matched her pace, hugging the tablet in your hands close to your body. "Have you noticed anything…off with Abbot?"

She tears her eyes away from the destination in front of her to look over at you. "Off?" She echoes in a plea for more information.

"Yeah, just…" you trail off, trying to find the right words, "I don't know. I'm getting a weird vibe."

"He seems fine to me."

"Really? You haven't noticed him being all…avoidant or whatever?"

"I mean," Ellis shrugs, trying to find the answer you're looking for, "I guess he's been in his head a bit more. Nothin' crazy, you know how he is."

You nod, all-too-aware of what she means. But you aren't satisfied with that answer. With what essentially served as confirmation that the sudden change in demeanor was only directed towards you, now came the urge to understand why. And while you didn't expect Parker—or any of your colleagues for that matter—to have the explanation you needed, it didn't stop you from questioning.

"Nothing happened while I was gone, did it?" You stop in your tracks, hoping she'll humor you long enough to give an actual response. "No…veterans came in yesterday? Was he with SWAT this morning?"

Ellis does stop, but she huffs a sigh as she turns in your direction. "Not that I know of. Look, if you think somethin's up, just ask him. We got shit to do, yeah?"

"Right." You concede reluctantly. "Yeah, of course."

Ellis cocks her head towards the North rooms as she takes her leave, a silent urge to distract yourself with productivity. She was right—your job was more important than gossiping about your attending. Patients didn't care whether or not you felt ignored. You take a breath and steel yourself for the remaining hours of chaos.

An ache in your hands reminds you of the tablet you're still hugging against your chest. You weren't even aware you were white-knuckling the device. You shake your head as if it'll clear the stress and suffocating stream of questions and carry yourself over to the nurse's station on tired feet. The board overhead never fell below a certain threshold of patients; the rotation of color made your head spin. As you slot the tablet into its charging dock, Lena rounds the corner. The first amusement you've felt in hours comes when she scolds a small group of NA's over their tendency to talk instead of work.

A voice in the back of your head tells you to get back to your charting. Instead, you lean against the countertop and hope Lena's the only one listening to you when you call out.

"Hey, Lena, how's my favorite charge nurse?"

The look she gives you is exactly what you expect. Skeptical. "Favorite?"

"Yeah, of course," you shrug. "Don't tell Dana. Hey, listen, have you noticed anything different with Abbot today?"

Lena doesn't answer you immediately. While you fill the silence with every possible response that would send you into a panic, she just grabs a clipboard and looks at you from over the rim of her glasses. She has the courtesy to step closer, keeping her voice as low as the bustle around the two of you would allow. "Now, why are you asking me that?"

Hearing it from her mouth gives you pause. She was great at making the trivial things feel as silly as they were. "I dunno, I just…" Your eyes scan the halls and, though you don't say it, you both know you're looking for him. "He's acting a little bit off, I think."

"Yeah. 'Cause he is 'a little bit off'. Aren't we all."

"Right." Concession was starting to come easy. "Just…keep an eye on him, please? You're always watching, you'll notice better than anyone."

That manages to earn a laugh from her. "Flattery will get you nowhere, sweetheart."

You flash a smile and drag yourself back into the fray. Her sentiment is already settled in the back of your mind. Yeah, you think, clearly not.

Seven A.M. couldn't have come any slower.

The night was one of the longest drags you'd ever lived through. Least of all because of the actual work you were expected to do; everything clinical moved like clockwork. Patients, paperwork, even charting was enough of a distraction to make time tick a little faster. The real problem was Abbot and whatever had him convinced that avoiding you was the best course of action. Time moved slower when every minute was a reminder that he wasn't acknowledging you.

If it were anyone else, you'd chalk it up to a bad day and try again tomorrow. But Jack didn't do this—the unprofessional silent treatment that bled into every aspect of the job. He was an adult. He was the one rallying teamwork and perseverance and how not to let baggage seep into the job. If there was a problem, he talked it out.

Until now, apparently.

When handoff finally came and the day shift slowly flooded in, you didn't find the relief you typically did with their presence. Yes, you could finally get off your feet, maybe catch up on the sleep you'd missed, and eat a real meal for the first time in hours. But it didn't feel right going home with uncertainty hanging over your head.

Lucky for no one but yourself, Jack's role as an attending kept him busier than others. Meaning you had time to do rounds and catch the day shift up to speed with the patients without worrying about him slipping away. It doesn't stop you from keeping an eye on him whenever you're able, though. He could ignore you in favor of work, but once the two of you were clocked out, there was no choice but to listen to you. At least, that's what you told yourself as you cornered him in the stairwell.

He barely gets through the heavy doors, bag slung on his shoulder, when you call out to him. The same quiet little "hey" you always greeted him with. It isn't lost on you the way he pauses before turning to face you.

"Hey." He tosses back. You think this is the first time he's looked at you in eight hours. It quickly diverts when he fidgets with the watch on his wrist instead. "How'd tonight treat you?"

You recognize it for what it is: a formality. He's not genuinely asking because he wants to know. If he were, he'd take care to close the nearly two feet of space between you.

"Fine. It was fine." Jesus, this was awkward. It would've been easier to just go home and sleep the shift off. But that wouldn't have given you answers. You sigh, clasping your hands together only to part them seconds later when you gesture to yourself. "Did I…do something?"

That makes Jack pause. His eyes dart up, looking at you, then past your form to the heavy doors leading back to the ED, then back at you. "Not that I'm aware of…Did you do something?"

"I…I don't know." Your shrug is one of exasperation. "It feels like you've been deliberately avoiding me all night. I felt like you didn't even want me to present cases or ask for your input." Your throat feels tight halfway through the explanation, your chest heavy with all the frustration and confusion that's built throughout the night. You take a break to steady yourself and shove your hands in your pockets. "You're my attending," you know he didn't need the reminder, "if I can't come to you, there's clearly a problem."

Jack doesn't offer a response, but at least he looks at you while the muscles in his jaw tick under white stubble. He didn't like it when people felt the need to state the obvious and tell him what he already knew. But reality and how it settled on your shoulders was far more important than his feelings about it. When you think he's going to leave you with nothing, he shifts his bag on his shoulder and shakes his head.

"There's no problem."

It's your turn to be silent and stare.

Your lips press thin in a tight line as you try to swallow some of your frustration. No problem? Right, because he'd been ignoring you just for the hell of it. Because the same man who always asked how you were doing and questioned how you spent your days suddenly decided your existence had no relevance. You take a deep breath and straighten your spine. If anything, it's to ground yourself and remember that cursing him out and risking your job wasn't worth it.

"Look," you start with a huff, voice as level as you can possibly manage, "if I did something to upset you, I'd like to know so I can fix it. If I did something wrong professionally, you need to tell me so I can better it."

Jack was always a particular case study—one you liked to think you were starting to understand—but the way he looks at you now is indecipherable. Part of you is just happy to have his eyes on you, but it doesn't feel as reassuring as you thought it would. Just when the silence stretches a moment too long, his eyes tear away from you and dart around the stairwell as if surveying the area around you.

"I'm not having this conversation here," he mutters, crossing those thick arms over his chest. It's meant to be a finality, but there's no way you're letting the conversation end unfinished.

"Uhm, yes we are? If this is something interfering with work, then the conversation can happen here."

"I promise this is not a conversation you wanna have in the hospital. You'll be better off if you wait." You scoff at that, annoyed, and he doesn't miss it. He's already starting to turn away, ready to leave it at that, before he adds, "You should have my number. Text me when you're home. We'll talk about it then."

You step after him when he moves away. What started as confusion had fully bled into frustration. "So, just to be clear, there is a problem. And you're not telling me how to fix it."

Jack huffs your name in an annoyed breath that's sharp enough to make you pause. "You didn't do anything. There's no problem." When he looks back at you from over his shoulder, you swear a shiver runs down your spine. "I promise." He shifts his bag on his shoulder one final time—something you're starting to assume is a nervous tick—and you watch the muscles in his back play under his scrubs. He starts down the corridor before tossing back, "We'll talk when you're home."

That was the finality. Not that he gave you much choice in the matter, but you make it a point to stay rooted in the stairwell. You aren't sure how long you stand there, replaying the conversation in your head. It felt less like a conversation and more like the prelude to something that made your chest feel tight the longer you thought about it. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that he couldn't even look at your face. Great. Now you were dreading the return home.

The walk to the lockers feels like a display of shame, even though you're the only one who knows what just happened. It's hard to tell if your sluggish movements are from exhaustion or the subconscious desire to get home as slow as possible. But the inevitable was exactly that, and curiosity still reluctantly pulled at the back of your mind. If he really was willing to talk, you wanted to hear it. Even a harsh truth would be better than being lost in the dark.

You didn't know what to do with yourself when you got home. The smartest thing to do would be to whip up something proper to eat and change out of your scrubs. A text conversation shouldn't have taken much attention, let alone a ton of effort.

What actually ended up happening was you, thumbing away at your phone as soon as you got through the door, desperately searching for Jack's contact information to send a haphazard 'I'm home now' text. And as soon as it sent, you paced through your kitchen just waiting for him to see it and respond. The minutes feel torturously long. Part of you starts to fear he'll ghost you and refuse to have the conversation. But he promised there was no problem. It felt childish to latch onto something as feeble as that, but it was all you had. Even more embarrassing was how much it ate away at you to be so blatantly ignored by him. The longer you thought about it, the more pathetic you thought yourself for craving his approval.

Maybe the only thing more pathetic was how you perked up hearing the chime of your phone. Three long minutes after your initial message came Jack's response. And he got right to the point.

Abbot: Is there anywhere someone might be able to recognize you from?

The question left you even more confused. One, what the hell did this have to do with work? Two, why would anyone recognize you? As the questions flooded your mind, you wanted to reply with an annoyed wall of question marks. Instead, you settle for more clarification:

You: i'm sorry?

Abbot: Answer the question.

You scoff at your phone, wondering how the hell you were meant to answer.

You: i mean i don't think any of my patients would recognize me

Abbot: Not what I meant.

Okay, dick. You weren't surprised to find him as blunt over the phone as he was in person. A beat passes before he sends another message.

Abbot: Have you ever posted anything online that people might recognize you from?

Somehow, this was clearing up nothing and only leaving you with more questions.

You: what?? you mean on like instagram or smth?? You: i doubt my 20 followers would recognize me

Twenty followers that were mostly friends and family that already knew you. But you kept the sarcasm minimal in hopes it'd make his point approach quicker.

When it takes another minute for him to respond, you decide to finally retreat to your bedroom and rid yourself of the scrubs you'd been stewing in for hours. Getting off your feet and into a warm bed and fresh clothes was the closest thing to Heaven right now. You hear your phone chime as you settle in and close out the Pittsburgh dawn with thick curtains. When you slip into bed to check the messages, there's two waiting for you.

The first is just your name, plain and simple. It makes you think of the way he spoke it in the stairwell—stern and final—and something about that makes your throat run dry. The next message makes your heart skip a beat:

Abbot: Okay, I'm not asking you this as your boss. We're off the clock.

Then, possibly the last message you ever could've expected from him:

Abbot: Have you ever shared anything pornographic?

If you weren't already in bed, you swear you could've fallen over. Your heart sinks so low it reaches the floor. Maybe, just maybe, you actually already died and this was Hell.

There was no way this was real.

And the worst about it? You couldn't even laugh it off or feign disgust. You couldn't send back an angry 'what the fuck are you talking about?' and why he'd ask such a thing. Well, you could've, but it would've felt pretty disingenuous. The absurdly formal way he posed the question aside, the only thing you wanted to ask was how the hell he found out. It was years ago, a stupid endeavor to make a little pocket money during med school. You'd barely even made content before deciding the effort wasn't worth the pay. You hadn't done it in so long—hadn't even thought about it in years.

With shaky thumbs and an erratic heartbeat, you managed to type back:

You: what the fuck jack

You could lie. You could say no and make him feel terrible for bringing it up. But there's no way he would ever bring it up if he didn't have a reason to.

You: ok yes but it was years ago. i told you i was broke in med school

Jack still hasn't responded. You felt sick wondering what he was doing with that confirmation. Maybe he was already typing up an email to HR. Maybe he was wondering how to bring up to the team that you'd no longer be working with them. Fuck. Panic sits in your gut and crawls up your throat until it's nearly impossible to breathe.

You: wajt how the fuck did you find out??? did soneone tell you????

Every possible scenario ranging from bad to awful to worse ran through your mind. What if someone told him and now he had to bring it up to someone higher. What if the whole emergency department knew, or someone in particular knew and was slowly sharing it. Oh, God, what if you walked in there tomorrow and everyone started asking you about those stupid videos and—

Abbot: No, no one told me.

Thank God. At least you could push away that particular worry for now. But it didn't answer the first question you posited.

You: so you just found it?? on accident??

Abbot: I didn't know it was you until today. Abbot: I recognized the apartment when you showed me that picture of you in school.

Ah. So that's what was going on.

In hindsight, that made the entire night way less stressful than it felt in the moment. It almost made you laugh to think about; your attending had been avoiding you because he realized you made the porn he watched. Yeah, you weren't too sure you could've looked him in the eye after that, either.

But as the realization sinks into your brain, the reality of it hits you. To recognize the walls of your apartment, he had to have watched a video. More likely, several videos. The guy who ran your department had seen a 20-something-year-old you spread your legs on a shitty phone camera. He'd seen you touch yourself and put on a show for approval of strangers on the internet. Christ, you couldn't even remember half of what those videos contained—who knew what he'd witnessed you do in the desperation for a paycheck.

And for some perverted, selfish reason, it didn't repulse you in the slightest. It should've. You should've been typing out an apology and promising that content was from the past. You should've asked that he never watch it again because of the breach of privacy. Instead, you sat in your bed and wondered if he had a favorite. You wondered if he got off to any of it, and if the knowledge that it was you made it better or worse for him.

The chime of your phone snaps you back to reality. It's then you realize you've left Jack on read for nearly eight minutes.

Abbot: I'm sorry. I should've acted more professional at work. This isn't coming into work with me tomorrow. Abbot: It's cleared up and done. Thank you for being honest.

Honest? He all but admitted he'd watched a porno of you, and he was thanking you for the honesty of clarifying it was you? The guy you reported to had seen you naked and trembling and desperate and then had the audacity to say he'd forget all about it by tomorrow?

Yeah, right.

You: did you at least enjoy the videos?

There's a stretch of silence with no response. You regret the words for a moment, wondering if the overstep was breaching further than a tease. Then he sends another message containing nothing more than your name. It's exactly the same as last time, but you can feel the difference in tone. Shakier. Warning you. Or maybe it was all in your head.

Abbot: I said this is done.

You: i thought we were being honest :/

Yeah, you were being annoying. But Jack left you unnecessarily stressed out for most of your shift. Surely he could put up with a little bit of pestering. He had a sense of humor about everything. But you watched the text bubble pop up and disappear five different times before he finally sent a response.

Abbot: I don't think that's appropriate.

You: jack. do you really think i'm gonna judge you for watching porn when i used to make it??

You don't get a response to that message. In the minutes that follow, as you're waiting for something to pop up, you wish you could jump through your phone screen and figure out what he was doing. Was he ignoring you on purpose? Did you finally annoy him enough? A far-too hopeful voice in the back of your mind hoped he was going through the list and figuring out which video was his favorite. Aside from being unrealistic, you cringe at the thought of him going back to old videos instead of reaching out for something new. The thought creeps in—not entirely unwelcome—wondering if he'd ask for that. Debating whether you'd fulfill it while knowing damn well you probably would.

Five long minutes pass and you huff a sigh. You knew he was right; this wasn't appropriate. And Jack was a man who lived so strictly to his regiment and rules.

You: sorry You: just curious

You set your phone down with a finality you aren't too keen on accepting. That wasn't exactly the message you'd hoped to leave off on.

The darkness of the room creeps in without the light of your phone to light up your face. You slip under your sheets and try your hardest to prepare for a longer stretch of sleep than you had the previous day. Exhaustion hit you hard and sudden, pulling at your aching muscles, but your brain couldn't stay quiet. All it did was replay the night, every little conversation, what you could've done differently. Conjuring up scenarios where you confronted Jack earlier and saved yourself the stress, or what would've happened if you never showed him that photo of you and your friend. It was a whirlwind of what-ifs, more than enough to give you a headache.

The buzz of your phone, when it comes, is far too loud. And you, despite your exhaustion, are far too eager to see what it's from. The light of the screen nearly blinds you, but as you squint to look at the notification, your heart skips a beat.

It's Jack, with a simple message that responds to a specific one of your own. Replying to your earlier question about enjoying your videos, all he says in response:

Abbot: Yes.

Heat blooms throughout your body embarrassingly quick. Yes, he liked your videos. One, several, it didn't matter. Jack had seen you naked and whining, and he liked it.

You: wait which video

Abbot: Several.

Oh. So he really liked it. Must've been a hit in his browser history.

You: oh wow. okay You: glad i could be of service then ;)

You plan to leave it at that and quit while you're ahead. Coaxing the confession out of him was precarious enough. Even though you were dying to know every detail and figure out exactly what he'd seen and what he liked best, you were content with just knowing he liked something about it. Teasing him was fun, but anything more would've been an HR disaster. It'd be interesting to see how Jack would explain that one.

But just as you're about to set your phone down, another message comes through:

Abbot: Yeah, you're really helpful.

Curiosity killed the cat and all that.

You: ? You: with what?

You knew, in the back of your mind. Or, at least, you really fucking hoped. Every second drags out far too long for your eager nerves, itching to know how he'll respond. Thankfully, it's along the lines of something you were hoping for.

Abbot: Can I show you?

Always so formal.

You: yes please

Your heart was already thumping out of your chest. Working yourself up over whatever he was sending next, heat pumps thick in your veins and lands in your gut. You nearly chewed your lip raw lying in wait. You knew you were being impatient, but when the next message pops up on your screen, you decide every second was worth the wait.

It's an image (exactly what you wanted to see) taken awkwardly in the dark of a bedroom. In it is Jack's hand, which you recognize by the fine lines and freckles on his skin, wrapped loosely around the base of his cock. You assume the only light comes from the camera's flash when he'd taken the picture, but it highlights the pearls of precum welling at the red and ruddy skin of the fat tip. You realize he's still in his scrubs when your eyes trail down to see the waistband pushed down just underneath his heavy balls and the top bunched up to expose the soft pudge of his lower stomach.

It's no expert nude, but it's got a charm that undeniably fits him. And made you so absurdly wet in what you feel confident claiming is record time. You're throbbing at the sight of his cock on your screen. You were glad to see he also thought it fair that he show off in return after he'd seen you bare and desperate multiple times.

Your thighs press together to quell the incessant pulse between your legs as you hurriedly type out a response.

You: are you watching one right now??

Abbot: yeag Abbot: *Yeah.

You: oh youre unbelievable

You laugh behind your phone screen. You aren't scolding him, just shocked at his audacity. Rolling over to reach your bedside, you flick on the closest light. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make the camera's job a little easier and make the final product a little more flattering.

You rid yourself of a majority of your clothes and kick the sheets off of your body. When you're stripped down to nothing more than a pair of unassuming panties, you lift your phone above your reclined figure, angle it just right, and snap a photo. The golden light from your lamp makes your skin look warm. Of course, the angle cuts off everything above the neck—old habits.

You send the photo with a message attached:

You: why are you watching an old video when you literally have access to me right now??

His response comes back in seconds:

Abbot: Jesus Christ Abbot: Yeah good point Abbot: Take the rest off. Let me see how wet you are

The command alone is enough to make you throb. You could snap a photo of the outside of your panties, focusing in on the fabric where it clings to your wet skin as slick seeps through the cotton. But you're both, decidedly, too worked up for any more teasing. So you slip the fabric off, kicking it somewhere on your bed, and bring your phone down between your parted legs.

Trying to find a flattering angle reminds you exactly how difficult it was to film the same thing years ago. It takes an awkward grip on your phone, but the camera catches the sheen of your cunt where your slick sits. Your puffy clit, all swollen with arousal, peeks out when you run your fingers through your slit.

You send two photos this time—one with your fingers teasing the bud of your clit, the other with you spread open and dripping. You send both out, typing out a message one-handed.

You: been wet since you said you liked my porno You: wish you could feel it

Abbot: Yeah?

The gap of time between messages tells you he's probably typing one-handed as well.

Abbot: You like knowing I was getting off to you? Abbot: Love watching that pretty pussy cum baby. Wish I could feel it too

You throb against your own hand, cunt fluttering at the filthy words on screen. You could almost picture that rumble in his voice he'd get when he was annoyed. Your fingers swirl against your clit, still slicked up, and picture how Jack's hands would feel instead. You scroll up through the messages, seeking out the picture he'd sent earlier. His fingers are thicker than yours, so confident and sure when they work, you know they'd stretch your cunt perfectly. He'd have to if he wanted to fit that fat cock inside—

Abbot: Can you do something for me?

The message pops up, bringing you back to the present conversation. You're already shivering trying to figure out what else he could want. Far too eager—bordering on desperate—you fumble through more messages.

You: yes You: what do u want

Abbot: Do you have a pillow you can use?

You: u want me to ride it

Abbot: Fuck yes

You smile to yourself at his zealous reply. You knew that was something you'd recorded once upon a time—multiple times, if you recalled correctly. Must've been one of his favorites of yours to request an updated version.

You drag yourself up until you're sitting in the center of your mattress. Once you settle on a pillow to sacrifice, you fold it over and wedge it between your legs. The first brush against your clit makes you shiver, hips jerking into the friction. Already you can feel your arousal seeping into the pillowcase, slicking your movements when you give an experimental roll of your hips. Holding the pillow between your thighs, you fish around for your phone to prepare a picture. You take one, angling it below the neck, but that's not enough.

Finding something to prop your phone against was a nightmare, but once the camera sits steady with your body in frame, you tap the big, red 'record' button. It's an oddly nostalgic feeling; worrying about what's in frame, trying to get the best angle, wondering if the lighting will ruin it. But Jack's waiting, and your cunt's throbbing with the need to get off.

You rock your hips into the pillow with a slow grind that sends zaps up your spine. It's not enough to get off, but it's enough to keep you worked up. Your hands fist in the pillow, grabbing it from different angles, holding it in place while you grind. Your thighs hide most of the action from this angle, but you have a feeling it's the motion of your body that he cares about most. The way your hips swirl and your ass ripples with the motion, the way your chest moves and your tits bounce when you rock down, the way your thighs tense when the fabric drags just right against your clit.

Along the line of curses and swears, you pant Jack's name in that same pathetic whine. Who knew if he'd watch it with the sound on or if the camera could even pick it up from this distance. But you wanted him to know you were thinking about him. All of this was for him, no one else.

Another minute ticks by and you capture the hurried, desperate movement of your hips against your pillow. You know you aren't getting off from this alone, but it's left you hot and dripping. You cut the video and end the recording, not bothering to check the quality before sending it his way. Quality clearly wasn't an issue he was too picky about.

In the minutes that follow—waiting for him to respond—you keep rocking into the soft plush of the pillow. Your head spins trying to imagine the look on his face. You wanted to see what he did when he heard his name drop from your lips. Maybe you'd get another photo—or a video of your own.

Instead, your phone began to buzz incessantly, rhythmically. Jack was calling you. The screen changed, his name in bold letters up top with the taunting 'Accept' and 'Decline' buttons below. You stared at it for a moment, unsure how to respond once the barrier of text was removed and you got to hear his voice in real time. Your thumb moves before your brain.

You bring your phone to your ear, panting heavier than you realize. You mutter a shaky "Hello?" that sounds more timid than you feel.

Jack's voice comes through on the other end, preceded by a heavy breath you feel in your bones. "Are you still on that pillow?"

"Mm-hmm," you whine, nodding along as if he can see you

"Good." His voice is raspy, thick with a kind of desperation you didn't know he was capable of. "Good, I want you to cum like that."

"Yeah? Fuck—you gonna make me cum, Jack?" You swirl your hips and drag your clit along the soft swell of the pillow. The wetness you've left behind makes the glide easy, slicking your sensitive flesh.

"Fuck," he groans, breath catching in his throat. "Yeah, been waiting...been waiting to make that pretty pussy feel good." You swear you hear the wet schlick of his hand moving in the background. If you closed your eyes, you could almost picture one of those broad hands pumping the length of his cock. "You got awfully wet for me, huh?"

Another mm-hmm sounds out from your throat. Your fingers tighten around the length of your phone, the other in the fabric of the pillow. "M'so fucking wet…bet you'd fuck me so good."

"Fuck, yeah, I would. Ah, shit—I'd give you whatever you want, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. The name settles somewhere deep in your gut, stirring alongside the heat pulling at your core. "Yeah, you know what this pussy likes, don't you?"

All Jack offers in response is another low, rumbling groan. The wet schlick, schlick, schlick of his hand sounds out rhythmically in the background of his audio. Somewhere in the mess of sounds is your name, breathless and heavy, on his lips. Your thighs clench tight against the pillow as you rut, chasing the friction of the soaked fabric.

"Bet you'd look so good full of me. God…" He huffs. You can tell his jaw's set tight, cursing spilling out from behind grit teeth. "Can't wait to feel you around me…" You moan at his words, too afraid to speak lest you interrupt his filthy train of thought. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? You'd take it so fucking good, huh?"

Your hips stutter in their rhythm, twitching in an effort to chase the mounting pressure building in your core. "Fuuuck, Jack…" You whine, barely able to catch your breath.

"You gonna cum for me?"

"Mm-hmm…"

"Say it, baby, tell me you're gonna cum for me."

"M'gonna cum for you, Jack."

You're rutting like an animal, grinding against your pillow with energy you didn't know you had. The desperation gnawed at you, frenzied and greedy, pushing you towards a high you needed more than anything else. Between the soft, wet plush between your thighs and the hot, needy sounds he made in your ear, you were barreling towards the edge alarmingly quickly.

Jack curses, the sound heavy and strained, "Cum for me, baby. Let me hear you." He urges you with a desperation that rivals your own.

Pleasure shoots white-hot down your spine, seizing every muscle in your body. Your thighs clamp tight around the pillow, keeping it close and in place for the frantic rock of your hips. You nearly double over as you shake and whimper. The last thing on your mind is your phone, but when Jack's breath grows heavier, your awareness focuses in on the noises coming from your speaker. The groan that tears from him is unlike anything you've heard from him before. You know he's coming down from the same high when he's left panting into the phone wherever it sits on his end.

You aren't sure how long the two of you stay like that. Eventually your spine straightens, a small whimper escaping your throat when your sensitive flesh grazes the pillow. With the adrenaline and ecstasy wearing off, an ache begins to creep into the small of your back.

Jack's the first to break the silence. "You alright?" He asks, still winded himself.

"Mm. Yeah. You?"

"I am now. You were…a pretty great help."

You laugh a soft sound, feeling a flush creep up to your cheeks. It felt ridiculous to blush over a compliment when you'd both cum from the sound of each other's voices. He sounded so…pleased. With you or himself, you weren't completely sure.

"Told you, I'm glad to be of service." Now he laughs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "Can I ask…how many of those videos you watched?"

"Uh…four?"

"Really? Only four? Thought it'd be more than that."

"Yeah, well…" He interrupts himself with a groan that makes you wonder if he's aching the same way you are. "Didn't have the time. I'm a busy man."

"And here I thought you were my biggest fan."

"Oh, no doubt about that." He sighs, and a beat of silence passes between the two of you. "Sorry about…how I acted today."

You move off of the pillow, wincing at the ache in your hips, as you move to gather your discarded clothes. "Oh, Jack, it's fine."

"No, I…It was unprofessional. I'm sorry." You slip your clothes on while he speaks, just letting him speak the apology. He needed it more than you did. "I'll…make it up to you. How about that?"

"More than this?"

"Oh, absolutely."

You find yourself easing in the lulls of silence, not too pressured to fill it with mindless chatter. As you turn the lights down and crawl back into your sheets, you aren't pressured to keep up with mindless chatter. What else was there to say, really? The rhythmic sound of his breathing, the airy feel of the lingering high, made you sink into your mattress.

You both needed sleep. Desperately.

"Okay, old man, I'm…I need sleep."

"Old man?"

"You should sleep, too."

"Hold on, 'old man'?"

"Jack."

"Fine." Another groan sounds out from his end. "After I clean up."

"Actually, could you…" You trail off before the request can form, heat creeping back up to your cheeks. You can picture his face, that cocked brow he always sported, waiting for you to use your words. "Could you take a picture before you clean up?"

"A picture? Of what, the mess you caused?"

Your mess. If you were less tired, that might've reignited something inside you. "Yeah. Just…I wanna see."

"You wanna see…" Jack echoes your words with a sarcastic tinge, but you can hear the smile in his voice. "Alright, fine. But you better sleep right after."

"I will. Promise."

"Good." Another beat passes where both of you take a deep, settling breath. "I'll see you tonight?"

Tonight. Right. You had to face him tonight for your next shift. That was a level of embarrassment and awkwardness you weren't ready to acknowledge quite yet. "Yeah," you concede, "see you then."

The call ends with a beep sounding out from your speaker. The lingering high has nearly worn off, only coaxed along this far by the sound of his voice. You hoped the ache in your back and the meat of your thighs would right themselves by the time you woke up. It was hard to know what, exactly, you were meant to feel. Truth be told, you were too tired to process anything outside of your exhaustion. Maybe you'd regret it when you realized it wasn't a dream. Maybe you'd still be riding a high. You quickly decided it was a problem for a future you who was more rested and level-headed.

One last chime rings out from your phone. Yet again, the screen blinds you in the darkness when you bring the device close. But seeing Jack's name with the notification of an attachment made your heart skip a beat. He'd followed through—always a man of his word. A similar photo taken from the same angle, his ruddy cock dribbling white onto his skin. The mess of liquid is larger than you'd anticipated, pooled over the soft pudge of his stomach and dripping down to the wiry, pale hair that trailed downward.

Yeah, even exhausted, that was enough to make something stir.

You: thank you <3 You: wish i was there to clean u up

Abbot: You said you'd go to sleep.

You: yes, sir

Abbot: Don't start with that or we won't get any sleep.

He was right, but would it really be that big of a shame? You'd worked doubles on less sleep before. The more you thought about it, though, the less you wanted to face the possibility of explaining yourself to Shen. And as selfish as you were, you knew Jack needed the rest more than anyone else could've. For the sake of his job, of course. But as you drifted off and let your mind wander to every possibility of what your next shift could hold, you quickly realized you needed him well-rested.

almost home

Jack should’ve been asleep.

He’d left PTMC nearly an hour ago after Robby took over the trauma they’d worked through shift change. You’d stayed behind to finish the note, update the family and wait on a consultant who’d stopped answering at the exact point everyone needed him.

Twenty minutes, you’d told Jack.

He checked the time again.

Fifty-one had passed.

Jack lay against the pillows shirtless, wearing loose pyjama pants, his prosthetic resting beside the bed. He’d showered, set his alarm and done everything he usually did after nights. His body was tired enough for sleep. His head wasn’t interested.

Your side of the bed was empty.

It wasn’t really yours. This was still his apartment, though you stayed often enough for the distinction to matter less than it used to. A few of your things had found places there, and Jack liked having them around. Waking with your knee across his thigh and your hand tucked under his shirt had become familiar. So had your weight beside him after work, warm enough for his body to settle.

He reached across the mattress and rested his palm where your waist usually ended up. The sheets were cool. “Come home, baby,” he muttered.

His phone was charging on the nightstand. Jack unplugged it and opened your messages.

Your last text sat at the bottom of the thread.

you: twenty minutes. swear. 🙏

He’d reacted with a thumbs-down.

You hadn’t answered since.

jack: Still there?

The message delivered without a reply.

Jack leaned back and scrolled upward instead. Most of the thread was ordinary. Groceries. Shift changes. A photo of a takeout menu with three items circled and pick one before I lose the will to live written beneath it. 

Farther back was a picture of you asleep on his couch in his black sweater. He’d taken it after trying twice to wake you for bed. Your cheek was pressed into the cushion, one sleeve pulled over your hand and your legs tucked under you.

You’d accused him the next morning of keeping evidence. He’d told you it was insurance.

The next photo was from dinner a few weeks ago. You sat across from him with your chin resting in your palm, looking over the rim of your wineglass. He remembered your foot pressed against his beneath the table and the way you’d caught him staring.

“What do you want?” you’d asked.

“Nothing.”

You hadn’t believed him.

He hadn’t been lying. He already had you. Your things mixed with his. Your voice in his apartment after years of coming home to silence and pretending he preferred it. Sometimes Jack still looked at you and couldn’t quite believe how easily you’d become part of his life.

Then came the photos meant only for him.

The first showed the hem of your dress lifted over your thighs. The next was taken in his shower, one hand covering your breast while water ran down your stomach. Another showed your thighs spread across his sheets with your underwear pulled aside.

Jack shifted against the pillows.

His cock had started thickening beneath his pants, though the wanting had begun before that. It had been there when he reached across the bed and found cold sheets. There when he saw the photo of you asleep in his sweater and remembered carrying you from the couch because you’d refused to wake properly.

He opened another photo.

You were kneeling between his thighs, looking up at him with your lips swollen and wet. Jack had taken the photo himself, one hand tangled in your hair while his thumb rested along your jaw. The lower half of his cock was visible beside your cheek.

He remembered the heat of your mouth. The slow drag of your tongue beneath him and the way your fingers tightened around the base of his cock when he pushed deeper. You’d watched his face while you took him, pleased whenever his control slipped enough for you to hear it.

His cock pressed harder against the fabric.

“Jesus, sweetheart.”

Jack lowered his phone and rubbed his palm over himself through his pants. The pressure helped for two slow strokes before it made the ache sharper.

His phone buzzed against his stomach.

you: still here 😭

Another message followed.

you: finishing my last note

jack: You said twenty minutes.

you: i was young and optimistic

jack: Come home.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared and returned.

you: miss me? 😉

Jack looked at the photo still open on his screen.

jack: You know I do.

He sent the photo back to you.

Jack could picture you at the workstation with your phone held low beneath the desk, smiling down at his answer while pretending to finish your note.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

you: dr. abbot…

jack: Still works.

Jack slipped his hand beneath his waistband. His fingers closed around his cock, fully hard now and already damp at the tip.

He stroked himself slowly, thumb spreading the moisture over the head before drawing down again. His eyes stayed on the photo. Your mouth near his cock. Your face turned up towards him. The trust in the way you knelt between his legs and let him hold your hair.

Your next message arrived with a picture.

Jack opened it.

You were in an empty call room, scrub top lifted enough to show your stomach and the lower edge of your bra. Your scrub pants were loosened, your hand visibly inside your underwear.

His grip tightened.

“Fuck.”

jack: Take another one.

you: greedy 😈

jack: Show me.

The next photo showed more. Your fingers disappeared beneath your underwear, wrist angled between your thighs. He could see the pressure of your hand against yourself beneath the fabric.

Jack pushed his pants lower over his hips. His cock rested thick against his stomach, flushed darker towards the head. He wrapped his hand around himself again and stroked slowly enough to feel each drag of his palm.

you: what are you doing?

Jack glanced down at his fist.

jack: Thinking about you.

you: what about me?

His hand moved from base to tip, firmer now. He could’ve given you something brief and made you wait until you came home. He was tired, hard and alone in a bed where he’d grown used to having you within reach.

He wanted you to know.

jack: Your legs around me.

He sent another before you replied.

jack: How you taste after I’ve already made you come.

His grip tightened at the head of his cock.

jack: How tight your pussy gets when I’m all the way inside you.

The typing bubble disappeared.

Jack closed his eyes and pictured you underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips, hands gripping his shoulders while he pushed inside you. He knew the first tight hold of your body around him and how you softened once he kissed you and gave you time to take him.

He knew how his cock looked inside you.

He’d watched himself draw back, wet from you, before pushing deep again until his hips pressed against yours. He’d held your thighs open and watched your pussy stretch around him. He knew the tight clench he felt whenever his thumb found your clit and how much stronger it became once you got close.

His phone buzzed.

you: I want you inside me when I get home

Jack read it twice.

His hips lifted into his hand.

jack: Yeah?

you: want you to fuck me until I’m screaming your name

jack: You will be.

Jack liked you loud.

He could hear it too easily. Your voice filling the bedroom while he fucked you harder, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your thigh. You’d beg him not to stop once he had you close. Your nails would drag over his back while your pussy squeezed his cock, trying to hold every inch.

you: promise? 😏

Jack slowed his hand. The thought of you reading his answer with your fingers still between your thighs made his cock pulse against his palm.

jack: Come home and find out, sweetheart.

you: tell me what you’d do

Jack let his head rest against the pillow. His control had already started to go. He could feel it in the uneven pull of his hand and the tension building low in his stomach.

The thought of getting his mouth on you made his cock throb in his fist.

Jack loved opening you with his thumbs and seeing how wet you’d already become for him. He’d drag his tongue slowly through your pussy first, tasting you before his lips closed around your clit.

“Fuck, baby…”

His hand tightened as he pictured sucking you gently, then harder when your hips started moving beneath him. You never stayed still for long. Your fingers would slide into his hair and your body would chase each pull of his mouth, hips lifting as he kept your clit between his lips.

He liked how quickly you stopped trying to control it. The small movements becoming needier, your pussy pressing against his mouth while he held your thighs open and took everything you gave him.

Jack would push his tongue inside you and feel your body tighten around it. You’d roll your hips against his face, chasing the pressure while your hand pulled at his hair.

He’d go back to your clit before you could say anything, sucking until your thighs trembled against his shoulders. Hearing you come for him made him harder, but tasting it got to him just as badly. The first rush against his tongue. Your hips pushing into his mouth. Your voice breaking around his name.

He’d keep licking you through it, slower once you became sensitive, until you tried to pull away.

Jack wanted inside you. He wanted the stretch of your pussy around his cock and the way you clenched when he fucked you deep.

He wanted his mouth on you just as badly. Your body open beneath him. Your hips moving against his tongue. Your taste still on his lips when he climbed over you.

He typed with his free hand.

jack: I’d put my mouth on you until you came.

you: jack…

jack: Then I’d make you come again on my cock.

Your reply came quickly.

you: i need you so bad

His mouth pulled faintly at one corner.

jack: Go finish your note.

you: you started this 😒

jack: And I’ll finish it when you get here.

He opened your photo again, his eyes returning to your hand inside your underwear. You were still at work, touching yourself because he’d asked what you were doing and refused to let the conversation stay innocent.

He imagined you walking into the bedroom already wet from everything he’d said, impatient and flushed from the drive. He’d get you onto your back before you finished telling him how badly you needed him.

His hand moved faster, the muscles in his stomach tightening as his hips began meeting his fist. He pictured your taste still on his tongue when he climbed over you and pushed inside.

His strokes grew rougher. He saw your face beneath him, lips parted while his cock filled you. He’d watch himself disappear into your pussy, then draw back slowly enough for both of you to feel it before driving deep again.

Your legs would be tight around his waist while he fucked you harder, your voice breaking every time he pushed deep. He imagined his thumb on your clit and the first hard clench of your pussy around him when you came, your body pulling him deeper while he kept moving through it.

Jack’s rhythm broke. “Fuck…”

He thought about coming inside you.

The first thick pulse filling you while he held himself deep. Another following as your pussy tightened around his cock. He’d stay buried inside you through the last of it, forehead pressed against yours while your hands held onto his shoulders.

Then he’d move again.

Slow, shallow thrusts while his come gathered around his cock. He’d watch it slip out whenever he pulled back, then push into you again while more ran down between your thighs.

His fist tightened as he imagined his cock coated in you and his come, disappearing inside you again while your thighs stayed open for him.

“Gonna fill you,” Jack muttered. His voice broke around the next curse. “Fuck… sweetheart.”

His hips drove into his fist as he came, the first streak spilling hot over his hand and stomach. Jack kept stroking himself through it, jaw tight while your name left him in a rough, low sound. Another pulse followed, then another, his cock twitching in his palm as his pace finally slowed.

He stayed against the pillows with his eyes closed, chest rising hard.

His phone buzzed near his hip.

you: leaving now 🥳

Jack looked down at the mess across his stomach and reached for the tissues on the nightstand. He cleaned himself, pulled his pants back over his hips and plugged his phone into the charger.

jack: Drive safe, baby.

You sent a heart.

He stared at it with his thumb hovering over the screen.

jack: Come straight to the bedroom when you get here.

you: thought you were going to sleep

jack: Changed my mind.

Your drive took twenty-three minutes when traffic was light.

Jack knew because he checked the time twice, then gave up pretending he wasn’t waiting. His body felt heavy from the shift, but every time he pictured you coming through the door in the same scrubs from the photo, his cock stirred again.

The front door opened, followed by your footsteps through the apartment. You appeared in the bedroom doorway with your bag over one shoulder, hair still pulled back from work. You looked exhausted until you found him awake against the pillows.

Your eyes moved over the messy sheets. “Thought you took care of yourself.”

Jack pulled the blankets back. “Come here.”

You dropped your bag near the door and climbed onto the mattress. He caught your waist before you could settle beside him and pulled you across his lap, kissing you hard enough to make you brace a hand against his chest.

You smiled against his mouth when you felt him hardening beneath you. “Already?”

His hand slipped beneath your top and closed around your breast through your bra. Your hips shifted over him, and Jack’s jaw tightened. “You touched yourself before you left,” he said.

“So did you.”

“Wasn’t the same.”

“No?”

Jack brought your mouth back to his, tongue pushing between your lips while he held you at the hip. When he broke the kiss, he kept you close enough for your mouth to brush his when you spoke.

“Spent half the wait thinking about my mouth on you,” he said.

“And the other half?”

“Fucking you.”

Your hand moved down and pressed over his cock through his pants. Jack groaned under his breath. Your fingers caught the hem of your top, but Jack stopped you and took hold of it himself. “Let me.”

He pulled it over your head, dropped it beside the bed and brought your mouth back to his. You smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You really missed me.”

Jack ran his hand slowly over your side, palm settling at your waist where it belonged. “Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.”

His eyes lowered to your pants as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband.

“Now, take these off.”

happy birthday, jack abbot

You’ve kept everything small. No balloons, no giant banner, no private room full of decorations Jack would spend the first twenty minutes trying to escape. Just a few tables at a bar he already likes and the handful of people you knew he’d want there.

Robby is standing near the end of the table when you walk in. Dana is already sitting with Ellis, and Shen is returning from the bar with two glasses balanced between his hands.

Jack stops beside you.

His hand stays at your lower back as he takes everyone in, Robby raising his beer while Dana smiles across the room. Ellis lifts her glass toward you in quiet congratulations for getting him here at all. Jack looks down at you, understanding settling in. “You did this.”

You smile. “Happy birthday, baby.”

His expression shifts, caught somewhere between suspicion and affection. “You lied to me.”

You slide your hand over his chest. “I said I was taking you out.” Jack glances toward the table again before looking back at you. “You left out a few people.”

Dana calls over before you can answer. “Abbot, your girlfriend went to all this trouble. You’re not allowed to complain until at least the second drink.”

Jack’s hand moves more firmly around your waist. “I’m not complaining.” Robby watches him for a second, then lifts his beer again. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Jack gives him a brief look before his attention returns to you. His arm slides around your waist, drawing you against him before he kisses you. It lasts longer than the quick kiss you expected with everyone watching, his hand coming to your jaw while yours catches lightly at his shirt.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs when he pulls back.

“You’re welcome, honey.”

Seeing the way his expression eases makes the last couple weeks of evasive texts and quiet planning worth it.

Shen reaches Jack first and holds out one of the glasses in his hand. “Figured I’d save somebody the trip.” Jack studies it before taking it. “What is it?” Shen gives him a look. “Just drink it.”

Ellis laughs from the table as Jack takes a sip, and he draws you back against his side when you move closer. 

It doesn’t take long for Jack to relax into the night.

Food starts covering most of the table, Shen and Ellis get into a discussion about something that happened at work, and Robby makes it halfway through telling Dana a story before Jack cuts in from beside you. “That’s not what happened.”

Robby turns toward him. “You weren’t there.”

Jack takes a drink. “Exactly.” Shen laughs under his breath while Dana shakes her head, clearly content to let the two of them sort it out themselves.

“I’m not arguing,” Jack says, his fingers sliding a little higher over your knee beneath the table. Robby looks at you instead. “How do you live with him?”

Before you can answer, Jack’s thumb moves slowly over your skin. “Pretty happily.” You turn toward him, smiling. “Very happily.”

Jack takes another drink, looking satisfied with himself.

Ellis catches you near the bar while you’re waiting for another round. “How long have you been planning this?”

“A couple of weeks.”

She glances toward Robby. “And you managed to keep Robby quiet that long?”

You laugh. “Barely.” Robby calls something from behind you, but Ellis only smiles and lets it go.

When you look back toward the table, Jack is already watching you. Shen comes up beside him and sets another drink near his hand. Jack glances at the glass. “Another one?” Shen gives him a small shrug. “It’s your birthday.” Jack takes it, his eyes returning to you as you and Ellis make your way back.

His hand reaches for yours before you’ve completely sat down, threading your fingers together and bringing them against his thigh while he keeps listening to Ellis. When you lean into Jack’s shoulder, his face lowers into your hair. He stays there, breathing you in quietly before his mouth presses near your temple.

Ellis’s eyes flick briefly toward the two of you before she keeps talking. “Anyway, I told him if he wanted the consult done before midnight, he could stop calling every six minutes.”

“That sounds generous,” Jack says from somewhere near your hair.

Ellis glances toward him. “You’re barely listening to me.” Jack lifts his head just enough to look at her. “I heard every word.”

“You’re currently wearing your girlfriend.” His arm stays around you as he gives Ellis a flat look. “And?”

Ellis smiles and takes another drink. “Nothing. Carry on.”

“Having fun?” you ask quietly.

Jack rests his cheek against your hair. “Yeah. I expected dinner, not all this.”

“Too much?”

“No.” His arm tightens around you. “This is good.”

Robby returns from the bar and pushes a fresh drink toward Jack without interrupting the conversation. Jack glances at it. “You trying to get me drunk?”

Robby gives him a brief look. “Consider it your birthday gift.”

Jack takes a sip anyway.

At some point, Jack’s chair ends up close enough to yours that there’s barely any space between them. His thigh stays against yours beneath the table, one hand resting over your knee while the other holds his drink.

When you stand to move a couple empty glasses aside, Jack catches your hand before you get farther than his chair. “How long are we staying?”

You look down at him, already smiling a little. “You want to leave?”

“I like everybody here.” His thumb moves over your knuckles while his eyes flick briefly toward the table, then come back to you. “Just like you more.”

Something soft pulls through your chest. You bend to kiss him. “You’ll survive a little longer. Maybe an hour.”

Jack’s brows lift. “An hour?” He brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles before you can answer. “Baby, that’s excessive. People already came. I had the birthday.”

“You’re still having it, honey.”

“I know.” His hand moves along your side when you lean closer. “You did good. I’d still rather have you somewhere they aren’t.”

Your smile widens. “Very subtle.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

You bend to kiss him, and Jack catches the back of your neck before you can straighten. He keeps you close enough for another kiss, slower this time. “I want you to myself,” he murmurs.

“Later, baby.”

Jack exhales against your mouth. “Cruel.”

You kiss his cheek and slip your hand free.

By the time you make it back to Dana, Ellis is returning from the bar with two drinks. She passes one toward Jack on her way by, and he accepts it with a look. “Robby said it was yours,” she tells him with a shrug. Jack glances toward Robby before taking a drink, then his eyes find you again.

Dana follows his gaze. “He’s been watching for you every time you move.”

You smile and look back at Jack, who makes no attempt to pretend otherwise. “He’s affectionate.”

Dana’s expression softens. “He is with you.”

Jack comes up behind you before you can answer. His arms slide around your waist and draw you into him. One hand spreads across your stomach while the other rests over your hip. You reach back, fingers finding his hair as his mouth brushes your shoulder.

Dana keeps talking, although her eyes flick toward Jack when his face leans into your hair. His nose brushes lightly near your temple before he breathes you in, staying there with his cheek against you.

You turn carefully within his arms, and Jack lets you, his hands staying at your waist when you put both palms against his cheeks. His skin is warm beneath them, his eyes glassy when they lift to yours. He leans into your right hand before turning enough to kiss your palm. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi.” Your thumbs move along his cheekbones. “Having a good birthday?”

“Yeah.” Jack draws you a little closer between his arms, looking at you like he’s forgotten there’s anyone else nearby. “Better now.”

You smile. “I’ve been here all night.”

“You were over there,” he says, his hand moving slowly along your back. You laugh softly and keep your hands around his face.

His gaze moves over you before settling back on your eyes. “You’re pretty,” he murmurs. “Really fucking pretty.”

Your expression softens. “You’re very sweet tonight.”

Jack turns his face into your palm again. “I mean it, baby.” He kisses you when you lean in, following your mouth for another. “So beautiful.”

You stroke your thumb over his cheek. “I know you mean it.”

He keeps you tucked between his arms as he looks at you. “My pretty girl.”

Something about the quiet certainty of it catches beneath your ribs, and you bend to kiss him again.

Jack follows your mouth when you ease back, his hands staying around your waist. He looks at you with that soft, glassy focus he’s had on you and says, “You’re perfect.”

Your fingers move through his hair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, baby.” He leans into your touch again. “Fucking perfect.”

Jack’s arms tighten around you, his face settling against the side of your neck while your fingers move through his hair. His mouth brushes your skin before he says quietly, “You know I love you, right?”

“I know, honey.” You kiss his temple, and Jack stays wrapped around you while Dana keeps talking, making no attempt to hide how completely he’s attached himself to you now.

When he finally lifts his head, his hands stay firm around your waist. “Come home with me.”

You smile and smooth your fingers through his hair. “We are going home together.”

“Then take me home.” He follows your mouth when you lean in to kiss him, and when you pull back, his voice drops quieter. “Please?”

“Not yet, baby. Soon.”

Jack gives you a look. “How soon?”

You laugh softly, your thumb brushing his cheek. “You’re needy tonight.”

“Yeah,” he says easily, pulling you a little closer before kissing you again. “I am.”

Jack gives you another kiss before finally letting you turn back toward Dana.

The night starts winding down after that. Jack works his way through the food left on his plate, drinking water between stretches of conversation. The affection stays, only quieter now.

His palm stays over your knee while Ellis tells you about a patient from the other night. When you lean over to say something to Jack, his fingers drift to the back of your neck and remain there after you finish. Once, while Robby is talking, Jack turns your wrist and presses his mouth against the inside before lowering your joined hands back to his lap.

As the hour gets later, you end up leaning more heavily into his shoulder while he keeps you close. His cheek rests against your hair while he listens, your hand still loosely held in his lap.

You turn your face toward him. “Tired?”

“Mhm.” Jack presses a kiss into your hair when you ask, “You wanna call it, honey?”

“Been trying to get you to call it for an hour, sweetheart.”

Jack is still resting against you when Shen stands and reaches for his coat. He wishes Jack a happy birthday and gives you a quick hug on the way out, Ellis following a few minutes later with a squeeze to your arm and a quieter, “Happy birthday, Abbot.”

“Thanks,” Jack says, his hand settling at your waist when Ellis glances between the two of you. “She’ll take care of you.”

Jack looks at you. “I know.”

Robby and Dana are last. Robby gives Jack’s shoulder a firm squeeze on his way out. “Happy birthday, man.”

“Thanks,” Jack says.

Robby glances toward you. “She did good.”

Jack’s eyes move to yours. “Yeah. She did.”

Dana hugs you before turning toward Jack, cupping his cheek briefly and kissing the other one. “Goodnight, doll,” she tells you before looking at him. “Get him home.”

Jack glances your way. “Working on it.”

When the door closes behind them, Jack is already pulling you back against him, one hand sliding around your waist while the other rests near your hip. “You ready, baby?”

“I’ve been ready.” His mouth brushes yours when you smooth both hands up his chest. “I had a good time. I love you for doing this for me.”

Your fingers curl lightly at the back of his neck. “I love you too.”

Jack kisses you slowly, keeping you close when he pulls back. “Now please take me home, baby.” His thumb moves over your waist. “I’ve shared you enough. Want my pretty girl to myself.”

You kiss him again before murmuring against his mouth, “Okay, honey. Let’s go home.”

Jack looks at you for a second. “Thank you.”

Jack is quiet in the car, your hand resting in his lap while you lean into him. His cheek settles against your hair and his thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, the two of you tucked close together now that the bar is behind you.

“Pretty girl,” he says, pressing a kiss into your hair.

You smile. “You’re getting sleepy.”

“Still pretty,” Jack says, lifting your joined hands to kiss your fingers before letting them fall back into his lap. You tip your face toward him as he leans in and kisses your temple. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Jack leans against you again, keeping your hand in his.

By the time you get home, he looks ready for bed.

Jack locks the door while you slip out of your shoes, then follows you into the bedroom. He sits at the edge of the mattress when you step between his knees, his hands settling loosely against your hips.

You undo a few buttons on his shirt before lowering yourself to help with his prosthetic, your hands moving through the familiar routine while Jack’s fingers rest at the back of your neck. Once you’ve set it where he can reach it in the morning, you run your palm slowly along his thigh. “How’s your leg?”

“Sore,” Jack says, watching you.

“Want me to rub it?”

His fingers move into your hair. “Yeah, baby.”

You work your hands over the tired muscle, keeping the pressure where he likes it. Jack leans back slightly on one hand, his eyes following your movements.

You love taking care of him like this. And you love that he lets you.

When you straighten, Jack reaches for you immediately. His arms circle your waist and his mouth presses against your stomach through your dress.

You run your fingers through his hair while he holds you around the waist. “Tired, baby?”

“A little,” Jack admits.

You cup his jaw and bend to kiss him. His hands rest around your waist until you whisper against his mouth, “Lemme take care of you.”

One hand slides more firmly along your side as he looks up at you. “Please, sweetheart.”

You kiss him again, and Jack opens his mouth for you. His hands move over your waist while yours slide along his shoulders, and when you press into him, you’re the one who guides him back onto the mattress.

You follow him down, kissing his jaw and the side of his throat while his fingers slip beneath your dress. “Thought you were tired,” you say.

“I was.” Jack’s hand moves slowly over your thigh. “Then you said that.”

You smile and kiss him again, letting your mouth linger against his. “Then let me.”

You push his shirt aside and kiss your way down his chest, Jack helping you with the rest of his clothes as you move lower.

By the time your hand closes around his cock, his attention is fixed entirely on you. You stroke him before taking him into your mouth, drawing a rough exhale from him.

You love having him like this. His head tipped back against the pillows, one hand twisted into the sheets while the other rests against your hair without trying to guide you. Every breathless sound you pull from him makes you want another. There’s something almost greedy in how badly you want him to feel good.

You take him slowly at first, your hand working what your mouth doesn’t. Jack’s hand leaves the sheet and moves over your shoulder, his touch light even when another low curse slips from him.

You ease back just enough to keep your hand moving around him. “How does that feel, baby?”

Jack looks down at you, his voice low. “Fuck… your mouth feels so fucking good, sweetheart.”

You smile before taking him back into your mouth. His hips shift beneath you, restrained enough that you keep complete control over the pace. You lift off him again and kiss the inside of his thigh. “You’re doing so good for me, honey.”

Jack’s mouth parts around a breathless “Baby…”

“Just lemme take care of you.”

“I am.” Your hand tightens slightly around his cock, and Jack lets out a rough breath. “Fuck—believe me, I am.”

You take him into your mouth again, and the groan it pulls from him makes your own pussy ache. The deeper you take him, the more his voice breaks, and knowing he’ll tell you exactly what you’re doing to him only makes you want more.

“Sweetheart…” His fingers slide through your hair as you work your mouth over him. “Fuck, your mouth…”

You hum around his cock as Jack says, “Baby, you’re gonna make me come like this.”

You ease back, keeping your hand around him as you look up. “Tell me what you want.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours, his fingertips brushing your cheek. “Want you on top of me. Want you to ride my cock.”

You kiss the base of him before meeting his gaze again. “Ask me, baby.”

His thumb moves over your cheek. “Please. Ride my cock.”

You climb back over him and kiss him. Jack’s hands move over your thighs while you pull your dress off and get your underwear out of the way. You settle over his hips with his cock in your hand and guide him against your pussy, already slick enough for him to slide easily as you lower yourself onto him.

You start slowly because you want to watch him feel every inch of himself inside you. His hands stay around your thighs, and you love the restraint in them, the way he holds you without trying to choose the pace for you. Your own pleasure builds with every movement, your clit aching as you rock over him, but watching Jack come apart underneath you makes you want to drag it out just a little longer.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” Jack’s voice comes out ragged. “Feel so fucking good on my cock.”

One hand slides from your thigh to your waist as he says, “You’re fucking perfect, baby.”

The next slow roll of your hips pulls a groan from him. “Love this,” he says. “Love you riding me.”

You lean down and kiss him, his mouth opening beneath yours, and when you move a little harder over him, his voice breaks against your lips.

“Fuck—baby…” Your name follows quieter as you sit upright, Jack’s gaze dropping briefly between your bodies before returning to your face. “Your pussy feels so fucking good.”

You slow your hips, dragging the movement out over him. “Jack…”

His hand slides along your side as his attention locks onto you. “Fuck, baby. Say my name again… please.”

You do, rolling your hips over him as you bring your mouth back to his. Jack exhales at the sound of his name, one hand moving around your waist while the other starts down your thigh.

He stops and looks up at you. “Can I touch you, baby?”

You take his hand and guide it between your legs, positioning his fingers where you want them. “Right there.”

His thumb moves over your clit and your rhythm slips before you find it again. Jack watches your face closely. “Like that?”

“Yeah…” You adjust his hand once more and let go. “Keep touching me like that, Jack.”

His hand stays where you put it while you fuck him, the pressure over your clit steady enough to pull a curse out of you. “Feels good?” Jack asks.

“So fucking good,” you breathe, keeping your rhythm over his cock.

Having Jack underneath you while he touches you makes it harder to hold onto your pace, and every time your rhythm falters, another uneven sound leaves him.

“Look at you,” Jack says. “Fuck, sweetheart… you’re beautiful.”

You lean forward, one hand spreading over his chest as your pace picks up over him. His mouth parts around a low curse, but his thumb keeps the pressure where you need it.

His other hand slides along your hip as your body starts tightening around him, and your pace begins to break. “Baby…” you breathe. “I’m close.”

Jack doesn’t let up, his fingers keeping the same rhythm over your clit. “Come on my cock, baby… please. Wanna feel you.” His voice drops lower as your body tightens around him. “Please, sweetheart… wanna feel your pussy come around me.”

Your orgasm takes you before you can answer, your pussy tightening around his cock as Jack’s name leaves you breathless. You brace yourself over him and his mouth finds yours, his thumb staying on your clit through the first hard rush until you catch his wrist and he immediately moves his hand around your waist instead.

You’re still coming when Jack moans beneath you, the sound breaking against your mouth. “Baby…”

As the hardest pulses begin to ease, you manage another slow movement over him and feel how close he is, every drag of his cock still sharp against your sensitive body.

Jack pulls you closer against him. “Make me come, baby,” he says against your cheek. “Please.”

You kiss along his jaw and keep moving. Jack’s voice comes out strained. “Sweetheart… wanna come inside you.”

You bring your mouth back to his. “Come for me, Jack.”

Jack comes with your name broken against your mouth, his cock pulsing deep inside you as his arm locks around your back. You kiss him through it, slowing your hips as the tension gradually leaves his body.

You start to lift yourself off him, but Jack’s arm firms around your waist before you get very far. “Wait.”

You look down at him as his other hand slides over your side. “Stay here, baby.” His thumb moves against your skin. “Just… stay with me a little.”

You lower yourself against him again, your cheek near his shoulder while his arms close around you. Your fingertips trace lazily over his chest. “Comfortable?” you murmur.

“Very,” he says, his mouth brushing your temple when you shift against him.

You smile. “You gonna let me move eventually?”

“Eventually.” Jack keeps his arm around your waist, and you settle back against him without trying again.

Later, once you separate, you bring him water before climbing under the covers. Jack drinks, sets the glass aside and reaches for you immediately.

You curl into him beneath the covers. “Happy birthday, baby.”

Jack presses his mouth against your shoulder. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too.”

Jack tucks his face against your neck like he did at the bar, except there’s no alcohol left in him now. Just warmth and exhaustion and the familiar weight of him against you. You wrap your arms around him and kiss his hair because you love this part too. Maybe most of all. Getting to love Jack in all the ordinary ways he lets you.

There was something deeply unsettling about hearing people tell you that you looked happy when you knew you didn’t.

“You look beautiful.”

You smiled because that was what you were supposed to do.

“Oh my God. Look at you.”

Another smile.

“You’re glowing.”

That one nearly made you laugh. Instead, you looked at yourself in the mirror while your sister carefully adjusted the veil pinned into your hair and tried to work out when the woman staring back at you had started looking like a stranger. She looked like a bride. There was no arguing with that.

The dress was beautiful. Long sleeves, a fitted bodice, tiny satin buttons running all the way down your back before giving way to a skirt that pooled around the chair beneath you. Your mother had cried when you came out of the dressing room in it. Nathan’s mother had cried too.

Nathan had smiled and said it was perfect. So you had bought it. Your hair had taken almost two hours. Makeup had taken another hour. Champagne had appeared in your hand somewhere between photographs and someone fixing a loose curl near your temple, and you had barely touched it. Everything was perfect.

The flowers had arrived on time. The weather had somehow held despite rain being forecast all week. Every handwritten place card had been arranged downstairs, including the ones Nathan had initially thought were unnecessary until his mother decided the tables would look unfinished without them.

One hundred and forty-three guests were waiting somewhere beyond the bridal suite. Your parents had already cried twice. Your bridesmaids had taken approximately four hundred photographs. And you felt like you were going to throw up.

“You okay?”

You met your sister’s eyes through the mirror.

“Yeah.”

The answer came so automatically that neither of you seemed to hear it.

She gave you a small smile. “Cold feet?”

“No.”

At least that part was true. Cold feet sounded almost comforting.

Cold feet were supposed to be nerves about standing in front of everyone or tripping over your dress. Brides worried about rain. They worried about forgetting their vows or whether the photographer would get their good side or whether an uncle who had been warned three separate times would still make an inappropriate speech.

They weren’t supposed to wake before dawn with the terrifying certainty that something was wrong and then spend six hours trying to convince themselves otherwise. You put the champagne down.

“I just need a minute.”

Your sister’s hands stilled against your veil. “Want me to clear everyone out?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

She studied you for another second before nodding. Of course it was fine. Everything was always fine. That had become something of a talent over the last year. Nathan wasn’t a bad man. That was almost the problem.

There was no dramatic betrayal you could point to. No screaming argument. No moment where the people who loved you could gather around and tell you there was only one obvious decision to make.

Nathan was the man who had driven forty minutes across Pittsburgh when your car battery died after a shift. He remembered your coffee order. When your father had surgery, Nathan had brought food to your parents’ house and stayed until your mother finally agreed to sleep. He knew you hated coriander, that you needed the room cold at night and that the fastest way to improve a bad morning was to bring you something sweet with your coffee.

He loved you. You loved him. But Nathan liked quiet evenings at home. You liked staying for breakfast after a night shift because Robby had somehow convinced everyone that pancakes at eight in the morning were essential to team morale. Nathan liked knowing what the week looked like before it began.

Your phone could ring at any hour and completely rearrange yours. Nathan talked about eventually leaving the city. You loved Pittsburgh in spite of how frequently you complained about it. He imagined Sundays with nowhere to be.

You had once voluntarily spent your only free Sunday helping Robby move a sofa that did not fit through his front door. None of those things should have mattered. At least, that was what you had kept telling yourself. Relationships required compromise.

Nathan had never told you that you couldn’t take the trauma lead rotation when it opened. He had only asked what it would mean for the already limited time you had together. You had said you didn’t need the extra responsibility anyway.

He hadn’t asked you to stop going for breakfast after overnight shifts. He had only admitted that he hated waking up alone when you had promised you would come straight home. You started going home.

Once, before dinner with his colleagues, Nathan had looked at your favourite green dress and said, “I thought we were going a little more understated tonight.”

You had changed before he could tell you it was fine. He had looked confused when you came back out. You had laughed it off. It wasn’t that Nathan had spent three years sanding pieces off you. It was that you had become very good at doing it yourself. A shift here. A compromise there.

One tiny adjustment after another because Nathan was easy to love when you were easy to be with. You had told yourself that was adulthood. That was partnership. That was what choosing someone looked like. You had been doing such a convincing job of it that you almost believed yourself. Until last night.

Until Jack found you outside your own rehearsal dinner and asked the one question you had spent months avoiding.

Do you want to marry him?

Not whether you loved Nathan. Not whether Nathan loved you. Not whether your parents adored him. Not whether the venue had been paid for or relatives had flown in or your mother had spent three weeks arguing with the florist over the exact shade of ivory. Jack had stripped all of it away.

Do you want to marry him? You closed your eyes. Immediately, you were back on the terrace. Warm light had spilled through the open doors behind you. Someone inside was laughing loudly enough that you were almost certain it was Robby. Music hummed beneath the conversation and glasses clinked as people toasted your future.

You had slipped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody asked whether you were excited. Jack found you anyway.

“You disappeared.”

You kept both hands around the stone railing. “I needed air.”

He came to stand beside you. Neither of you spoke for a while. That had always been easy with Jack. Silence had never been something the two of you needed to fill. Eventually, he glanced over.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“No, you’re not.”

You looked at him.

“You talk constantly.”

“Thank you.”

“You narrate procedures nobody asked you to narrate. You complain about the coffee every morning and then drink three cups of it. You send me pictures of every dog you see on the street.”

“They’re good dogs.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t.”

You smiled despite yourself. Jack noticed. He always noticed. The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it came. His expression changed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He waited.

You sighed. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you look like you’re waiting for someone to tell you there’s been a fire.”

“I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to be happy for me.”

Jack looked through the open doors. Nathan stood beside your father with one hand around a glass, laughing at something your uncle was saying.

“I want you to be happy.”

Your stomach tightened. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

You turned fully toward him.

“What is going on with you?”

Jack’s jaw shifted.

“He embarrassed you at dinner.”

“What?”

“Nathan.”

“He didn’t embarrass me.”

“He told a room full of people you’d probably answer your pager during the vows.”

“He was joking.”

“I know.”

“Everyone laughed.”

“I know.”

Jack looked at you. You hated how little judgment there was in his face.

“He’s not wrong,” you said. “I work too much.”

“You love your job.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t work too much.”

“No.”

“See?”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Jack shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

“You used to argue about it.”

You frowned. “About what?”

“Everything.”

“That’s not true.”

“You once spent twenty minutes explaining to me why Robby was objectively wrong about the best pizza place in Pittsburgh.”

“He was objectively wrong.”

“You sent him a spreadsheet.”

“It had three columns.”

“My point exactly.”

A reluctant laugh escaped you. Jack didn’t smile.

“You used to have an opinion about everything.”

“I still do.”

“Do you?”

The question irritated you more than it should have.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Jack looked away for a moment.

“I know I’m biased.”

Your heartbeat changed.

“Why would you be biased?”

He didn’t answer. You knew. Or maybe you had always hoped you knew. There had been moments over the years when you were certain Jack looked at you differently. His hand lingering against your back after a difficult case.

His face too close to yours inside an elevator until the doors opened and whatever had almost happened vanished with the sound. The night he sat on your kitchen floor after your father’s surgery because you couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to be alone. Nothing ever came of any of it.

Then Nathan came along and actually asked you out. Jack continued before you could say anything.

“For a long time, I assumed anything that bothered me about Nathan bothered me because I didn’t like the fact you were with him.”

Your throat tightened.

“And now?”

“Robby asked me if you were okay.”

You blinked. “Robby?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he noticed too.”

“Noticed what?”

Jack looked back at you.

“That you don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m planning a wedding. I’m exhausted.”

“I know.”

“You’re making this into something it isn’t.”

“Maybe.”

“Then stop.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

The agreement should have relieved you. Instead, your chest hurt. You folded your arms.

“You have had years to care what I do, Jack.”

His expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.

“You don’t get to stand here the night before my wedding and suddenly decide you have opinions about my life.”

“I’ve always had opinions.”

“Then maybe you should have said something.”

“I didn’t think it was my place.”

“No. Apparently not.”

You turned away. His voice came quietly behind you.

“Do you want to marry him?”

Everything stopped. You looked back.

“What?”

Jack didn’t move.

“Do you want to marry Nathan?”

Your heart started pounding.

“That is a horrible question to ask me tonight.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“I love him.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“My family loves him.”

“Still not what I asked.”

“We’ve been together for three years.”

Jack’s expression softened, which somehow made it worse.

“The wedding is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Everything is paid for.”

“I know.”

“People have flown in.”

“I know.”

“There are a hundred and forty people coming.”

“One hundred and forty-three.”

You stared at him. His mouth twitched. It nearly broke you.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Probably.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet for a long moment.

“Because I need to know you’re choosing this.”

“You need to know?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t get to need anything from me tonight.”

“You’re right.”

“Then stop.”

Jack nodded.

“I will.”

Some stupid, aching part of you wanted him not to. Maybe that was why you said it.

“You’re jealous.”

You expected denial.

Instead, Jack said, “Yes.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve been jealous since the first time you brought him into the Pitt.”

“Jack.”

“That’s why I kept my mouth shut. Every time I worried about you, I told myself I wasn’t seeing things clearly because I wanted you.”

You stared at him.

“And I do.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

“You cannot say that now.”

“I know.”

“You had years.”

“I know.”

“You can’t wait until the night before I marry somebody else to finally tell me.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because this stopped being about me wanting you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re unhappy.”

“I’m stressed.”

“You’re unhappy.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Maybe.”

“You want me to leave him for you?”

Jack answered immediately.

“No.”

You blinked.

“No?”

“No.”

It hurt more than it had any right to. Jack stepped closer.

“I want you not to marry somebody you don’t want to marry.”

“And then what?”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s convenient.”

“If you walk away tomorrow and tell me there will never be anything between us, I’ll live with it.”

“Jack.”

“If you never forgive me for asking you this tonight, I’ll live with that too.”

Your eyes filled.

“But don’t marry him because everyone has already taken their seats.”

You stared at him. Jack asked again, quieter this time.

“Do you want to marry him?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. That was the worst part. There was no answer hiding beneath wedding stress or panic. There was simply nothing. You hated Jack for hearing it. You hated yourself for letting him. So you walked away. You hadn’t seen him since. Until someone knocked on the bridal suite door.

Your sister glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

The door opened before she reached it. Robby appeared. His suit jacket was open and his tie sat slightly crooked, suggesting he had already attempted to fix it several times before accepting defeat. Your chest tightened.

“Hey.”

Robby gave you a small smile. “Hey.”

Your sister looked between you.

“Do you need a minute?”

Robby lifted both hands. “I’m not here to kidnap the bride.”

“Comforting.”

She squeezed your shoulder before returning to the other side of the room. Robby waited until everyone was distracted by another round of photographs before coming closer.

“You look beautiful.”

You grimaced.

“Please don’t.”

He nodded immediately. “Okay.”

That was Robby. No argument. No insistence that he meant it nicely. Just okay. He looked at you for another second.

“You doing all right?”

“You too?”

“I’m asking as your friend, not as a member of the bridal interrogation committee.”

You looked down at your hands. Robby softened.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“What did Jack tell you?”

“Very little.”

“That means he told you something.”

“He told me you talked.”

Your eyes went to the mirror.

“Did he tell you what he said?”

“No.”

Robby paused.

“But I know Jack.”

“So do I.”

“Unfortunately.”

That pulled a small smile from you. Then Robby reached inside his jacket.

“He asked me to give you something.”

Your pulse stumbled. A small cream envelope appeared between his fingers. Your initials were written across the front. Nothing else.

“Robby.”

“I didn’t read it.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“Not exactly.”

“But?”

His expression turned more serious.

“I know where Jack is.”

Your heart started beating harder.

“Where?”

Robby held the envelope out.

“Read it.”

Your fingers shook as you opened it. There were only a few lines.

Side entrance. Until the ceremony starts.

If you want to leave, I’ll drive. No questions.

If you don’t come, I’ll never mention last night again.

J.

You read it once. Then again. By the third time, the words had started blurring.

“He’s outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Waiting for me?”

“If you need him.”

You folded the note slowly.

“What do you think I should do?”

Robby’s face softened.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Robby.”

“I mean it.”

“I need somebody to tell me.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your eyes stung. He stepped closer.

“You’ve spent months letting everybody tell you what you should want. I’m not adding my voice to the pile.”

“What if I disappoint everyone?”

“You probably will.”

A startled laugh escaped you. Robby smiled gently.

“People survive disappointment.”

“And Nathan?”

His smile faded.

“He’ll get hurt.”

Your chest tightened.

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“Does that mean I should marry him?”

“No.”

You looked up sharply. Robby shrugged.

“You asked a different question.”

Despite everything, you laughed. He squeezed your hand.

“Whatever you decide, I’m still your friend when you walk out of this room. If you go downstairs and marry Nathan, I’m your friend. If you walk out the side door and make Jack commit grand theft bride, I’m still your friend.”

“Grand theft bride?”

“I’m trying to lighten the mood.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“I know.”

You looked down at the envelope. Robby squeezed your hand once more.

“Just make sure whatever happens next is because you chose it.”

Then he left. For several seconds, you simply stood there with the note in your hand. You tucked it into the small pocket hidden inside your dress and returned to the mirror. Twenty minutes later, your sister appeared behind you holding your bouquet.

“We’re almost there.”

Your stomach rolled.

“Okay.”

She handed you the flowers, then stepped back to look at you. Something in her expression changed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed. You’re my sister.”

You tried to smile. Her gaze travelled to your hair.

“Oh. Nathan sent a message.”

Every muscle in your body seemed to tighten.

“What message?”

“He asked his best man whether you decided to pin your hair up after all. Apparently he thought that was the plan.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Your hair fell over your shoulders in loose waves. You had wanted it down. Nathan preferred it up. It had been such a small conversation that you had forgotten about it. Two weeks ago, you had shown him the hairstyle. He had tilted his head.

“I thought you were going with the updo.”

“I like this better.”

“It looks nice.”

You had waited. Nathan smiled.

“If you love it, wear it. I just thought the other one looked a little more like what we pictured.”

What we pictured.

You hadn’t even noticed the words at the time. Now your hand automatically reached for one of the pins on the dressing table. Your sister watched.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll just put it up.”

“I thought you wanted it down.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Your hand stopped. It doesn’t matter. How many times had you said that? Breakfast doesn’t matter. The rotation doesn’t matter. The green dress doesn’t matter. One Sunday with your friends doesn’t matter. Your hair certainly doesn’t matter. None of those things mattered individually.

But somehow, when you gathered all of them together, they looked an awful lot like you. You stared at your reflection. Nathan had never asked you to disappear. That might have been harder to admit.

He had simply shown you the life he wanted, and because you loved him, you had kept trying to fit inside it.

He wanted evenings at home and weekends planned weeks in advance. He wanted fewer interrupted dinners, fewer overnight shifts, fewer mornings where you came through the door laughing about something Robby had done instead of coming straight to bed. There was nothing wrong with wanting those things. There was nothing wrong with Nathan.

But there was something deeply wrong with standing here in a wedding dress and realising you had spent three years treating the parts of yourself that didn't fit his life like inconveniences to be managed. You slowly set the pin back down.

“Leave it.”

Your sister looked at you through the mirror.

“You sure?”

For once, you didn’t answer immediately. Then you nodded.

“Yeah.”

A knock came from the door.

“Five minutes!”

The bridal suite erupted around you. Someone went to find your father. Your champagne disappeared. Your sister fixed the train of your dress while one of your bridesmaids checked your lipstick for the third time. Everything accelerated. You were ushered into the corridor. Your father was waiting at the end of it.

His eyes filled the second he saw you.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Your throat closed.

“Dad.”

He kissed your forehead carefully so he wouldn’t disturb your makeup.

“You look beautiful.”

This time, the words hurt. You slipped your arm through his. Somewhere beyond the closed double doors, the music changed. The murmur of the guests softened. Your pulse started thudding in your ears. Someone adjusted your veil. Your bouquet suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

The flowers smelled too strong. Your shoes pinched at your toes. The neckline of your dress seemed tighter than it had upstairs. You could hear one hundred and forty-three people settling into silence. Waiting. Your father’s hand covered yours.

“You ready?”

The answer rose automatically. Yes. Of course you were ready. You had spent a year getting ready. The venue was booked. The cake was downstairs. Nathan was standing at the end of the aisle. Your mother was sitting in the front row beside people who had travelled hundreds of miles to watch this happen.

You were wearing a dress worth more than your first car. Everybody was waiting. You had to be ready. Your fingers brushed the side of your skirt. Jack’s note pressed against them from inside the pocket.

If you want to leave, I’ll drive.

You closed your eyes. The music swelled. You pictured Nathan waiting. Then you pictured tomorrow. A week from now. A year. Not some terrible future. That was what finally frightened you. You could see it too easily. A nice house somewhere quieter. Nathan making coffee on Sunday morning. Dinner with your parents.

A job you still liked but had slowly learned to give less of yourself to because there was always another reason home needed to come first. You could see yourself happy sometimes. Maybe even often. And still not quite yourself. The wedding coordinator reached for the door. Your father squeezed your hand.

You realised suddenly that you weren’t terrified because you thought marrying Nathan would destroy your life. You were terrified because it probably wouldn’t. You could build a perfectly good life with him. It just wouldn’t be yours. The coordinator smiled.

“Ready?”

Your mouth opened.

“No.”

She blinked. Your father went completely still beside you.

“What?”

Your voice shook.

“No.”

The word barely came out. Then you said it again.

“I’m not ready.”

The coordinator stared. Your father turned toward you. You couldn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I can’t.”

Your eyes filled.

“I thought I could. I thought I was just nervous, but I can’t do this.”

The music continued faintly on the other side of the doors. Your father’s face changed. Shock first, then worry, then something softer.

“Do you want to go in there?”

You looked at the doors. At the life waiting on the other side.

“No.”

That answer came immediately. Your father nodded once.

“Then you don’t go.”

Your breath broke.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Not to me.”

You finally looked at him. His hand tightened around yours.

“You don’t owe me a wedding.”

“Dad.”

“We’ll figure out the rest.”

Behind you, somebody called your name. Your sister appeared around the corner and stopped.

“What happened?”

“I can’t do it.”

The wedding coordinator was already whispering urgently into a headset. The music faltered. Your mother appeared at the far end of the corridor. Suddenly there were too many voices. Your name from three different directions. Someone saying Nathan needed to know. Your mother asking what was wrong. Someone else asking whether you needed water.

Your chest tightened.

“I need to get out.”

Your sister caught your arm.

“Where?”

“Just out.”

You looked at your father. He seemed to understand before you said anything else.

“Go.”

Your throat closed.

“We’ve got this.”

You nodded once. Then you gathered your dress in both hands and ran.

Jack checked the time. Three o’clock. The side entrance hadn’t opened. He stared at it for a few more seconds before leaning back against the headrest. That was it. He had promised himself he would wait until the ceremony began. No longer. If you chose Nathan, Jack would respect it.

He wouldn’t sit through the wedding. He had already accepted that he wasn’t capable of that particular form of self-inflicted torture. He would go home. On Monday, if you came into the Pitt wearing a wedding ring, he would congratulate you. He would never mention the terrace again. Jack started the engine.

Inside, the music would be playing. Guests would be standing. You would be taking your father’s arm. He put the car into drive. The side door flew open. Jack slammed his foot onto the brake. For one ridiculous second, all he saw was white. An enormous amount of white. Then you appeared.

One hand held your dress off the ground. The other gripped your bouquet so tightly the stems looked ready to snap. Jack stared. You stared back. Someone shouted your name from inside. You ran. Jack barely had time to throw his jacket into the back seat before you yanked open the passenger door.

Your dress did not fit. Not even remotely. You shoved layers of satin into the footwell, sat on another portion of the skirt and attempted to pull the door closed. Jack continued staring.

“Drive.”

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

Another voice called from the doorway. You looked at him.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Drive the fucking car.”

He drove. Your phone started ringing before you were halfway down the road. Nathan. You stared at his name. Declined. It rang again immediately. Your mother. Then your sister. Then Nathan again. You turned the phone face down on your lap. Jack kept both hands on the steering wheel. He didn’t ask what had happened.

He didn’t ask whether you had spoken to Nathan. He didn’t say he had known you would come. You appreciated his silence for approximately thirty seconds. Then the adrenaline hit.

“Oh my God.”

Jack glanced over.

“Oh my God.”

“You all right?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I just stopped my wedding.”

“Yes.”

“I ran out.”

“I noticed.”

“In the dress.”

“That was harder to miss.”

You looked down. There was enough white fabric inside Jack’s car to upholster a sofa. A strange sound escaped you, half laugh and half sob. Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

You hit his arm with your bouquet. Jack laughed. Actually laughed. That was enough. Your own laughter came harder until you were bent forward as much as the dress allowed, tears running down your cheeks. Then, without warning, it broke. One second you were laughing. The next you were sobbing. Jack’s expression changed instantly.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I left him there.”

Jack pulled into an empty car park. Your head snapped toward him.

“What are you doing?”

“Stopping.”

“No.”

“We’re away from the venue.”

“Not enough.”

He looked at you. Really looked. Then nodded.

“Okay.”

No argument. He put the car back into drive. Your phone rang again. You switched it off. Jack’s buzzed in the cup holder almost immediately. Robby. Then Dana. Then Robby again. You stared at it.

“Don’t answer.”

“I won’t.”

“What if something’s wrong?”

“If Robby keeps calling, I’ll check.”

His phone buzzed a third time. Jack sighed.

“Of course.”

He answered through the car.

“Robby.”

“Is she with you?”

You heard Robby clearly.

Jack glanced over. “Yes.”

“Is she safe?”

“Yes.”

You covered your mouth as fresh tears threatened. Robby exhaled.

“Okay. Her parents know she’s safe. I’m staying here with them. That’s all she needs to know.”

You swallowed.

“Robby?”

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nope.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

“Not today.”

“What about Nathan?”

There was a brief pause.

“He’s with his family.”

Your chest hurt.

“Okay.”

“You don’t need to sort everything out right now. Go somewhere quiet.”

You closed your eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Then, after a beat, “Make Abbott feed you.”

Jack frowned at the dashboard.

“I can hear you.”

“I know.”

The call ended. Silence filled the car again.

Jack drove another few blocks before asking, “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“My place?”

You hesitated.

He immediately added, “Guest room. Closed door. I’ll disappear if you want.”

Something inside you loosened.

“Your place.”

“Okay.”

The first thing you did inside Jack’s apartment was kick off your shoes. They landed several feet apart in his hallway. Jack looked down at them.

“Feel better?”

“Immensely.”

He closed the door behind you. For the first time since you had run from the venue, there was no noise. No phone ringing. No one calling your name. No questions being thrown at you faster than you could answer them.

You stood in the middle of Jack’s apartment wearing a wedding dress you were no longer getting married in. The absurdity nearly made you laugh again. Then you shifted and winced. Jack noticed.

“What?”

“The dress.”

“What about it?”

“I can’t breathe.”

His eyebrows rose.

“That seems like a design flaw.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I’ve been told.”

You reached behind yourself and immediately gave up.

“There are buttons.”

Jack looked at your back.

“A lot of buttons.”

“Forty-seven.”

“Why do you know that?”

“My sister counted them while helping me into it.”

Jack stared at the row running down your spine.

“This feels hostile.”

Despite everything, you smiled.

“Will you help me?”

His gaze lifted to yours. The humour disappeared.

“Yeah.”

You walked into the bedroom and stopped in front of the mirror. Jack came up behind you. For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he asked quietly, “Okay?”

You nodded. His fingers found the first button. Then another. And another. The room was so quiet you could hear your own breathing. Jack worked carefully, touching only what he needed to. Each tiny button slipped free beneath his fingers. You watched him in the mirror. There was something strange about seeing him there.

Jack, still wearing the suit he had intended to wear to your wedding. You, standing in a dress Nathan had loved. You swallowed.

“You should’ve seen the first one.”

Jack’s hands stilled for half a second. Then continued.

“I did.”

You frowned at him through the mirror.

“What?”

“You showed me a picture.”

“When?”

“Break room. Three in the morning.”

The memory came back slowly. You shoving your phone toward Jack after a long shift because you had been too excited to keep it to yourself. Soft ivory. Thin straps. Low back. You had known the second you saw yourself in it. That one.

You remembered Jack looking at the photograph for a few seconds longer than expected, then handing your phone back. You had assumed he simply had no opinion on wedding dresses.

“What did you think?”

His eyes met yours in the mirror.

“I thought you looked happy.”

Your throat tightened. Jack released another button.

“I loved it.”

He said nothing.

“Nathan didn’t.”

Jack’s hands paused.

“He hated it?”

“No.”

You stared at yourself.

“That would almost make more sense.”

Jack waited.

“He said it was beautiful. He just said it wasn’t what he pictured.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

You laughed once, but there was no humour in it.

“He told me if I loved it, I should get it.”

Jack’s gaze met yours.

“I returned it three days later.”

“Did he ask you to?”

“No.”

That word sat between you. You looked away from your reflection.

“He didn’t.”

Jack continued with the buttons. You swallowed.

“I kept doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Making the decision for him.”

Jack didn’t answer. You were grateful.

“I knew what Nathan liked. I knew what kind of life he wanted. And every time something about me didn’t fit, I changed it before he ever had to ask.”

Another button came loose.

“He probably thought I wanted half of it.”

Your voice shook.

“I kept telling him I did.”

Jack’s eyes met yours in the mirror.

“Nathan wanted a quieter life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No.”

“He wanted someone who wanted to come home after work instead of staying because Robby had convinced everyone to go for pancakes.”

“That was one time.”

“It was not one time.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. Then it faded.

“I think I kept believing that if I loved him enough, eventually his life would feel like mine.”

Jack freed another button.

“And it didn’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes burned.

“Maybe that’s not his fault.”

“No.”

You turned your head slightly. Jack’s expression was gentle.

“That doesn’t make it yours either.”

The words landed quietly. You looked back at the mirror. His fingers continued down your back. The dress loosened around you. For the first time all day, someone was touching you without trying to arrange you. Nobody was pinning your hair. Adjusting your veil. Moving your bouquet.

Telling you where to stand or which direction to turn your shoulders for a photograph. Jack was simply helping you out of something you no longer wanted to wear. Nothing more. By the time he reached the final button, your vision had blurred. He saw your face in the mirror.

“You okay?”

You laughed quietly.

“I genuinely don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

The last button came undone. Jack stepped back immediately. The dress loosened around your shoulders.

“I’ll get you something to wear.”

“Jack.”

He stopped at the doorway.

“Thank you.”

His face softened.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know.”

That answer caught him. You swallowed.

“I still want to.”

Jack nodded once. Then left. You stepped out of the dress. It collapsed around your feet in a pool of white satin. For a moment, you stood there looking down at it. You had expected taking it off to destroy you. Instead, you could breathe.

You changed into one of Jack’s old T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants that needed to be rolled twice at the waist. The dress ended up draped across the chair, beautiful and expensive and perfect for a wedding that was never going to happen.

When you walked into the living room, Jack was putting his phone down.

“Robby?”

“Dana.”

“Oh God.”

“She has several opinions.”

“I’m shocked.”

“She also says your parents are calmer now that Robby’s there.”

Your throat tightened.

“He stayed?”

“Apparently he’s been making tea for everyone.”

“Of course he has.”

Jack nodded toward the couch.

“Sit.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Bossy.”

“You stopped your wedding. I think I’m allowed to insist on toast.”

“That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

You sat. Jack made toast. You ate half a slice. He didn’t comment on the other half. For almost an hour, neither of you said anything important. You wondered where your veil had gone. Jack suggested it was probably in his car. You asked whether your cousin had filmed you running.

Jack said with complete certainty that someone had filmed you running. You told him you were changing your name and leaving the country. He pointed out that Canada was surprisingly close. You called him useless. Eventually, the light outside shifted. The panic eased enough for guilt to take its place.

You curled your legs beneath yourself on the couch.

“My dad must be devastated.”

“Probably.”

“My mother definitely is.”

“Probably.”

“I humiliated Nathan.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. You looked at him. He was sitting in the chair opposite you, tie gone now, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Yes.”

Your eyes filled.

“You could lie occasionally.”

“I could.”

“Jack.”

“You want me to tell you Nathan isn’t hurt?”

You looked down.

“No.”

“He is.”

Your throat tightened.

“You hurt him today.”

“I know.”

“Your parents are upset. People travelled. Money was spent. A lot of people had a very bad afternoon.”

You gave him a watery glare.

“You’re terrible at comforting people.”

“I’m not finished.”

You waited.

“None of that means you should have married him.”

Your face crumpled.

“I should’ve ended it sooner.”

“Yes.”

“Jack.”

“You should have.”

“I know.”

He softened.

“But doing something too late doesn’t mean you have to do the wrong thing because it would be more convenient for everyone else.”

You rubbed your palms over your eyes.

“I feel awful.”

“That makes sense.”

“I didn’t even tell Nathan myself.”

“You were panicking.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No.”

You looked at Jack. He wasn’t going to make Nathan into a villain for you. Somehow, you needed that. Nathan hadn’t deserved to stand in front of a room full of people and realise you weren’t coming. You could admit that. You could apologise for that.

It didn’t mean you had to wish you had walked through those doors.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

You glanced toward the bedroom. The dress was visible through the open door.

“I thought I’d be devastated.”

Jack said nothing.

“I’m not.”

His eyes stayed on you.

“I feel guilty. I feel sick when I think about turning my phone back on. I’m terrified my mother is going to ask me what happened and I won’t know how to explain it.”

“She’ll ask.”

“Helpful.”

“She’ll still love you.”

You looked at him.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve met your mother.”

A small laugh escaped you. Then you looked back at the dress.

“But mostly I feel relieved.”

Jack nodded. That was all. No satisfaction. No triumph. No quiet little expression that said he had known better all along. Just a nod. It made your chest ache. Silence settled between you. This one felt different. You could feel last night sitting there too. The terrace. The question.

Jack admitting something you had spent years wondering about. You opened your mouth.

“Was it true?”

Jack went still.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You know what I mean.”

He looked away briefly. Then back.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“Before Nathan.”

Your heartbeat picked up.

“You wanted me before Nathan?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Jack rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“Because I was an idiot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an accurate summary.”

“Jack.”

“You were my friend. We worked together. I kept thinking that if I got it wrong, I’d ruin something I didn’t want to lose.”

Your chest tightened.

“So you did nothing.”

“Yes.”

“For years.”

“Yes.”

“That was stupid.”

“I believe I covered that.”

You almost smiled.

“Then Nathan came along.”

Jack’s expression shifted.

“You looked happy.”

“At first, I was.”

“I know.”

“You thought you missed your chance.”

“Yes.”

Simple. No dramatic excuse. No grand tragedy. Just two people who had spent years almost saying something until someone else arrived first.

“And when I stopped being happy?”

Jack leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees.

“That was harder.”

“Because you didn’t trust yourself.”

“Yes.”

He looked at you.

“I wanted you. I didn’t like him. Every concern I had felt compromised by that.”

“So you waited.”

“Too long.”

“Until last night.”

“You looked terrified.”

“I thought I was hiding it.”

“You were.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You hid it from people who weren’t looking.”

Your throat tightened.

“And you were?”

Jack answered before he seemed to think about it.

“I’m always looking at you.”

The words came so simply that they took a second to land. Jack seemed to realise what he had said at exactly the same moment. His eyes shifted away. Your heart gave one painful thud. You swallowed.

“The note.”

He looked back.

“What about it?”

“You really would have left if I didn’t come out?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t have gone inside?”

“No.”

“And Monday?”

Jack understood.

“I would have congratulated you.”

Your eyes filled.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jack.”

“I would’ve figured it out.”

You stared at him.

“You weren’t sitting out there thinking that if I left Nathan, I’d finally be yours.”

His expression changed immediately.

“No.”

The answer was firm.

“If you had come out, gotten into my car and told me there would never be anything romantic between us, I still would have driven.”

Your throat tightened.

“Why?”

Jack stood. He crossed part of the room but stopped before reaching you.

“Because you needed to know there was another door.”

You looked at him.

“That’s all.”

Something in your chest cracked. You stood and closed the remaining distance. Jack barely had time to react before you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face against his chest. He froze for half a heartbeat. Then his arms came around you.

One hand settled against the back of your head. The other rested between your shoulder blades. You cried again. Apparently that was simply your personality now.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

“I’m ruining your shirt.”

“I own others.”

“I ruined an entire wedding.”

“That was considerably more expensive.”

You laughed against him. Jack’s arms tightened. You stayed there until your breathing slowed. Until the apartment became dark around you. Until you realised that for the first time in months, you weren’t trying to work out what the person holding you wanted from you.

Eventually, Jack murmured, “You should sleep.”

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“What about you?”

“Couch.”

“This is your apartment.”

“I’m aware.”

“You can sleep in your own bed.”

“I think boundaries are probably useful tonight.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From me.”

“Among others.”

You looked toward the bedroom. Then back at him.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you were there.”

His face softened.

“So am I.”

You woke to the smell of coffee. For several seconds, you had no idea where you were. Then you saw the dress. White satin draped across Jack’s chair like evidence from a particularly expensive crime scene.

“Oh.”

Everything returned. The corridor. Your father asking if you wanted to go through the doors. Saying no. Running. Jack’s car. Nathan calling. You waited for panic. It didn’t come. There was guilt. Plenty of it. There was dread too, because there were conversations waiting for you that you wanted absolutely no part of.

Underneath all of it, though, was the same feeling you had been afraid to name yesterday. Relief. You climbed out of bed. Jack stood in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and coffee in the other. His hair was messier than usual, and he had changed into a grey T-shirt and sweatpants.

He looked up.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I stopped my own wedding.”

Jack considered that.

“Accurate.”

You glared. He handed you coffee.

“Your sister texted.”

Your stomach tightened.

“How?”

“Robby gave her my number.”

“Traitor.”

“Apparently your parents are okay.”

You exhaled.

“Nathan?”

Jack’s expression softened.

“With his family.”

You looked down into the coffee.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“Today.”

“Probably.”

“Not yet.”

“That’s okay.”

“Robby?”

“Six messages.”

“Only six?”

“He may have been sedated.”

You laughed.

“And Dana?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Much healthier.”

Jack smiled. Morning light spilled across his kitchen. Everything felt strangely ordinary. Yesterday, you had been supposed to become Nathan’s wife. Today, you were barefoot in Jack’s kitchen wearing his clothes and drinking coffee from the mug you always used when you came over. You looked at him. He caught you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was something.”

You put the mug down. Jack watched as you walked toward him. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

That made him straighten. You stopped directly in front of him. All those almost moments returned at once. The elevator. The break room. His hand against your back. Years of wondering whether you had imagined something that had been there all along. You lifted your hand and touched his jaw. Jack went completely still.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“You don’t owe me anything because I drove you yesterday.”

“I know.”

“You ended a three-year relationship less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours. You stepped closer.

“I’m not kissing you because you picked me up.”

Jack didn’t move.

“I’m not kissing you because I’m hurt or because I need leaving Nathan to mean I chose someone else.”

His expression softened.

“I didn’t leave him for you.”

“I know.”

“I left because I couldn’t marry him.”

“I know.”

You smiled faintly.

“But I wanted to kiss you before I ever met him.”

Jack’s breath caught.

“And I’m still going to have a horrible conversation with Nathan today. I’m going to apologise for how I ended things. I’m probably going to spend the next few weeks figuring out which parts of my life I actually want and which ones I agreed to because I thought I should.”

“You don’t have to figure us out too.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

“But this part?”

Your fingers curled gently against his jaw.

“I figured this part out years ago.”

Then you kissed him. Softly. Nothing frantic. Nothing desperate. Just your mouth against his after years of nearly. Jack didn’t move for one heartbeat. Then his hand settled carefully at your waist and he kissed you back. Warm. Slow. Certain. You pulled away first. His forehead nearly touched yours.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your side.

“You’re still allowed to change your mind.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to keep saying that until I stop talking, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

His mouth twitched. You smiled.

“Can I kiss you again now?”

Jack exhaled a quiet laugh.

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I’m attempting to be responsible.”

“I hate it.”

“I gathered.”

You kissed him again. This time, Jack was ready. His arm slipped around your waist and drew you closer while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. There was no urgency. There didn’t need to be. When the kiss ended, you stayed close. Your eyes drifted past him toward the bedroom.

“My wedding dress is still in there.”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Jack considered that.

“Burning it inside the apartment seems inadvisable.”

You laughed.

“Very romantic.”

“Fire codes.”

“Of course.”

Jack smiled. You leaned into him. Soon, you would turn your phone back on. You would call Nathan. You would tell him you were sorry for leaving him waiting in front of everyone. You would not tell him you were sorry for leaving.

There would be deposits to lose, gifts to return and a honeymoon to cancel. You would have to explain something you were only beginning to understand yourself. Nathan had not been the wrong man because he was cruel. You hadn’t been the wrong woman because you couldn’t become what he imagined.

You had simply spent too long believing love meant making the differences disappear. Yesterday, the tables had been set. The guests had been seated. The music had started. You had thought that meant the decision had already been made. It hadn’t. Someone had asked if you were ready. For once, you had told the truth.

No. Jack had simply been waiting outside when you did. You looked up at him. He brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.

“What?”

You smiled.

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That’s twice.”

You reached for your coffee.

“Get used to it.”

And you were crazier. Not about him – well. Also about him. But crazier as a baseline condition, a factory setting. You’d woken him at three in the morning by sliding one of his eyelids open with your thumb because you’d dreamt that he was texting another woman and needed to check his phone while the wound was still fresh. He’d handed his phone over, half-blind, and you’d scrolled through it sitting on his stomach. When you found nothing, you’d flopped down onto his chest and gone straight back to sleep. 

It was, frankly, a lot of crazy to be on the receiving end of, and Jack – who’d spent much too long being the most even-keeled, unbothered man in most situations – had taken one look at your little feral devotion pointed square at him and thought that yes, he wants in on all of that.

He would gladly take that your whole storm wrapped up in a package, had done just that, and was not planning on letting go. 

Being loved by you was full-contact, hands-on, and all consuming. You bit and you climbed him on the kitchen while he was holding hot pans; you pulled his face around by the jaw when you decided his attention wandered. He let you, always, going soft-eyed and pliant the second your hands landed on him, and had long ago stopped pretending otherwise. 

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had his moments, especially when it came to his girlfriend. He was, in all senses of the word, protective over you.

He’d known enough men – had been a different man through each decade – to know that you in the wrong hands would have ruined someone, like you had him.

He’d considered himself lucky to have your devotion – a thing so pure, presented with such ferocity – pointed at him. The thought of it being pointed at someone else made him sick simply because he knew how difficult it was to not fall in love with your claws. He knew how it felt to have you scruff him by the collar and inspect him for another woman’s perfume that even you knew did not exist, how it felt to be counted and guarded and kept, and he knew there was no single man alive who could feel that and walk away sane.

He’d take a bullet before he let anything happen to you and consider it a fair trade.

Jack was nothing less than smugly, bone-deep, sure of you. And a man that sure, holding a jealousy that pretty, developed habits. He’d learned (through research he’d conducted, very selfishly, for his own benefit) exactly which levers produced the show.

A waitress lingering around him for a second too long; a squeeze of your hand going tight in his, and him spending the next thirty minutes in the parking lot outside the restaurant making up for another woman’s slow legs.

Mentioning, idly, that a pharmacutical rep had been ‘friendly today’; good for a whole evening of you cross-examining everything about him, her, her tone, his response. 

He knew the difference between small provocations and the premium ones, and he deployed them the same way he planned date nights. He would’ve gone as far as to say they were date nights, impromptu, functionally; every match he struck brought him an evening of you staking your claim with both hands, and then the long, sweet business of being claimed. 

He’d never once found the bottom of it. He’d never once thought to even look for one, where the jealousy cut off and turned inward. It had never once pointed that direction. Your claws faced outward, out at the world, never once you, carrying them.

He didn’t know there was a depth where that happened. It was why he poked the proverbial bear. 

When he’d gotten off his shift at seven in the morning, tugging his bag over his shoulder, he’d leaned his hip against the driver’s door and opened your texts. Some people had a cigarette after a shift. Jack had you, delivered in installments, and he stood there in the cold biting down his smile as he scrolled through the night’s yield.

( a photo of a cat that lived outside the bar; a voice memo at 1:30 he already knew was you narrating something you’d decided was urgent; a link to a lamp with no explanation, which meant ‘buy me this lamp’ (he did, immediately, Apple Pay and its joys of quick payment); a text at 2:47 that just said that your feet were cold; and finally, a goodnight! i love you! sent at 3:15 am )

He’d thought, not for the first time, that he was genuinely a lucky bastard.

After years of pagers and reports and envelopes, somewhere his correspondence had started to include a nightly paper trail proving that somewhere in Pittsburgh, you moved through your night with him present in it. They were simply dispatches you sent because things weren’t fully real to you until he’d been notified.

A man could be told he was loved a hundred ways, but there was no proof on earth like being your first call about nothing. 

If he were a better man, he would have told you about the name that had popped up on his message thread under yours the second he’d unlocked the phone – right there, sandwiched between your goodnight and a spam text about his car’s warranty, a name he hadn’t seen light up his screen in the better part of a decade. 

Diane: Hey stranger. In town next week for a conference - would be good to catch up if you’re around. Coffee? It’s been too long. Hope life’s treating you well. 

It was a strange sort of vertigo of a past life reaching out to tap him on the arm. Diane – Jesus. He hadn’t thought about her in years; it’d been long enough that the name landed without a hook. It was a faint mothball smell of a version of himself he’d long since folded up and put away. No, he had felt near to nothing for her name for the only one that popped up in his head was yours. 

Jack had spent months getting fat and happy on your jealousy; he’d learned there was no sweeter sound than you getting worked up over nothing.

Jack had, right there in the parking lot, a plan because Diane was – he’d assumed, for you – not nothing. No, Diane had history, and it was a real, verifiable history. If a stranger’s coffee order could get you draped over him like a bodyguard, then this – Jack immediately thought – was going to be a show.

Before he’d got in the shower to start his ritual of getting in bed with you – the shower, the hygiene of it all – he found you sprawled across the entire acreage of the bed with the blanket cycloned around your legs. He crossed over and crouched at the edge of you, heart beating gratefully at the sight, because this part couldn’t wait for hygiene. 

He settled for tucking the hair off your face – two featherlight fingers, hooking it back behind your ear – and your nose scrunched in your sleep before it turned into his hand.

“Hey,” he whispered, not to wake you (secretly hoping you would, anyway), and leaned in to press his mouth to your temple that made you make a tiny sound at the back of your throat.

Your fist unclenched from under the pillow and groped out blindly to his forearm, fingers curling around it without opening your eyes. 

Jack stayed crouched there a moment longer than his knee approved of, grinning down at you. 

“I know,” he murmured, working your fingers off his forearm one at a time and folding them back against your palm, pressing them there with a squeeze. “Ten minutes.”

When he tucked himself into bed beside you, arms instinctively falling over your waist to pull you flush against him, you were half-turning to him before you’d even surfaced. You made a tiny sound, unintelligible words – something about the temperature of his hands – and burrowed closer, one leg sliding under his waist and over the mattress, your cold feet immediately seeking out the warmest available part of him. 

“You’re cold,” you mumbled, not opening your eyes, wounded.

“I know, right,” he murmured, pulling you in closer to his chest. “You, though, are warm.”

You wrapped yourself tighter around him, hand finding its way under his shirt to flatten against his ribs. “You can borrow me.”

His hand moved up your spine, thumb catching each notch, and he pressed his cold nose to your temple just to feel you flinch and swat at him, which you did, gorgeously, with a wounded utterance of his name that made his entire body feel like it’d gone under the sun. “Missed you.” 

You smiled, tipping your face up, eyes still shut as your mouth searched. He met you there, pressing a slow, morning-soft kiss that just stayed. When you finally pulled back and sighed, boneless, he cradled you to him. 

“Hey, so,” he murmured, thumb still stroking your back, “old friend of mine’s in town next week. Reached out this morning.” 

“All your friends are old.” You hummed into his chest, still processing the words, and he felt your body still in his arms. “What old friend?” 

“Just an old friend, baby.” 

You lifted your head off his chest at that, one eye cracking open then the other, the sleep burning off you so quickly. He exhaled a sigh as he watched that beautiful, familiar spark catching behind your face. You propped your chin on his sternum and narrowed your eyes at him.

“This old friend doesn’t have a name?” 

“Mhm. Does.” He kept his face maddeningly neutral, thumb still sweeping your spine, savoring the little furrow in your brows and the way your hand had started gripping the side of his waist, staking a claim. He loved you. “Diane.” 

Your lips pursed as you processed the name, as if checking everything you know about Jack in real time. Then you shook your head a little, lips curving up into what he could only consider your angry-smile. “Who the hell’s Diane?”

“We go back a ways.” He shrugged easily, that confidence of having done this a hundred times and always getting sweet, sweet you packing up in him. “Dated, for a bit. Long time ago.” 

You took in a sharp inhale, snorting softly as your hands left him completely. He tried to bite down his frown from showing.

“Dated,” you said, through a small breath with wide eyes. “You dated and she texted you?” 

“She did.” Jack laced his hands behind his head and settled back into the pillow. “Wants to grab a coffee. Catch up.”

“Well, are you going?” You were up on your elbow now, the blanket pooling at your chest, as your brows went up to your hairline in thorough dissatisfaction. 

No, he wasn’t. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d read the text, and moved on to the far more interesting business of what it could do for this morning. The coffee itself was nothing; he had no interest in sitting across a woman who hadn’t crossed his mind at all to trade summaries of decades.

You existed. There was, now, no hour anyone could offer that beat an hour of you doing anything at all. 

He had sat through watching you decide whether or not you’d return a sweater for forty minutes; trying it on over and over again, the same sweater, then tucking it into parts of your existing clothes to test it (into jeans, out of jeans, under the jacket, sleeves shoved up, sleeves shoved down, “should i just cut the sleeves off?” with the scissors already located, and he’d told you “do the crime and you can’t return it,” and watched you reconsider, setting the scissors down). You’d kept it and worn it while sitting on the couch for the rest of the day, then never again. 

“Thinkin’ about it,” Jack said, hooking a lazy finger into the strap sliding off your shoulder and tugging it back up, a tending gesture entirely at odds with the trouble he was stirring. “Just coffee, angel. She’s only in town a few days.”

“Well, your girlfriend is in town all days,” you said, swatting his hand away. “You can’t just get little catch-up coffees with women you fucking dated, Jack. That’s not – it’s not a thing people in relationships do.”

“No? But it was so long ago.” 

You’d pulled yourself upright now, cross-legged in the sheets, the blanket in your lap and the one strap already sliding down again. “Doesn’t matter, Jack.” You jabbed a finger at his neck. “You’ve got a girlfriend. A very good one –”

“Best one I’ve ever had,” Jack agreed, catching your finger and kissing the tip of it, entirely pleased. “I like her. Love her, even.”

“Then why think about it at all?” you asked as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheek. 

“Just surprised, baby,” he said, shrugging. “We go way back. Before your time. It was – a real thing, for a while.” 

Your eyes quickly flickered down to his chest, mouth opening, then closing again. “How long were you together?”

He clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he genuinely tried to reel back the memory. It was funny the way time did that.

“Couple years,” he murmured. “Give or take, three. Yeah. Around three.”

Your eyes had gone slightly wide as you looked at a spot on the blanket with your bottom lip tugged between your teeth.

“Three years,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, huffing slightly through your nose. 

Your eyes flicked up to him, and Jack’s hand went still against your spine. They eyes were wide, glassed, and lost, blinking up at him with some unguarded confusion. You looked at him the way you did when a word went missing on you mid-sentence (your fingers snapping restlessly at the air like you could catch it, ‘you know the one, Jack, the word – the – the thing,’ while he supplied guesses just to watch you swat them away), except there was no word being hunted now. 

“That’s – a long time, right?” you asked him then, tilting your head to the side, looking at Jack like he had some sort of conversion chart on what three years were ought to weigh. 

Jack’s eyes landed on your fingers tugging closer to him on the blanket, not landing on him. They stopped an inch short of his ribs, curling back into themselves. 

His eyes went from your fingers, to your face, which was still waiting for his answer. He sucked in a small exhale, buying a second, though he couldn’t have said for what. 

There was some low-grade, humming static on his skin, and he forced himself to override it, because you’d asked him so gently, and he always answered your questions. You asked him things at all hours, in all states, with your mouth full, from the other room, half-asleep on his shoulder blade.

( What’s the worst thing you ever ate? You’d help me hide it, right? What’s your favorite planet? If we were both dogs, who’d be walking who? Am I the funniest person you know? Would you still love me if I couldn’t talk, only hum? Who taught you how to drive? ) 

He’d answer every single one thoroughly, treating them all like he would’ve a question for boards, because early on he’d discovered your asking was an act of love; you collected his answers, kept them somewhere in that beautiful head, stored him. Nobody had ever wanted his mind so thoroughly before. 

So when you asked, he answered.

It was who Jack was to you. It was maybe his favorite thing to be, just Jack. Jack and all the little things he thought about all the little things he’d given little to no thought to. 

“Felt both long and short, if that makes sense,” Jack mused, wandering back into it, because you’d asked and the memory was a harmless thing to ignite. It was cold hearth, ash-dead, nothing in it did a single thing to a single fold of his brain.

“We took some trips – did two weeks through Italy one summer.” He shook his head slightly, blowing out a short breath at that fact of his life. “And her sister’s wedding in Maine.” 

“Italy,” you said, lips curving around the little word. Your eyes flicked down to his chest, then his torso. “You went to Italy?” You breathed in softly, and your head tilted again. Jack wondered if this was where the claws came out – Italy. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Lots you don’t know about my misspent youth,” he said, lips curling in a casual smile. His fingers reached out then to catch yours and folded them in his palm, bringing them up to his mouth to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

“What was it like?” you asked, brows rising slightly. “I’ve never – I don’t really know what it’s like there.”

“Rented this Fiat, did the coast. Amalfi, Positano – she had the Italian, so she handled the talking. I just drove and pointed.” A huff moved through his chest where he’d trapped your forearm. “She’d order. I’d eat whatever showed up.” 

He waited for the strike. She ordered for you? Then your fingers would go to his throat. Nobody orders for you. What did she order? Was it good? 

Your lips had made this small shape of an ‘o’ as your eyes had snagged on him as he spoke, criss-cross and those small inches away from him on the bed. 

“What’d she – where’d you even find the time?” you said through a short laugh, shoulders coming up slightly.

“We’d come out of residency and the schedules just –” He’d left your fingers for a second to lace his own loosely over his chest in the air, two combs of a zipper missing. “Lined up.” He retrieved your hand automatically, repocketing it to him. “Traded calendars at the start of the month, find the overlap. Italy was a big overlap we got lucky with. Had a little cash for once, and somebody said to go now or never go.”

The word ‘residency’ had barely left his mouth when he heard you take in a small inhale, your lips jutting out slightly.

Now? Jack wondered dumbly. Now you’d get mad, say something territorial, something pretty and unhinged about schedules. I’ll make your schedule. He readied his face for it, schooling the grin down in advance so you wouldn’t catch him enjoying it. He also would have let you make his schedule, had you asked, even though he wasn’t sure how that would’ve worked. He’d have found some compromise between his job and you. He’d have nodded along solemnly, and asked you when it was effective.

“I didn’t know you’ve been to Italy,” you murmured, almost musing, as your eyes went to the desk beside the bed, past his shoulder. He followed your gaze to the little basket where you kept your folder of documents he’d made you organize last spring. 

“Long time ago,” Jack said, because it was. It was a very long time ago, and he felt the need to clarify that. He didn’t know why he was elaborating like he’d been accused. He hadn’t. You hadn’t accused him. “Very long time ago.”

His palm tightened over your fingers – a small, reflexive press – and got no answering flex back.

Your fingers lay there in his hand, warm, accounted for – like Jack always needed them to be – but absent. Jack found himself pressing again, interrogatively this time, you in there?

“That’s –” you started.

Jack’s eyes snapped back you again, like a dog hearing it’s name. Your mouth twisted, working like you were deciding on a seed and what to do with it.

You gave a small shrug – one shoulder, half-mast – and reached over with your other hand to roll a little lint of fluff off the blanket around your finger.

“That’s really far to go with someone,” you said, softer. “Italy. That’s like – a whole thing to do.”

“It was,” he said, absentmindedly, though, as he watched you.

There was something about the set of you he didn’t quite like, though he couldn’t have said what. The way your shoulders had come in a little? The way you seemed all gentle and docile now, when a minute ago you’d been jabbing him in the throat?

Jack prided himself on knowing you; he’d taken it up as a personal study. Your spine, usually all insolence, all sprawl, had gone considerate. Even your knees, criss-crossed under the sheets, had tucked in closer. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, feeling that need to poke at it directly.

“Mhm.” You nodded quickly and looked up at him with a smile.

His fingers immediately reached up to settle under the hinge of your jaw, as if to hold your smile there, thumb laid along your cheek.

“Yeah, I just didn’t know it was – so serious. That’s all. I thought it’d be, like, some girl you dated a few months.” You let out a little breath of a laugh. “Not an – Italy person.” 

Jack’s brows furrowed. He didn’t really know what an ‘Italy person’ entailed, but he didn’t like how it sounded in your voice. 

You sometimes said things that made him want to burrow into your mind. They were little nothings, coinages, a whole private mint going on up there.

( It feels like a July day, when it was very clearly December and you were snowed in; he’s looks like a Tuesday guy, about a stranger at the DMV on a Friday; my feet are homesick, which turned out to mean you wanted to go to the beach, and also somewhere deserted sometimes, and a hike. ) 

He never asked you to translate. Half the time, it was impossible for you to do so, anyway; the words just arrived to you whole, and he’d learned to hold them up in the light until they made sense.

They always made sense, for there was always a ‘you’ inside of them. And he’d found that whatever came from you, it was worth keeping to dig into. 

( Sometimes, it made sense days later. Like when you’d said, one night in the car, engine off, “I like you when you park.” 

He’d laughed and asked, “As opposed to what?”

You’d had no answer, but he understood, days later, that you liked Jack in-between things. You liked him with the engine off, day done, night not started, with nowhere to be just yet.

He supposed it meant you liked the little pockets of nothing that every life has and nobody claims; idling, as opposed to mid-shift, the one where there was no overarching function making him do something. He’d found he liked those little pockets of nothing, too. )

He supposed that ‘Italy person’ would turn out to mean something exact, too. 

He waited, again, for the claws. What am I, then? with a finger at his chest, and he’d catch the finger and kiss it again and tell you what you were – everything – and you’d pretend it wasn’t enough, and demand he phrase it better, and he would.

Jack would phrase it better then better than that, mouth at your knuckles, your wrist, working up the arm between clauses. 

Mine, obviously, don’t be stupid. You’d hum, and he’d say it slower – mine, ob-vi-ous-ly – and you’d call him useless, and somewhere you’d end up bickering about whether Italy even had good food. He’d take your side on, traitor to decades in under a minute, and your sulk would die of neglect without either of you watching it. 

“I don’t know what that means, sweetheart,” he said, trying to force a casual smile through a small, chuckle. He shook his head confusedly. 

Your lips pressed together as you shrugged. “I don’t, either. Not really,” you said.

Before Jack could respond, you reached over and patted his chest twice and said, “Long night?” 

It took Jack a second. He heard actual sound, cogs audibly changing gears, because you’d been in Italy, and now you were in his shift, and the border between those two had been crossed with no warning. He’d been asked this normal question a thousand times; it was a fine question, a normal one. He’d answered it a thousand normal ways.

“Uh, yeah – middling,” he said, hand now coming to find your waist where you sat and tugging slightly, getting you back down into him. “Don’t wanna talk about the shift, though.” You landed against his chest and his chin fell to your head, some unscripted instinct in him kicking in. “Wanna talk about you.”

“Me?” You laughed slightly. “Nothing to report here.” 

“Disagree.” His hand started running over your spine, pressing his mouth to your hair for a second, breathing you in. “Missed you today,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Listened to your voice memo twice on the way back.” 

“Really?” 

His arm tightened around you, bring you up closer to his face, where he could reach your temple without any work. He pressed one, then another, and another kiss against them slowly, mouth lingering against your skin on the last one as he waited. For what? He had no idea. 

Your hand traveled up from his ribs to his jaw, cupping it, then running your thumb against the stubble once against the grain, the way you liked. It usually came with commentary (you’d make such a good beach, Jack; this is my favorite texture on earth; Jack, keep it like this always) and tonight he got none of it.

Jack turned his mouth to it on reflex and pressed a kiss to the middle of your palm, and felt your fingers curl slightly on the contact, gathering the kiss like you were keeping it. 

“Love you,” you murmured. “Go to sleep, Jack.” 

“Love you, too,” he said.

He couldn’t ignore how you’d practically shut off right in front of his eyes. So, he asked, “You tired?” he asked, feeling some base need to clarify.

“Yeah,” you whispered between your faces, and you did sound tired. Tired, Jack knew how to work with. 

“Good,” he murmured, softer, relieved to hear it was that. “We’ll be tired together, then we won’t be tired.” 

Your breath billowed softly over his mouth, something like a laugh, and his hand slid down to your arm to find your hand, tucking the whole laced knot of it down between your chests where it lived. Your head ducked slightly to go under his, burrowing in his neck, and he smiled as his chin came to rest at the top of your head. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, with all of the command he could muster whilst three-quarters gone himself. “We’re gonna sleep the whole day away.” 

You did. Sleep – that is. Or stayed in his arms until his breath went long and even and unmistakably out. When you were sure – when that deep untroubled weight of him told you he was really under – you extracted yourself out of the bed.

You didn’t want to, but sleep wasn’t coming easy with Jack tonight. It sucked; sleep always came easy to you with Jack. Getting out from under him, too, wasn’t easy. He slept like he meant it now, all of his weight poured over you, one heavy arm slung across you like a seatbelt. 

You lifted his arm by the wrist, an inch at a time, and slipped out from underneath it. He stirred and made a rough sound of protest and reached for the warm gap you’d left, patted once, then again, searching, and you winced at the sight of it.

You hurriedly fed your pillow to his arms and watched him gather it against his chest, watched him settle, thinking it was you. 

You should have gone outside now, like you’d planned, and instead you leaned in over the mattress, drawn back down by some law you had never once repealed.

Because – even now – you couldn’t leave Jack Abbot undecorated, you weren’t functioned that way.

Every time you left his vicinity, you’d paid a toll at the door; a kiss to the knuckles, the shoulder, the one time you pressed his closed eyelid so gently he’d told you about it during breakfast, thinking he’d dreamed of it, that it’d felt nice.

You picked the stubbled jaw and pressed the smallest kiss there for half-a-second, and he hummed just as you leaned away. His arms pulled the pillow tighter.

You felt heat build up behind your eyes at it. Jack was, somehow, reassuring you unconsciously, four fathoms down. You blinked at the ceiling, because this was just Jack sleeping with a pillow. Normal girls do not cry about things like this. 

When you successfully made it to the kitchen to make some coffee, which you didn’t end up making, you scrolled through your phone absentmindedly for a few minutes.

Your teeth were digging into your lower lip, and you were sure they could’ve left a permanent dent on them because of how long you’d been sitting on the countertop next to the coffee 

You were being mature. You were being so very mature about this.

Any second now, the maturity would kick all the way in and you’d feel it; the maturity, the security, the calm, grown-up ease that’d let you hear about your boyfriend’s beautiful doctor ex-girlfriend and their beautiful accomplished Italian holiday and simply nod. Maybe you’d be glad he’d had love before you, had something great enough it’d taken a tour across oceans.

You wouldn’t be this.

She was three years to your year.

You’d been counting since the bed, some sick little voice in the back of your head clicking away – that’s longer than you, so much longer, it’s double! and then one more!

She got a whole coast and you? Every time you tried to set the voice down, it just picked itself back up and started again.

You had – after a year – found the one proof that you’d always been, cruel-to-yourself, looking for. Jack Abbot had lived a life before you, several lives, and he’d had love.

So much time she’d had with Jack.

When you reached for your enormousness, for the claws, for the whole arsenal, you found your armor completely empty.

She predated you; you had no way to be big at her. You couldn’t bodyguard Jack from his own past, though you wished he’d have been a bodyguard to it from you. It was an insane thing to wish. All he did was answer your questions, because you’d come knocking.

An unfair, childish, foolish part of you wished he’d lied and decided the truth was too heavy for you and carried it himself. 

She had Jack, and she let him go. You could hardly let Jack go for the length of a shower. You’d have died.

What did she know that you didn’t? What was it like, being a woman who could afford to lose him? She’d walked away from Jack and was whole; if you’d lost Jack, there’d be nothing left.

You knew it was dramatic, that it didn’t work that way. It wasn’t true, but it sure felt like it. Jack had filled your life completely, and you didn’t ever want that space ever again.

Nothing about that is romantic. You’re just a girl who bet everything she had on the first big thing she saw. 

Jack had lived a whole entire grown-up love – the real kind, the serious kind – with her.

Your cruel brain wondered if there were others. You’d never heard about Diane before, what was one more name he’d never mentioned? He had decades you knew nothing about.

It all happened before you’d ever set your eyes on him and thought he was the only man that existed. It had happened before you’d seen him and thought he could be the one, then wished that he would be the one. He’d had that before.

You’d always known that, abstractly. But the idea of years and years of Jack being loved by great women who understood his work, women his own age, women who’d been there for parts of him you never got to meet. That a door swung open all the way tonight. 

You were the latest in a line you didn’t even know the length of.

You’d never even thought about Italy – it was so far away, and you didn’t even think you’d said the country’s name out loud until tonight.

Italy was – you always thought – a thing that happened to other people. It happened, you understood, to Jack. Not your Jack, another woman’s Jack, back when he was somebody’s whole future instead of their past.

He had been loved over there. He'd been to Maine with a family who’d probably thought he was the one.

You were holding the frayed end of a rope whose length you’d never wanted to measure, because you’d assumed stupidly, sweetly, that the rope started when you’d grabbed it, that Jack began the night he met you.

Stop. You’re being crazy – like always. A part of you always had known Jack liked getting a rise out of you, and you liked giving him one. Get a rise out of him, the petty, young part of your brain supplied. 

You laughed softly to yourself, clutching your arms around your waist as you folded over, forehead dropping to your knees.

With whom? If you looked for ammunition, you found no Diane.

The guy before the last guy whose last name you couldn’t even remember anymore; a handful of small-time relationships that had lasted one season and ended not because they were wrong but because they were nothing.

You had no great, grown love in your belt that you cold hold up to the light and make Jack ache over. 

You had Jack. Jack was your Diane and Jack was your Italy – your three years, your coastline, and your entire globe, probably even more – the biggest love you’d ever had by a distance so vast it was hardly a competition.

Jack knew about your entire life and every supplementary information about you that held no weight on you, or only very little.

Jack knew about your first pet’s name, and its cause of death, and the movie you still couldn’t watch because of it. He knew your worst subject’s grade and, worse, the teacher’s name, and had once gotten angry at that man on your behalf.

He knew the reason you hardly talked to your family; he knew it all by now, because you’d kept handing out pieces over this year, and somewhere around the eighth month you’d realized he knew the story completely now. 

He’d learned it all, greedily, like each fact was worth having. You’d hand him a dusty nothing – a camp story, a recurring dream since seven, your opinion on cilantro – and watch it get written down somewhere behind his eyes. Weeks later, he’d produce it at the right moment. No cilantro, she hates it.

It had felt like Jack had opened your junk drawer and thought of it as treasure.

Your life was small and short enough to fit into his hands entire. It was a carry on. He held all of it and had room left over for more. You just didn’t have any more to give him.

Jack had finished reading you.

You’d been collecting him, too, greedy in your own right, thinking you were getting, at the very least, to the hallway. Now, you were wondering if you’d only just walked up the porch to the door.

You could produce Italy in your brain now; Jack against some sun-warm railing over water; Jack driving a little car on the wrong side of the road with confidence; Jack looking longingly at a woman who was speaking a language he couldn’t understand, holding him up.

Some parallel-Jack, out in the corner of your mind, who’d married the doctor.

Jack who was, right now, in some other version of this morning, drinking coffee, happy, whole, entirely fine. Jack, who was talking about some case from a journal – in his fluent doctor-language with someone who never needed the glossary – never pausing to translate English into – well, English. He was never smiling patiently and having to shrink his work down to a bedtime-story size like he did you. That Jack’s wife could meet Jack in the dark after his bad shifts instead of standing at the edge with a flashlight, calling in.

You couldn’t even imagine parallel-Jack lonely with something missing at his table. Your imagination – which loved him, which had only ever been able to love him – refused to even draw him sad. It kept handing you Jack complete; a whole finished Jack, out there in the corner of your mind.

This Jack’s completeness had to require your absence. It needed you to put yourself out of this world and into the crevice of your mind that hated you.

You had to widen your eyes on the floor. Your heels knocked the cabinet.

No. No. Your Jack – the real Jack – was thirty feet away and had never once been anything but certain of you.

Jack had never once not been certain of you. You were sitting on the countertop in his sweatpants right now. Your fingers were curled into the cotton of the pants, holding it like it was his hand, because Jack himself suddenly felt like too much to deserve.

You were getting homesick of him, getting jealous of women in your own head, grieving trips that had already happened, creating an entirely one-girl production in your mind that was only cruel to you, and the man who’d done nothing to put it there.

Go to him, you tried to tell yourself. Go to Jack. Wake him up. Talk to him.

He never turned you away. You had come to him with nothing, a whole lot of nothings, and he had never once turned you away. 

( You’d had a terrible dream that your childhood house was empty. It was the whole dream. You’d walked through it, room-by-room, and everyone was gone and the furniture was gone and your voice didn’t work. It was classic dream-physics. You’d woken up with shaky breaths, body tensing up over, well, nothing. Over the fact that the wallpaper was gone. You’d lain there for four minutes being reasonable about it, then you’d poked Jack. 

Poked him once, then again. Then again – his hand caught your finger, eyes still shut, reflexes working. He folded your finger in his fist and kept it there, on his chest as one eye dragged open, looked at the little digital clock, looked insulted, then looked at you. 

“What?” At your silence and the sight of your small pout as your body went still, both his eyes opened, everything in his face shifting around not making this worse. “What happened?”

“Bad dream,” you said, and because he’d wait all night without asking, you added, “My old house. Everything was just gone. It’s stupid, it’s not even –”

“Not stupid.” His arm had come up to haul you down onto his chest in a drowsy motion, your ear landing conveniently over the slow bass of his heart as his hand rubbed over your skin. “Empty house,” he murmured, clicking his tongue. “Yeah. That’s not a great one.”

He always agreed with you. Then, he added, “This place has got everyone we both need in it. Go back to sleep.” )

Your mind had, finally, gone quiet. Finally. Even it knew overkill when it saw it. 

Fuck, maybe you were fucking crazy. Jack should have gone running. If he had any sense, he’d have looked at you and walked calmly in the other direction. He hadn’t. He had stayed.

This morning your enemies included a hypothetical, a memory, and Europe al-fucking-together. 

He hadn’t let you go, you had to remind yourself. He’d kept you. Had, a few times, put a foot on the door to keep you there.

You slid off the kitchen counter to make your coffee, almost distantly. You made it this time, too. By the time the machine started its slow gurgle, you’d forced yourself to wrestle the whole thing back where it belonged, blinking your eyes clear and dry. It was the deal you’d made with yourself, you supposed, when Jack had said Italy and that she was a doctor, just like him. 

You weren’t going to be the crazy, young girlfriend who spiraled over an old flame. You were going to be so graciously secure about all of it that Jack would never, ever know the morning had touched you at all.

You’d nearly convinced yourself of it, too, as you settled on the couch with the mug on the little glass table beside you as you scrolled through your phone. Then, you’d heard the bedroom door, and the soft knock of crutches against the floorboards as Jack shifted his weight. 

You felt your heart drop at the sound of it, and had to force yourself to look up at the ceiling for a few seconds before he materialized, because you had never – not once – felt that feeling in your body in the three-sixty-five and a few more days you’d loved him.

No, you had to tell your body. We don’t feel this way for Jack. There’s no need to start now.

He came around the corner a second later, crutches under his arms and squinting against the light, hair flattened up on one side of his head from all of forty minutes on the pillow. His eyes swept across the room quickly and landed on you, face easing slightly.

“There you are,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He stayed there for a second looking at you, head-to-toe, checking. “Woke up to a pillow,” he said, one brow going up, dipping his chin at you in soft accusation. 

“Jack –” You pushed yourself up off, padding over to him on instinct, because you were you, it was now nine in the morning and he’d hauled himself out of bed after only one tiny blink of sleep after his shift. Every single step he was taking on those crutches was a step he shouldn’t have been taking. “What are you doing up? Go back to bed –”

“Could ask you the same, baby. You’re never up this early.” When you got close enough, his eyes immediately came down to yours and stayed, moving over slowly. Then, he flicked his gaze to the entirety of the living room behind you.

“You get lonely out here? Something wrong? Should’ve come got me.” he fired off at once, so quickly that your mind had to catch up to process it.

“Not lonely. Nothing’s wrong. You needed sleep – ” 

False. False. True. You were a liar more than half the time today, and you knew you were making this bed all by yourself.

“I need lots of things.” His hand came up off the crutch grip – balancing himself there on one – and reached out to you, knuckles first, dragging down your cheek slowly as his head tilted to look at you. The touch was so, so tender it almost undid the whole act you had running. “Sleep’s like – fourth.” 

You leaned into his hand before you could stop it, and his face flickered for a second – relief, there and covered – and his thumb pressed in to hold it, keeping it. 

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you said into his palm, because half-truths were easier to say to his palm. “You can, though,” you said quickly. “You worked all night. I’d already slept before you came home.” 

He appeared to weigh this, and when your eyes finally moved back to his face, it was tilted slightly to the side, lost. Like a dog, hearing a new sound. It was a new sound, you realized the second it left you. It sounded like exactly what you had decided you were going to be – reasonable and considerate – and you had never once been reasonable about Jack going to bed. Sending him off to rest, so generously, without you, sounded – to you and him both – like another person’s girlfriend talking. 

He took in a small breath, a chuckle dying in his throat, and his head dropped closer, the stubble catching in the light.

“Counter-offer?” he murmured. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, settling there. “Couch. Both of us. Nobody sleeps. Nobody does a single thing.” 

“Like gremlins,” you murmured. 

The crease in his brow lost a little bit of its altitude. “Exactly like gremlins, angel,” he said gravely, instantly. 

Your lips moved hesitantly, and your hands came up to his bare chest, pressing slightly. “You’ve been up all night, Jack,” you said through a short laugh, fingers skating around the breath of his chest to sit at his ribs, trying to turn him. 

“Stop it – please, no.” He stayed put, eyes flicking down to where your hands had come up and lips twisting in, what you could only describe as a snarl. “I’m not tired.”

It was such a bald, indefensible lie that you visibly shook your head at him. The evidence was all over his pretty face, the pretty, lying face. The curls were silvering mess flattened on one side and standing at attention on the other, and you had to physically stop your hands from going to them.

The morning stubble had come in along his jaw in that salt-and-cinnamon scatter you’d once spent a full minute petting against the grain while he sat there letting you, patient as a trained dog. Still, tired lived well on him. Everything lived well on him. You’d told him once, and he’d thanked you, because he’d found himself tired a lot and hadn’t quite found a way to ease it. He’d tried.

“Jack,” you tried, voice warming a touch.

“What?” he drawled, shaking his head at you now, like he was deciding to show how scandalized he was now by all of this. “I’m not allowed to sit with my girl?”

He started moving to the direction of the couch – crutches finding their rhythm – without giving you any time for defense. “Man works a night shift and isn’t allowed to sit with the prettiest thing he’s ever seen?” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Come sit.”

You trailed after him, because what else could you do? Dig your heels in, tell him no? That would’ve been a tell the size of five fucking houses. The second you were in range, his arm left the cushion and hooked over your waist mid-step and hauled you onto his lap. Your yelp was swallowed by the drop, and you landed sideways across his thighs with his arm already snaked across your back. 

“Your leg, Jack – ”

“My leg’s thrilled.” His other hand collected your knees and folded them up toward his stomach, tucking you in closer, arranging you into the compact bundle he preferred, until you were sitting in the wide, warm bowl of him with nowhere to look that wasn’t him. His hand then came up to your back and pressed, instructively, until your cheek gave up and landed against his shoulder. He let out a long, slow breath at the contact, chin coming to rest on your hair. “There we go.”

You breathed in a lungful of air as you settled against him, his presence like fire and water over you right now. You were so scared of someday losing this, this exact thing. His chest hair scratching at your cheek; the weight of his head – carrying so much – on your head; the way he smelled like your soap because you’d asked him to once and he’d never gone back, and now this man walked around his emergency department smelling like pink fruit all day and let everyone at work deal with it.

It was so, so unbelievably simple to be with Jack, to be in this flowery presence of this gruff man, being his. Jack had come along and he’d made you put everything down – the checking, the second-guessing – and you had, you’d put everything down, and dumped both arms around his neck instead. 

“How do you wanna use our nights off today, hm?” he asked softly, moving his head to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. 

This was your event. You knew that was why he was asking, dangling it, because the planning was half the having for you and he’d learned to just hand you the whole day and watch you go. You always had opinions.

Before you’d tucked yourself into bed last night, you’d thought maybe you and Jack would go to the diner whenever you woke up, breaking fast in the afternoon like degenerates. 

Maybe the flea market afterwards, because Jack, at a flea market, haggled in such a nice, slow voice that made grown sellers fold like the lawn chairs they were selling. He’d followed you around from table to table for two hours, never once questioning why you were suddenly looking at doorknobs. You could’ve looked at gravel, and he’d have carried it. Then you’d come home, couch, a game on, his head in your lap – heavy, trusting, king of some small kingdom – while you messed with his curls.

It all seemed so unbelievably wrong now. It seemed nice at the same time, the same as before. But the diner. She probably never made him eat at diners. The flea market; she went to Positano. You had no idea what Positano even looked like, exactly. It was probably the most beautiful place on all of earth and Jack had stood in it, years before you existed to him, being well-loved, and you’d spent this morning secretly hoping it was ugly. 

You pressed your cheek harder into his chest and he hummed, appreciatively, and adjusted his arm to noodle you.

She got this, too.

You had to stop yourself from groaning at your own voice, from yelling at it altogether. The thoughts were just pushing you closer and closer to him, your cheek nuzzled against his chest, shifting slightly like the bare contact of his skin could just scrub it all out; your cure and disease were Jack. Every awful, awful thought sent you burrowing closer into his exact chest that had caused it, and he kept receiving you, warm and obliging, having no idea he, right now, was both your wound and bandage. 

You just wanted your day back. You couldn’t tell anyone how insane this was, least of all Jack. You’d have crawled inside his ribcage if it zipped.

You knew that Jack had been trying to get under your skin – you knew that he liked it – but you’d figured this game was one that was built for you to win. Every round was just Jack setting up an excuse to spend the afternoon demonstrating with his mouth, his eyes, his face, that there was no contest to even worry about.

Because you couldn’t very well go to Positano today, and because you suddenly felt like a kid handing over a macaroni necklace to someone who owned diamonds, you said, “I don’t know,” into his chest. “You decide.”

His thumb paused on your skin for a second, then it resumed.

“Me?” he murmured, chin tilting for a second to press his lips to the top of your skull again. “I wouldn’t have the first clue, angel.” 

“Try,” you said. 

He huffed slightly. “Alright, then. Bear with me – first day on the job. We stay here till noon, then the diner with your jams. Then that stretch by the river you like, lemonade from the good cart guy.” He squeezed your arm and pressed another peck to your head. “Home by dark and it’ll be the best outing in the world.” 

It sounded so perfect. You pressed your whole face down into his chest, even as you thought about how his outings were once grander, with people who’d done grander. With a doctor, no less. “Sounds perfect.”

For a moment, the two of you just breathed there. It may have been the fact that when it got quiet when you were with Jack – instead of quiet with just yourself – things seemed a little easier, but you found yourself saying, against him, “Jack?”  

“Yes?” he said instantly, chin lifting off your head and you felt his attention come down on you, whole and immediate, like he was summoned.

“Are you gonna get the coffee?” you asked. 

“Huh?”

“With her,” you said. “You know –”

Your words cut off as you shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid all over again. Saying it made it real again, and now you’d brought the topic to the couch. It happened on the bed, and you’d carried it to the kitchen, and now it was on this lovely couch. You were going to taint it all with it.

“You should probably go. To catch up.” You lifted your head up to meet his eyes, forcing your voice even. “I don’t mind.” It felt like it’d come out with steel; you almost winced at your own words. 

Jack blinked at you, then his head tilted, and the softest, most confused grunt left him. 

“Baby,” he started gently, amused, almost, reaching for the joke in it at first. His knuckles came up to brush against your cheek for one second. “I’m not going anywhere near that coffee – you’d have me chipped like a dog by Tuesday.” 

It was a gift, you could see his words wrapped and extended – him invoking your domestic insanity, holding it up like the reason the sky was blue – and all you had to do was accept it. The morning would become the, in all senses of the word, usual.

You would’ve preened at the portrait of you, and now you heard it from the morning’s new ears – he’s got an ex who speaks Italian and you think it’s fun to threaten him with 24 hour surveillance. 

“I wouldn’t, though,” you said quickly.

When his knuckles paused on your cheek, questioningly, you continued, “You should go. I won’t be mad at you.” Your lips pressed together for one second. “I promise.” 

Jack’s hands went to your hips and his jaw shifted from side to side, as he looked away from your face for a second. “Yeah. Okay. I’m not grabbing coffee with another woman.” 

“She came all the way. You guys are old –”

“Stop,” he interrupted with a laugh – disbelieving and no humor in it – as his head reeled back.

“Stop it – I don’t want this.” His hands flexed on your hips, then came up to wave in the general direction, then fell back down. He looked at you really, really upset, or baffled, or both. “Who cares how far she came? People fly places. I don’t want to have coffee with anyone.”

You shrugged, letting your head drop into his chest again. “If that’s what you want. You don’t have to do it because of me.” 

“I am absolutely doing it because of you.” His arm came around you, bringing you back close to him. “I’m not going ‘cause my girlfriend exists. That’s a whole reason. It’s a great one. So don’t talk me out of it.” He pressed his lips to the top of your skull. “Not your reason to give away. And you can get me chipped, if you like.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you even say to that? You felt him nod over you at the silence, felt some hesitance creep into his body, as he pulled you in. 

“Actually,” he said after a moment. “Let’s put a pin in the plan.” One hand lifted off you and made some small motion, you couldn’t see it but you felt the absence where it had been, before it came back. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Next week. River’s not goin’ anywhere.” His arm resettled around you, snugger than before. “Today we’ll stay in.” 

“Jack –”

“Blanket, couch, girl.” He counted your day off your spine, three soft taps of his fingers. When you made a sound of protest, his said into your hair, quieter, “I’ve got all I need. I’m not feeling the outside today. That okay?”

“No, it’s not – let’s go. I’m just tired right now. I’ll be up later.” 

You felt him breathe, then, the gust of air pooling into your hair.

“Then come to bed,” he tried weakly, and he sounded so broken you wanted to cry. You could hear him knocking at the door of you. “Sleep. Let’s sleep together, if you’re tired.”

“Not sleepy-tired,” you said, and heard how little it made sense even as it came out of you.

Then, you pushed yourself up off him, palms to his chest, trying to keep the motion casual. “I think I just need to wake up properly. Move around a little.” You stood, angling your face away, blinking fast as you looked at the dark TV screen. “I’m gonna get in the shower, if that’s okay?”

When you tried to look over your shoulder, he’d straightened up, palms falling down to his sides on the couch as he looked up at you. 

“Course it’s okay,” he said, hands following up then to settle for your hand, thumb passing over your knuckles. He gave your fingers the gentlest tug and pulled his head back, catching your eyes for a second before you could look away again, and the look on his face was so, so soft. “Do you want breakfast?” 

You nodded quickly. “Yeah – thanks.” 

He made a small sound, then pressed his lips to your knuckles, then let your fingers go one at a time. You made it four steps down the hallway with his gaze heavy on your back, and you couldn’t stand it.

There was a great, large, incessant bug in you that couldn’t stand Jack back there with his worried face and scared smile. So you half-turned over your shoulder, your eyes down at the baseboard, and called out, “Love you, Jack.” 

You’d told Jack you loved him at full speed, into his mouth mid-argument, into the phone before you’d even said hello, at grocery stores, at funerals, at red lights, six times a day minimum. It was the surest sentence you owned. This time, it went out like a paper boat, pushed onto the water with two fingers, and watched all the way across. 

“Love you, too,” he called back warmly, after what felt like a hundred years.

Jack had once spent a very, very long time to get you to believe that even if you held onto something good loosely, it won’t run away. He’d had to get you to believe that even if your grip on him loosened, even just for a second, even for a month, he would still be right there. Why was he feeling the need to hold you so tightly now? 

He set your plate at your spot, and his at his. He poured the coffee, saw the first coffee you’d abandoned on the counter, full and stone cold, and stood there looking for a second longer than the mug deserved.

He’d put on his prosthesis after plating the food, a part of him too large and hopeful – instead of its usual, content, un-worried hum – expecting you to come out of your shower wanting to do something, the diner, the river, after all, trying to change his mind.

He’d hoped you’d come out wanting to be carried somewhere on his back. He wanted to be ready, he always was now. He kept himself pre-approved for whatever you thought of next.

The inside of your head was a busy little harbor, boats coming in at all hours, and he’d been granted a standing spot on the dock. You’d let him become the first to hear about octopus, cats, furniture, which part of your body felt cold, warm, or lukewarm. A year of receiving your pretty cargo and he’d never once been bored. 

He, decades your senior, had seen the world be made interesting again by you just narrating it at him. He had the sneaking suspicion he’d follow your voice wherever it went, into traffic, a dock, into old age, and the shower.

The water kept running. He wasn’t the kind of man that’d track your showers, but years of working in emergency and emergency-adjacent situations had honed up his internal clock eerily well, smoothened out his pattern recognition.

He had to tamp down the urge to deploy it, to use this innate, terrible, awful instinct in his brain on you – you, who he felt more than monitored, who he’d only ever read with love, no grains of salt, no instruments. 

You were the girl who rearranged things in his cabinets by feeling and left in it a system he still couldn’t crack and refused to fix. Opening a drawer looking for a spatula and finding your hair ribbons had become one of the small startling joys of his one life.

He’d been a clinician for so long, and you’d built with him a corner of the world where he was just a man, holding a girl, and being completely in love with her.

Jack, bring me the towel even though it’s right there. Jack, come look at this bruise. Did I not wash out the conditioner out properly? Jack – Jack, Jack, come and just sit with me while I shower.

His knee bounced under the table, and he stopped it. 

Your eggs had gone cold, glossy, and began settling into themselves. The toast had lost its heat, and the jam sat unopened with its little lid on – the grape, the good one – and the jam was a small purple fact that he could not find himself liking to sit across from. You’d have opened it by now and started walking the length of the place, spoon in your mouth, talking. 

A year of you had taught him what mornings looked like when they were going right. He knew this one had gone wrong so quietly and terribly, that he’d been able to hold you the entire time it was happening. 

It was the bitter feeling of the surge he’d had in his chest this morning at the thought of your instincts.

He’d read a woman’s name off his screen and come home with it like it was a match to your pretty fire. He’d carried it into bed with you, and all Jack knew was that at this morning, his girl had been in his arms so sweetly, and minutes later, her fingers were hesitant to press into his skin. The only thing that happened in between was his own mouth, having fun. 

Jack wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he was walking to the bedroom now, to the ensuite bathroom. A year ago, this hallway had been a hallway. Now, it was a museum of you mid-motion, and he moved through it with his heart going at a pace he hadn’t earned sitting down, past the bed still holding the shape of the forgery you’d left him in, a pillow. He had to look away from it like the sun. 

He told himself that the bathroom door being closed was normal. Steam, privacy, nothing; all of it were real things. 

“Hey,” he said to the door lightly, knuckles going in two soft taps. It was the same knock he used with the you in the bath going pruny as he was happily serving you wine. “You fall asleep in there? S’been a minute.”

He tried to force his lips into something close to a smile even though there was a door between you right now.

Perhaps it was because Jack – even now, even morbidly confused – knew you, and knew that the door would be locked before he confirmed it with his shaky fingers. 

( You, who talked to him through the glass of the shower, sat cross-legged on the counter while he shaved – you missed a spot, no, the other spot, how do you have a medical license, genius – and stole his coffee between critiques and made him laugh hard enough he’d nicked his jaw and you’d gasped like the injured party, then kissed it before pronouncing him stable.

You, who had once flung the shower door open mid-rinse to tell him that you’d figured out what you both were in a past life. He never got to hear the answer. You’d seen him standing at the sink in his towel and lost the thread altogether, and the past lives were never mentioned again, and Jack had walked around for the next twenty-four hours unreasonably pleased about being distracting at his age to you. 

A door had, simply, never existed in your relationship. )

The key was right there. He’d put it there himself, two summers before he’d ever met you, the day the door had swung shut at its own draft and locked an empty bathroom. He’d forgotten it existed, but his hand went up and found it first try, blind, and came down holding this tiny cold thing. 

His fingers were unsteady fitting it in, which was new. He’d threaded needles into people in moving vehicles. Now, in his home, his fingers trembled over a privacy lock like a first year, because on the other side of the door was the whole of his one life, in falling water, hiding from him – him – and every second the key took was a second you sat in there believing you had to do so. 

“I’m coming in,” he said to the door, softer than an announcement this large should’ve been, like some part of him was afraid of the wrong reaction at your response to it. “Just me. I’m coming in, okay?” 

His chest caved – folded in on itself, turned over – because there you were, on the floor of the shower, curled up under the pour of the water, your knees to your chest and your arms wrapped around them, your face hidden down against them. His girl – the loud one, the strongest person he’d ever let himself love – made small and quiet and hidden on the floor of the shower. He had seen you in this place a thousand times and never once, not ever, like this.

“Oh – baby. No, hey –”

Your head snapped up at his voice, and just that sharp little movement of you made him tilt back slightly. Your face – wet and swollen, eyes red at the rims, gone raw and young and caught in a way he’d never seen it – did something terrible when it saw him in the doorway. It crumpled then hardened, both at once, a door slamming behind glass, and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your eyes like you could take back the last thirty seconds if you were quick enough about it.

“No,” you said quickly, the word cracking out of you with a sharp edge under the thickness. Your hand came up between you, a flat little barricade under the steam. “No – get out, Jack – I told you I’ll be – please, get out –” 

You didn’t push him. This wasn’t a thing that happened. You pulled – you reeled him in by the shirt, you climbed into his lap, you fought tooth and nail for every inch of distance he’d tried to keep, whose entire love was a set of hands hauling him closer, closer, closer.

He had spent all this time being pulled by you, gladly, helplessly, and he did not have – had never needed – a single instinct for being pushed. 

“Hey – hey, no – don’t –” His hand came out to the glass, pushing slightly. “It’s just me. It’s me. Look –”

“I don’t want it to be you right now,” you said, and the words were so awful and completely jagged.

You turned to face away, like you were trying to push yourself out of his sight entirely. “Please. Please, just go and get out. I don’t want you here – please, Jack.” 

“No, don’t ask me that,” Jack said immediately, voice breaking clean in half as his eyes went glassy and desperate. “It’s me – you don’t hide from me – we’re not that –”

“Please,” you said, voice barely audible over the running of the water, and his nose burnt as he caught sight of you shaking. “Please, just give me a minute – a minute. I’m – I’m asking you to leave.” 

Jack’s hand hung empty in the air as he looked down at you, heart in actual pieces on the tile, and he understood – quietly – that the only thing you were begging him for was the single thing he’d have rather died than do, to turn around and leave you crying. 

So – because you’d asked, because pushing past a plea like that would only carve you open worse, because loving you had never once meant taking what he wanted when it wasn’t what you needed – he made himself.

“Okay,” he said, voice coming out in ruins. “Okay, baby. Okay. I’m going – I’ll go.” He reached up and took your towel off your rail and set it closer to the shower. “I’m right outside. I’m not far – I’ll be right there and you come get me the second you want me, you hear? The second.”

You stayed silent, so Jack, clumsy with grief in a way his body never was, made himself turn his back on you. At the door, he paused, eyes pinching shut to make himself not look over his shoulder. Instead, he said, “I love you.”

He pulled the door behind him, left it breathing half ajar with the steam sighing out through the gap, and pulled himself to sit at the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom. Like you were going to run from him, like some part of him needed both feet under him and the door in his eyeline needed to be ready. For what? He couldn’t have said. To catch you, he supposed. To get you the second you’d let him. To not be caught sitting down when you finally opened the door and needed him standing. 

He sat there with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands pressed together against his mouth and waited, and it was the longest ten minutes of his recent life.

Every second of it was stretched unbearably, because he was learning there is this particular hell in loving someone past all sense and being made to sit on the other side while they hurt. He didn’t know what to do with this feeling, had never had to think it was a possibility between the two of you.

When the door opened, Jack was on his feet before he’d decided to be. There you were, towel-wrapped, hair dripping onto your shoulders, face swollen and turned just slightly away, eyes on the floorboards. You crossed your arms over your chest, gripping the towel closed.

“Hey,” he said, breathing through it, his voice half-ruined, shaking. He caught it and hauled it down a register by force, into the very low, sure place his voice lived when everything depended on it.

He made himself stay planted – made himself open his arms instead of using them, wide, a whole doorway of him – while every muscle strained against its leash, because his body had exactly one theory about you crying and the theory was to go, and he stood on that theory with all his weight. 

“Come here,” he said instead, begging with a steady voice, a whole vacuum sealed into two words. 

Your eyes climbed as high as his chest and gave up there, arms tightening. You shook your head dimly, water flicking. He nodded to himself, made himself stay standing, without letting an ounce on his face where you’d have to carry it. 

“One step. That’s all I’m asking.” His arms turned palm-up at the ends of his open arms, still, though nothing behind his ribs was. “You don’t have to talk. Or explain anything. Not tonight, or ever. I’ll die curious – but I’m standing here figuring out I don’t work right until I know how you feel in my arms and I haven’t known for hours and I am asking you –” His voice strained, and the words came out bare, “ – Please, I am asking you to come let me hold you.” 

You let out a small sound, eyes pinching shut, and he watched a whole war happen on your face. Jack thought, uselessly, hopelessly, that he’d have stood there through a winter or as the building came down, holding a door ajar in himself for as long as doors took.

You crossed, though. Your body came to him hard, all at once, like you were dropped from a height, and Jack caught you with one arm crushed around your towel-wrapped back. The other flew to your wet hair, his palm rounding the whole back of your skull, pressing you into his heart, gathering you in and in and in, past where space existed, trying to find one more setting past where proximity itself existed. He let out a sound that was – dangerously – close to sob into your hair, finding himself completely undone for the first time in a very, very long time. 

“There you are,” he murmured, rocking you slightly as his mouth pressed to the top of your dripping hair. “I’ve got you. Got you now.”

You shook against him, and Jack winced at the feeling of it, gently reeling both of you down onto the edge of the mattress, then back, then over, until he had you sideways across his lap, your knees folded over his thigh, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms locked around you like a cage. The towel gave up at under your shoulder, so he pulled the corner of the blanket up over the bare curve of it – wrapping you precious – and then his arm closed the last of the circuit and locked. 

For a while, he simply let his hand move up and down your spine while you cried into his throat, and every shudder that went through you went straight through him, too. He pressed his lips to your temple and left them there and rode it out with you, breathing slow on purpose, loud enough for you to borrow the rhythm off of his nose, an old medic’s trick he was running on the only patient he’d loved past all sense. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, with your tears running down his throat and pooling at his collarbone,

Jack thought, helplessly, that even this was somehow yours and somehow beautiful; you cried like you did everything, with your whole body, holding nothing residual, generous, so generous, even in grief. You’d never given him a partial anything, and Jack tightened his arms around the full, shaking entirety of you and thanked the universe, genuinely, that when you’d finally fallen apart, you’d walked the few steps and done it on him. 

When your crying wore itself down, Jack made himself stay silent. The questions, fully formed, seventy versions of them and redrafted since the kitchen, he swallowed, because he had a feeling he had pushed enough for one simple morning. He’d pushed this morning smiling. He held you and let the question live in him like a swallowed stone and, apparently, he was less subtle about it than he thought.

Your voice came up out of his neck, waterlogged and small, as you said, “I know you want to ask.” Your fingers moved faintly against his chest, a fidget with no strength in it. “It’s okay. You can.” 

Jack had to close his eyes at your first full sentence being a door held open for him; you’d crawled out of your own wreckage to check on the driver. 

“I do,” he said into your hair, honestly. “But I’m not gonna spend your turn. So here’s mine first.” 

He felt you go still against him – attention gathering, a tiny tilt of your head at his collarbone – and he breathed in heavy, big enough to lift you where you lay, to pay up. 

“I got really scared today,” he said, voice going into a whisper as he leaned down to talk to you. “I woke up to you not in my arms and my whole chest felt – wrong. I do this for a living, I’ve got all the words. It wasn’t – wasn’t sick. It felt wrong, you not being somewhere you’re supposed to be. First time in – forever, if I’m being honest.” He tapped you skin twice, to hold himself. 

“And when I found you, I couldn’t reach you. And now – seeing you –” He felt you stiffen up at that, and he nodded in understanding, skipping over. “I’m thinking of getting rid of all our doors.” His hand kept moving down your spine, and he faced your head then. “Bathroom’s the priority. Bedroom might be load-bearing, but. Front door stays. Everything else is beaded curtains by Friday.” 

You made a small sound against his neck, and Jack had to stop himself from crushing you into the tightest hug at the bridge of a laugh. He pressed his mouth to your temple for a few seconds instead. “Another thing while I’ve got the floor. Telling me to go get coffee with an ex – don’t do that again. I’m not gambling with you. I’ve only got one of you. So, I’m never going to coffee with anyone else again.” 

“You’re allowed to cry,” he said, setting the joke aside. “I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t do it with me knowing about it. That’s mine, and I’m gonna find it and fix it if it takes me the rest of my life.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you protested, sounding wounded. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “That’s mine. That’s what I felt today. You don’t have to give me yours.” 

His arms adjusted, and some helpless, incurable corner of him – the one that had flirted with you through every disaster you’d ever handed each other – added, “But, if you wanted to trade, I can make it worth your while.” 

You laughed at that again, and the two of you stayed silent again for sometime. Your fingers crawled up his chest, up over his collarbone, curling loosely around his neck, your palm settling in like you needed contact to speak. 

“You went to Italy,” you said. 

Jack’s brain did one, full lap around the words, and came back with nothing. He did the only thing he could when you handed him a coin he couldn’t read, which was holding it up to the light and keeping his voice soft and not dropping it. 

“I did,” he said, carefully. “Long, long time ago, baby.”

“Was it nice?” you asked, the words coming out so small. In the same breath, like a small dam breaking, you added, “Do you miss it?”

Jack never had to look for a trap in your words, not like this.

There was none now, either. You’d asked about Italy like you asked him about bad days, ready to receive whatever came back, your thumb doing a nervous sweep against his neck like you were comforting him in advance. You’d found the one grief in the world with his fingerprints on it and your first instinct was to ask if he wanted it back. 

For an ugly second, he thought he could have lied. No, it was overrated, beds were weird, bad food. You’d have heard it, and Jack thought that it would’ve taught you that you couldn’t survive the truth. 

“It was nice,” he said quietly, hands moving up and down your spine. “I was young. Younger, anyway. Whole trip was –” He exhaled, shaking his head as he tried to hunt for the honest size of it. “It was a trip, baby. It was nice.” 

He pressed his lips to your hairline. “I don’t miss it. There’s nothing in there to miss. Like –” He clicked his teeth, searching for the words. “Driving past a house I used to live in. Half the time, can’t even remember which window was yours. You just keep going, ‘cause everything you own’s at the new place now.” His fingers tightened on you. “Think if I’d known what this was, back then, I’d have kept missing this, there.” 

Your breath shifted against his throat, and you nuzzled your face into his neck.

“What’s got you worried?” he murmured. He closed his eyes, letting his head lean to rest against yours, palms moving from your waist to your nape, then down. “I can get us to Europe by Thursday, just say the word. I’ve got PTO and miles I’ve been sitting on for years. I think they were for this.” 

“I don’t wanna go to Italy,” you said, smiling against his neck. “I think this is something I have to get through myself. It’s not anything you’ve done to me.”

Jack felt that familiar twist in his chest. It’d come to him for the first time today, and it kept coming up and up and up, and he couldn’t help but want to claw at his own mouth for his selfish, cruel little game, for every grinning careless word he’d dropped on you like they weighed nothing. And now you felt that you had to deal with it yourself, like it was yours to carry alone, off in a corner, someplace he couldn’t get to. Because he had done this. 

You were, simply, acting like the two of you weren’t the two of you; you had spent a whole year proving to him that ‘by yourself’ was a thing that, now, never existed. 

He drew you back, fingers threading through the back of your hair, trying to physically take you back from wherever – whatever – this by yourself was. He put your face in the light, wet-lashed, trying so hard to keep it together, and his thumb swept the damp while his own face did whatever it was doing, open and scared and thoroughly past the point of keeping it in check. 

“You don’t have a ‘yourself’ anymore, sweetheart. I don’t have that anymore. You woke me up at three in the morning to tell me how you fell off the monkey bars in third grade – remember? You didn’t think twice about it.” His forehead came down, brushing your nose with his. “And now you’re gonna sit here and tell me this – the saddest thing that’s crossed that pretty head all year – this one you’re keeping alone?” 

“Jack–”

“What is going on in that head of yours?” he interrupted, words soft but pointed, suddenly having given up all pretense of coaxing and gone straight to needling.

He watched you open your mouth as you took in a breath, and maybe it was the closeness or the way his thumb kept moving along your jaw, but you said, “I don’t know if I’m the real one.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, feeling heat build up behind his eyes as he looked at you with a pained, confused expression.

“I don’t know if I’m the one you do it for real with, Jack, or if I’m just – the young one. The one you get before – or after – I don’t even know how it works.”

Your hands came up between you, aggravated at yourself, at him, at the lack of vocabulary. 

“You’ve done so much. You’ve got countries. Experiences. So many of them. And I’ve got –” Your shrug came out tiny. “– you. You’re my biggest everything. You’re my Italy and I feel like I’ve been with you for three years and my – you’re all of it, Jack. I’m terrified I’m just the person that came after your big thing.” 

You blinked, and Jack’s fingers reached up to catch the little tear falling over your lashes, his own eyes blinking furiously. Jack wanted, so badly, to reach to you and press your kiss to your mouth to stop this, to to kiss this whole wilted garden you’d created in your head out of you.

He shook his head. “I hope I’m not your – her,” he said, a wince in the words, finding it difficult to even get them out. “Or your Italy.”

“You are –” you said, with so much conviction, chin coming up, ready to fight him for the honor of it, “you are – that’s what I’m telling you –” 

“I’m your Jack.” His hands tightened on your face, voice coming out slightly cracked. “I’d forgotten about this woman until this came up. I don’t want you to forget me. I’m your Jack and I’m the luckiest man for it everyday. So you pick a better word soon, and don’t take that title away from me.” He shook his head. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

You bristled slightly, your eyes shining into his as they went wide, the whole of you locking up at the words. He tapped his palm gently against your cheek once, then again, frowning as he thought he really ought to tell you this more, for a girl who kept a running tally of everything else.

You’d created a museum out of things he’d said, and somehow this one, the biggest one – the luckiest man of it – he’d been rationing. He’d been handing it over in the glances and over eggs, assuming it was arriving, that a girl who read him so fluently was taking what he’d said to you over and over again, so simply because it was just a fact. 

Never again. He’d tell you daily now, remind you of it while making you look him in the eyes. 

“I tried to make you jealous,” you said, the words coming out through a sad, shameful laugh. Something in his chest broke hearing you confess it like it was a crime. “I’ve got nothing, Jack. You won’t care about Sam, or Dave, or – I don’t even remember one’s name. That’s all. You had a doctor you went to Italy with.” 

His eyes fluttered for a second, the muscle in his jaw clenching as his fingers ran over your cheek. The nature of it all was too backwards. Jack had made a very sad sort of peace with himself – he’d known what he was – and somehow, at the end of all that, at the bottom of the ninth of his whole entire life, you’d walked into it glowing like something confiscated from heaven. You’d looked at the full of him, and decided you wanted him. You, dished out to him probably because of some fate-giver who’d been asleep at the desk, who had let the single best thing walk out to him.

If a single one of those guys had stayed awake one more hour, asked one more question, been at the right angle to see who was sitting across them, you’d be – Jack grimly, awfully thought – somewhere else right now. And Jack never would have known; he wouldn’t have known to miss you. You’d have been long gone and loved properly, early, by someone with the sense to do it. 

Jack would have worked his nights and run the bay, choosing every day to enter a new crisis, and never known the whole time that the best thing that would ever happen to him had happened to somebody else instead, on time, the way it properly should have. It was their loss, and he was going to make his entire life out of it. 

His arms moved before the thought even finished, hauling you in impossibly closer, resettling the whole, true warm weight of you against him. “Stay right here,” he murmured.

You did. Your lashes stuck wet in little points and your fingers resettled on his neck. You were wearing his shirt, drowning in it. Jack had been the steadiest set of hands in many rooms, he knew it without vanity. But nothing in his skill set covered you; steady hands didn’t win a girl who lit up rooms; being good in a crisis didn’t earn a woman who made every ordinary Tuesday feel like a celebration. He’d spent so long getting excellent at the exact things nobody falls in love with – triage, containment, blood – and you’d walked into his life and fallen for him anyway, for reasons he couldn’t successfully point to, and he’d stopped asking why out of superstition. You, he was not in the mood to reasonably place; Jack knew when a person was handed one, that they should keep showing up for a miracle, quietly hoping it stayed. 

Jack, falling apart at every seam of him, eyes hot and jaw aching, huffed. It was one, soft breath of a laugh, and your eyes snapped up to his, betrayed, and he shook his head fast, thumb pressing to your cheek to stay with him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, shaking his head softly, thumbs framing your face to tilt it up. “I promise. I’m laughing ‘cause you’ve got no idea what I’d give to have your problem.” 

You blinked at him, mouth curved into a frown. That one, he was sure, was aimed at him. His hands were shaking slightly against your jaw.

“I mean that I am very, very glad that you’ve got no Italy to wave at me. You think I want you to have another big grown love in your pocket? Some guy you crossed the country with?” His hands tightened on your face, eyes shining. “It would ruin me. I’d never sleep again. And I’m sorry for waving mine at you this morning, because I didn’t think it’d make you not sleep.” 

He held your eyes through it, taking his medicine looking at you. “I said it ‘cause I love you jealous. It makes me feel nice to know you care about me.” His lips curved into a sad smile. “I didn’t think what it’d do when I brought this up. I will be very, very sorry about that for a long time.”

When you smiled softly, eyes hooded as you looked down at his mouth, he nodded to himself.

“And I had a nice trip with a woman a hundred years ago, and it ended, and I have zero photos of it. That’s a thing that happened to me. You are not a thing that happened to me. You are what it was all for. All the years, the whole time, all the wrong turns. That was just me taking the long way to find you. You are my biggest thing – biggest one that’s ever happened to me – and I want you to know some pretty life-changing things have happened to me.” 

You stared at him, mouth open, tears going uncaught now, because Jack had gone completely still, needing you to see all his years on his face at once. 

He huffed, mind flicking through this haze of memories. He could reach back and find the years, the apartment, and it all came as nothing. He’d loved women, had meant it completely, with everything he’d had on hand, and he may not have been wrong. And now he can carry the tender knowledge that a person can feel absolutely certain there is everything to be felt and be off by a whole magnitude; he’d stood inside his biggest feeling and called it the biggest and had simply, innocently, not met you. 

“And since you told me yours,” he said, quieter, eyes going down because he found he couldn’t quite hold your gaze for this.

“I know what it feels like to think you’ve found what good love is, and then to find out how it is to love someone bigger. That the thing you could’ve sworn was everything was just – nothing, in the grand scheme.” 

He turned his face to the side as he held your face, suddenly finding the enormity of this simplicity pressing at the back of his eyes. Everything – he was sure of it – had just been the longest drive over to you.

“But you got this first. You’ve got nothing to check it against.” His thumb swept your cheekbone, and his eyes came back to you. 

“I know how big this is because I’ve got my whole life to look at it against. And you just have to take my word for it.”

He tugged his lip between his teeth, searching your eyes with question, checking whether the words were pushing through, whether they had the gap to push through. Your face was tilting toward him, listening with every feature at once; he could see the whole war playing out on your face you had never once been able to conceal from him. You had no poker face, at least to him, you didn’t.

“This is the one,” he said, nodding just barely. “There was never a morning I woke up and had to think about anything before you. You are the reason I know what you think is the big thing is small.” 

Your breath stuttered, and your chin trembled once before you caught it from gritting your teeth inside your mouth. 

“And sometimes –” He nodded, more to himself, as he forced himself to continue. “– I have felt a similar thing. I see you, and I wonder if you’ll think about some guy your own age, out there somewhere. Standard legs. Normal hours.” He shrugged. “No years of the stuff I’ve carried. And I think, someday, you’ll look over at me and think you settled for the –”

“That’s crazy,” you interrupted, the words shooting out of you instantly. Your fingers flew up to grip both his wrists. “That’s crazy, Jack – I don’t want – I would never. There’s no guy, I don’t want standard legs. I want your legs – leg – fuck, Jack.” Your voice broke off as you let out a small, pained groan. “I would pick you over any person who has ever lived.” 

“Yeah, see,” he murmured, a small smile coming up as he let the weight of your words land on him. “Can you see how it sounds crazy when it’s coming at you?”

He brushed his nose against yours at your stunned silence. “I feel the exact same way about what you said. It’s crazy.”

He had to blink over and over as he settled on the weight of your words, said so simply and furiously with no build up. The biggest sentences of his life just slipped out of you, unwrapped, and you had not the first clue what they weighed. Any person who had ever lived. God, you’d waved off the whole crowded history of the species in one breath to pick a tired man in Pittsburgh.  

“Let’s go,” he murmured, wrapping you up and pulling both of you back against the cushions, resettling you on his chest. Your ear was at his heart. The blanket was up to your shoulder. “We’re gonna lie here a while now. I think we both need it.” 

“It was a weird morning.” 

“Mhm.” His hand went to your spine. “Top five weirdest.”

And he should have let it be, but there was still something sitting in him. 

Jack pressed his lips together as he once again said, “I am sorry for this morning. I was –” He breathed in through his nose, fingers coming up to your head, tapping it twice to get you to look up at him. You did, chin pressing into his chest and your eyes tired yet focused. “Immature.” 

Your lips twisted slightly, then you tugged them with your teeth once and looked away, like you were trying not to agree. 

“I was,” he said, easily, agreeing for you. His thumb traced your hairline. “Good thing for me, I happen to be with a girl who likes getting her revenge. Even when I don’t think I did anything.” 

“You do –”

“I do. I do. You’re not wrong,” he said, the opposite of a complaint in it. “You know how to settle a score. And this morning I racked up a real big one. And you’ve just been sitting on it, being gracious.” His nose wrinkled, his fingers going to cradle the side of your face. “You keep that up, you’ll start minding your business and I’ll be living with a stranger.”

At your small, hesitant smile, Jack continued, “I know you don’t like the paintjob of my truck.” You nodded at that, honest as ever. “What I’m thinking is, you key it.”

Your eyes widened.

“Go nuts on the thing. Do some drawings. Write nice words. I drive it around after, everyone sees it. And when we’re good and done with that show and tell,” he continued, fingers threading into your hair, “we take it in. You pick a new color. Any color. Change the seats if you want, too.”

“People will think –”

“People will think a woman loves me enough to key my truck. Do we have a deal?”

Jack took a seat on the bench behind your locker, resting his leg.

You turned and faced him with a suspicious look on your face. "How early did you come in today?" You barely hid the concern in your voice, but he saw the way your eyes flitted down to his outstretched leg. Proof that he'd been here too long, long enough for it to start hurting and need a break.

Jack looked up at you. "Early enough to get bored waiting for you."

And you shook your head, closed your locker with a frown. "Very funny," you mumbled as you reached for the hair tie on your wrist, tying your hair into a ponytail.

You barely even looked at Jack as he stared at you. He always did this. Stare at you, wait for you, complain about waiting for you, like he wasn't an attending with responsibilities. He treated you like a kid, or at least that's what you told yourself.

It was better to pretend that he was treating you like a child rather than to think that he might just be actually missing you.

"I missed you."

You stared at him. "Jack, it's too early for this."

His name again.

"Never too early for anything. You should know that by now. You work the night shift." He grinned happily at you, and you only shot him a bored look in response.

It was those five minutes in the morning when no one bothered to find Jack that he loved so much. Everyone knew where he was. Same time, same shift, Jack Abbot was always waiting for you at the lockers. Everyone knew to then look for Shen as the attending and not Jack. People grew accustomed to this strange routine.

Everyone knew Jack liked you. Hell, you even knew it and so did he. He made no secret of it at all.

You fixed your ponytail. "Seriously, what time did you come in?" Your eyebrows were furrowed in concern and the frown wasn't going away anytime soon.

He shot you a look, before his eyes darted away again. "You're stubborn, you know that?" He finally stood up, lightly towering over you as you continued to stare at him.

"Six pm? Five pm? Four?" You scrunched your nose, trying to gauge what time it was, and only at four did his lips twitch lightly.

"Jack!" you shook your head. "What was it this time?"

Jack stared at you, eyebrows lifting, as if you got the nagging out of your system yet? Because i'm not answering.

You sighed. "Great," you mumbled, your voice filled with disappointment, and Jack couldn't help the light pang in his chest at that.

You fixed any remaining loose hair around your face in the small locker mirror as Jack watched you, heart squeezing when he noticed the dark circles under your eyes. Here you were lecturing him about his sleep issues, when you just hid yours better. He knew you'd only deny it if he ever pointed it out.

So he just said something other than what was really lingering on his mind.

"Come on sweetheart. You look as pretty as ever." He placed his hand on your lower back, shutting the locker mirror and promptly ignoring your frown. "Don't want any more patients flirting with you," he muttered under his breath.

He didn't like how that was the thing to plant a smile on your face. 

It wasn't until five hours into your shift that a lull hit. You were eating one of the muesli bars Jack had forced into your hands as he passed you by, with a pinched brow.

You typed with one hand while you stuffed your mouth with food with the other.

Crus dropped on a seat next to you, sighing loudly. You glanced, a smile forming upon seeing him. Quickly breaking off a piece of your muesli bar, careful to avoid the part where you'd taken a bite, you handed it it to the exhausted doctor, but then Jack swiped in.

"Uh, uh." He handed you the piece back. "Eat up."

You glared at him, taking the piece back from his hand, fighting the urge to insult him. You stuffed the piece in your mouth and swallowed. "Happy?"

"Delighted." Jack replied, the disappointment not having vanished from his voice yet.

Crus, meanwhile, was watching the two of you with a bored look. "Trying to stop your girl from being generous?"

Another glare was exuded from you, this time directed at the younger man. "Not his girl," you muttered under your breath, not loud for anyone but Jack to hear who was just close enough, as always.

You missed the way his smile faded for just a second, before he glanced at Crus. "There's a vending machine just around the corner."

"Did she get it from the vending machine?" Crus asked, pointing at you.

"No." Jack shrugged, already walking away from the two of you, spotting Nazely from a far, in need of dire help with a difficult patient.

Crus's stare lingered on you, and you turned your head, meeting his disappointed frown. "It's not my fault," you mumbled, around a bite.

Two hours later you were drenched in blood, trying to fix something you had no idea how to fix.

Shen was trying to help you out, and in your panic, you were completely missing the slightly helpless look in his eyes. Just a tiny shimmer of insecurity as he stared down at your position, how you were keeping the blood from spilling out.

You continued to press down. "Shen?" you squeaked, not bothering to hide the desperation for help anymore like you usually did, always keen on showing your competence.

And so Shen instructed you, if not insecurely, through it, eyes constantly darting up to the nurses to confirm every sentence that came out of his mouth.

In your worry, you didn't take note of Jack, missing the moment he walked in and took over Shen's position. You didn't realize your attending was standing there until he started speaking.

"More to the right," he instructed, and despite the clinical tone, Jack was never good at hiding the soft look in his eyes that he got whenever your eyes met his.

You startled, when you looked up and met hazel eyes instead of dark brown ones. You looked back over to the younger attending, and watched him move to the other side of the bed, helping one of the nurses instead of you.

Your eyes darted back to Jack and you watched Jack's eyebrows pinch together at the lack of urgency. Cautiously he said your name and that's when you shook your head, like you were waking up from a deep sleep.

Jack was unsure if the head shake was directed at yourself or him, but you turned back around and immediately got back to work, letting him guide you through every single step.

The rest went smoothly. Everything was fine. The patient was stable, and Shen gave you "a good job," a dunkin cup already in his hand to celebrate the win, to which you responded with a distracted smile.

You didn't look at Jack or acknowledge him, and he threw you a questioning look as he followed you out of the room.

Looking up at the screen to see which patient you could distract yourself with next, he followed, always one step behind you. Like always.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you replied quietly, without one glance at him, and then you were off. Wandering in some room, which, with a look upwards, Jack realized was a simple nosebleed and a headache.

His brows drew together as he watched you greet the young kid with a smile. He looked away again, deciding not to mull over it too much. It wasn't your first time shutting down. You had a tendency of being quite shaky after a difficult case, even if it went well.

Jack rarely went home early. Too quiet, too lonely, too depressing.

But that had changed ever since he realized you took the bus. Now, he seemed to be incapable of going home late. So, he came in to work early, really early. Earlier than he used to before you moved to Pittsburgh, hoping that if he left early and came in early, that his conscience would leave him alone, let him live without the grating guilt in his chest for just one night.

He wandered to his locker, reaching for his bag and lifted it over his shoulder and waited and waited and waited. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, waiting for you.

It wasn't until Mel wandered in, startled by her attending leaning against the lockers, that he realized that you were taking concerningly long to finish up your work.

"Good morning Dr. Abbot," she smiled, polite as always.

He slowly shifted his gaze from the floor to the bright girl and nodded at her. "Morning," he greeted, fixing his bag at his shoulder, before remaining in his position.

"Uh—" Mel hesitated before Jack realized he was leaning against her locker. He'd never realized it was hers. He always left early enough with you to almost never see the newer day shift residents. "Thank you!" the blonde replied as he moved away, letting her finally start her work day.

Jack now hesitated, realization setting it as he noted that at least 15 minutes had passed of him standing here like some idiot. He turned, clearly intending on walking back into the ER when Mel hesitantly looked at him. She seemed like she was about to say something she knew she wasn't going to receive a good reaction.

And the moment she'd said your name, Mel had his full attention. He quickly turned around, hazel eyes meeting hers of the same color. "She's— she's out by the bus station. I saw her earlier."

And Jack walked out without another word, no goodbye, no nothing.

He should've listened to his gut feeling. He knew there had been something wrong. The look in your eyes — there had just been something different. Even as he had decades on you, he had no idea how to read you sometimes.

It didn't take him long to spot you, earphones in as your head leaned against the wall of the bus station.

Jack ambled over slowly. "Not up for company today?" he said, loud enough for you to hear him through your earphones.

You looked up, as if you'd expected him to be here. You plucked one earphone out, twirling it around your finger. "Yeah, I figured I'd go home early."

You looked back down at your earphones, purposely avoiding his eyes and he took note of it, never missing anything about you.

Jack walked over slowly, taking a seat next to you, not brushing up against you like he usually did. He sensed you weren't in the mood to be touched, especially not by him.

It was a cloudy morning, making it not as bright as a July day usually would be. The dark clouds seemed to form just above you as if they sensed your mood and were trying to replicate it.

You didn't bother setting the earphones back in your ears as if you knew that the attending wasn't leaving anytime soon.

"You okay?" he asked finally, deciding to just get it over with.

You hummed a small "yeah."

Jack leaned back, head hitting the cold wall behind him. He turned his head, his gaze landing on your profile. "Sweetheart."

You finally met his eyes. You had never been able to resist the sweet pet name anyway.

He leaned forward, plucking the second earphone out of your ear, before carefully rolling it the way he watched you do it all the time. He opened your bag, which was still sitting between you like a barrier, and positioned it so that the rest of your things didn't damage them.

He then grabbed your bag, lifting it over his free shoulder, before standing up and stretching out one hand. He wiggled his fingers when you waited for too long, but even that didn't help.

You continued to stare at him with vacant eyes, until you finally spoke.

"You shouldn't have done that earlier," you whispered as the wind blew through your hair, nipping at your nose.

Jack frowned, confusion in his eyes as he set your bag back down on the bench, realizing this was going to take a while.

He took a seat next to you. Again. "Done what?"

"Just—just taken over Shen. Shen's an attending too. He can show me stuff. It doesn't always have to be you." They were harsh words, yet there was nothing of it in your tone. You were speaking in a quiet tone, like you didn't mean the words, like they were a cover-up for something else. Some other sentiment you were clearly trying to hide from him.

Your eyes watched the light patter of the rain that started as soon as you said the first words.

Jack looked at your face, seeing the faraway look and tried to gauge what exactly this was about. He wasn't hurt by your words, more so perplexed. And concerned. You seemed confused, scared even, if he was reading the pursing of your lips right.

"Shen was struggling," he spoke deliberately, as if explaining something to a five-year-old child. "The guy barely knew what he was doing."

You looked up. "That's not true," you replied, almost petulant, sounding exactly like the five-year-old girl he was so mindfully speaking to.

"Yes, it is." He studied your face with careful thinned lips, careful not to convey any emotion but neutrality. "What's this really about?" Your eyes continued to track every movement of his, not being able to look away even as he tilted his face closer. "Come on. You can tell me, honey."

You finally removed your eyes. "No." you shook your head, still speaking in the same quiet voice as if you told yourself not to let any emotion show.

You brushed a hand over your face, trying to fix whatever sadness was about to expose you in the form of liquid from your pretty eyes. 

How were you going to tell him that you couldn't handle it?

Couldn't handle the fact that he was everywhere. All the damn time. He was in your home when you were cooking, and you paused to think about whether Jack liked pasta. He was in your bed, when you were drowning in sorrow and self-doubt, and you'd hear his voice from the earlier shift, how he'd told you that you had done a good job, that you had nothing to worry about. He was there when you didn't know what to watch and looked for the channel he told you about during the one time the two of you left the ER to get coffee together.

Jack Abbot was everywhere and it was killing you.

You weren't capable of handling this. Crushes for you were overwhelming, sickening, and despite the seconds of bliss, it was nothing compared to the terrifying realization that Jack liked you the way you liked him, if not more.

You liked him, and he liked you too, and now what? Grown adults go on dates together, kiss, live together, and then get married.

The mundane cycle of life.

Nothing about it was mundane to you. To you, it was a roller-coaster, nothing rounding and repetitive about it.

It felt like you'd been plunging to a drop since the day Jack had driven you home and helped you fix a shelf in your room after pulling a double shift. You had stood in your apartment door, watching him get into the elevator with a smile, and then you'd stood there and stood and stood and realized that you were in love with Jack Abbot.

You didn't look at him as you spoke. "You should go home."

Jack stared at you, not exactly used to having you shut down this badly. There had been many instances where you'd fall apart, not look at him, not see him, but he always helped let go of it, adjust to it or cope with it. Usually with hands on your lower back that traveled up to the back of your head as soon as the first tear dropped, and you were sobbing into his chest. It had always been like this.

Jack felt his heart wrench. He wasn't sure what to do and he hated feeling this helpless. "Not doing that," he said, and he wasn't telling you what he expected from you, but you knew.

He wanted an explanation, otherwise he wasn't going anywhere.

"Jack please," you whispered, now finally meeting his hazel eyes. "I just—I need a minute."

Your eyes didn't have tears in them, but you knew it was just a question of sooner or later. Even Jack knew it.

"You can have a minute in my car. Up." He finally regained his attending voice, the authorial voice that usually helped you do everything flawlessly in the ER. He grabbed your bag and walked away.

Without another word you followed to his car and watched him open the passenger door, setting your bag in front of your seat. You took a seat on the warm plush, hating how the smell of it, the smell of him comforted you immediately, making the burn behind your eyes a bit easier.

You hated how he made you feel better. You hated there was someone out there who had this much control over what you felt without knowing that there was so much control.

You hated everything.

He got into the car and the rest of the drive was silent. Jack knew he had pressured you plenty and that you were in very well need of a break. He hated being cornered just as much as you did, so allowing you to sit there silence was the very least he could do.

When he arrived at your apartment, you stayed in the car, regret now flowing through your veins. Regret and humiliation. You felt ill as you closed your eyes and sensed his eyes boring into your profile, trying to figure out how he could find out what was wrong with you without grilling you again.

"I think I'm in love with you."

You knew Jack had never, with all of the thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, expected this, expected that to come out of your mouth. He froze, his hazel eyes which had been filled with worry now turning into surprise and then dread, realization hitting him as he realized the very reason you were this sad was because you had realized your love for him.

The rain continued to patter down on the car, as Jack stayed silent.

You had to tell him. This way, he would tell you that this wasn't going to work, that you had just been a distraction at work, someone young, someone pretty to talk to while he worked the worst job in the world. You were merely a tool to him. That's what you were about to hear, what you needed to hear.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly. He worried that if the words I'm in love with you too left his lips that you'd fall apart completely.

You were barely even holding on, fingers gripping your jeans as tight as you could, your nails on the edge of breaking.

"Mhm." you nodded, lips in a thin line, as you continued to stare out front.

"You think or you know, honey?" he asked quietly, this time asking for himself. The desperation, he usually hid so well, floated to the top, exposing how much he wanted to know if what you were saying was really true to you, that you meant it, that he hadn't been imagining it.

It took you a while, thoughtfulness entering your face replacing the deep troubled sadness for just a second before your lower lip trembled. "Know."

Jack let out an exhale, unable to hide the relief in it, pressing his head against the car seat.

Minutes of silence passed. Both of you watching the rain tapping on the car, the window obscuring the view of your apartment, drifting far away almost.

"You want me to say it?"

You shook your head. No, you didn't want him to tell you that he was in love with you too.

"Okay," he pressed his lips together, as if holding the words in. He took a look at you, your shaken state, how your knees were pointing in his direction, not the door, as if your body had decided that despite your mind fighting you, you didn't want to leave, leave him.

"I'm taking you to my place, that okay?" he asked quietly, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel.

You turned your head to your window, lips quivering as you thought about the grave mistake you were making, before letting out a small "Okay."

The drive was just as silent as before, though Jack was sure that the tears were now finally streaming down your face, though you kept your face away from his view until he arrived at his house. Parking the car, he made sure to avoid looking at you until you stopped sniffling.

He quickly got out, rounding the car until he was next to your door, opening it for you like the gentleman he tried so hard to be for you.

You grabbed your bag, still keeping your eyes on the ground, but when you stood up, Jack couldn't grant you the privacy he had earlier, anymore. He needed to show you that he cared and that he was here for you no matter what happened.

Carefully raising his hands, so slowly that you had time to pull back, his thumb gently stroked the wet skin under your eye. Just as gently, he did it on the other side too, and then he let his hand wander to the back of your hair, brushing it softly away from your face, before tilting his head downwards to catch your eyes.

Your red rimmed eyes finally met his, now with the cloudy weather, brown ones. You preferred them more when they were hazel and almost green. Now they just looked as pained as yours.

"We'll figure it out," he whispered as gently as possible, fingertips brushing one more time across your soft cheek.

You didn't nod or speak, or show any signs of agreement, but Jack still decided to take your silence as a yes. He reached for your bag and lifted it upon his free shoulder, before reaching for your hand.

Reaching out just like he had earlier, but the teasing was gone, no wiggling fingers, no smile, no nothing.

It was almost comical how tightly you gripped his hand, as if you needed something to hold on to because everything else was slipping away.

The two of you remained silent as you followed Jack to the entrance of his house, letting him pull you towards the charming residence, trying to ignore how small he made your hand feel in his, and how warm.

The rain didn't even feel like it was touching your skin, all you felt was the scorching heat of Jack's hand engulfing yours and for a moment you wished this would be the only thing you'd ever feel for the rest of your life.

He somehow managed to continue brushing his thumb over your cold knuckles, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, as he opened the door.

Inside it was dark, and Jack was quick to turn on the lights, somewhere in the back of his mind, remembering that you'd once mentioned being scared of the dark when you were a kid.

He hung his bag up, taking yours from your hand without asking, before hanging it up next to his. The two of you silently stared at the bags next to each other just long enough that it was a moment, a thing, an unspoken thing nonetheless.

It came to no surprise to both of you that you were the one to interrupt the moment, quickly taking off your shoes, this time deliberately not glancing down, not wanting to acknowledge how they looked next to his.

He, still silent, walked into the living room, before turning a corner, listening to your socked feet on the floor, quickly following him into the kitchen.

Quick to turn on all the lights, he opened the fridge, and you watched him take out all the things you liked, and you let out an incredulous puff of air, making him turn around immediately.

"What?" he said, unable to resist the smile that formed on his face, upon seeing something other than grief in your face.

"How do you—just— remember everything?" you asked in disbelief.

"Doubting my intelligence right after confessing your love to me oof." He pressed a hand to his chest, grinning from ear to ear. "That hurts sweetheart."

You shot him a look, swatting at his bicep with your palm, but not quite letting go as you took a peek into his fridge.

Jack felt himself get warm by the way your hand was still wrapped around his bicep, not letting go. His eyes wandered from your hands to your profile, observing the way your nose scrunched up as you came to a conclusion you didn't like. His heart squeezed with joy when he took notice of the spark in your still red-rimmed eyes returning, the one that said you were about to insult him in your usual lighthearted way.

"No chocolate, no sweets, nothing unhealthy." You looked up at him, dropping your hand from his bicep with a startle before getting a hold of yourself again. "You have a boring fridge, Jack."

"I'll get you chocolate, don't you worry about that." He shook his head, incredulous over the fact that this was your first proper sentence in the last thirty minutes.

You didn't reply to that, and he realized too late what he had implicated. He took a look at your face and, just as he had feared, you'd shut down again, brutally reminded of what had occurred in the last few minutes.

He turned around, grabbed what he needed to make a sandwich and started cutting. "Sit," he mumbled and decided not to comment on your sorrow, nodding towards the counter next to him. You complied without another word.

You watched his hands cut the bread the way you liked it. Small pieces to make it seem bigger.

A habit from when you were a child and your mom would hand you chocolate. You would always end up tearing all the pieces apart, so you felt like you had twelve pieces instead of one block. A mind trick was what you used to tell your friends.

And, now here you were, grown and an adult watching Jack Abbot do the thing you haven't done in years, for you. Simply because you had mentioned it once. Once, during a shift, you didn't remember.

Your eyes flickered up to his face. His gray hair was as pretty as ever, had always been one of your favorite things about him, curling over his forehead, and you could see the red-brown peeking through. He looked tired, lips lightly curling downward, which usually meant he was tired.

But he never rested. He always needed to be in action doing things. Like right now.

You were probably just another thing on the list. The girl he distracted himself with during lulls in the shift, the girl he talked to in the car, so he wouldn't have to drive home alone with his thoughts, the girl he invited over, so his apartment felt less quiet.

You were a tool to keep his thoughts far away.

Glancing down at your hands, you finally noticed that you had been picking at your nails the entire time. Bad habit that you still couldn't seem to get rid of. The only growing up, the only bad habit you've overcome, was apparently not cutting your sandwich into small pieces anymore.

Feeling a prickle of pain at the top of your head, you reached your hand up, swiftly slipping the hair tie out of your hair, releasing a cascade of softness around your shoulders. You didn't notice the way Jack halted the knife to watch you. He watched you ruffle your hair with a relieved sigh, and his eyes followed every movement until they locked with yours.

You stared back, and your nose scrunched in light embarrassment.

"You're a pretty girl." He gave you a smile, embarrassed for being caught staring. Shaking his head, he looked back down at his knife. "And yet you're here making yourself sad over some old guy."

It wasn't self-pity, even if you knew that. It was a statement, even a complaint, if you thought about it for too long.

To him, you were too young, too pretty, too kind, to destroy yourself over something as simple and boring as him.

You glanced up at him noting the way he was cutting up the bread slower, clearly waiting for your reply. Maybe it wasn't all not self-pity. Maybe some insecurity did linger there.

"I think you're pretty nice for an old guy," you mumbled, swinging your legs until they hit the wood below you, and you suppressed a groan of pain.

He chuckled, not having missed what you had just done, and glanced up at you, mouth curved upwards, before looking away again.

This was domestic. Too domestic even.

It made you feel nauseous, and you gazed down at his hands, tracking the way he was carefully fixing your sandwich with ingredients you liked. You brushed a hand over your eyebrow, fingertips rubbing hard into your eyes until stars were bursting hard, replacing jack temporarily.

You wished they could replace Jack forever.

He paused his knife on the counter, setting it aside, before stepping in between your knees and removed your hands from your face.

"Not that nice after all, huh?" he asked quietly, heart breaking when your eyes met his. It seemed, that tonight, the sadness wasn't going away anytime soon.

You didn't have the strength to muster up a weak smile. Too tired and too sad as you met his hazel eyes, the eyes that knew you too well and that saw too much. You looked down at the way his fingers were still lightly curled around your wrist. His hand fit so well around yours, the perfect temperature, the perfect size to calm you down.

"Crap." you finally whimpered, and you dropped your head forwards, letting yourself fall right into the crook of his neck. Jack, without another word, let his hand lift to the back of your head, fingers curling into your soft hair as he brushed gently through it.

Jack knew you. It was as simple as that.

He knew you were scared. He'd seen your expression when you came to work one day. You had been scared of something and he saw it. He saw the way your fingers would twitch on the counter, desperately wanting to touch him, and when he let his fingers brush up against yours, you'd stay for five seconds before taking it back abruptly, like you had been electrocuted, like it had been a mistake.

Eventually he just knew. You were in love with him and you were scared.

His other hand came up to brush against your back, rubbing your shirt gently, bunching it up, lifting it until he was able to rest his hand on your bare waist, hoping the heat of his fingers would finally warm your freezing skin up.

You pressed your face further into his neck, though your hands remained on your sides. You were craving him, but fear still lingered.

It lingered in every part of your body. In your hands, where it wouldn't let you reach for him the way you wanted to. In your chest, where it wouldn't let you press up against him fully. In your heart, where it wouldn't let him in.

Jack didn't even have the strength to think about how soft you were in his arms, how much he had craved to touch you. You were too cold for it all.

He pressed his palm harder to your naked lower back, hoping that if his entire palm was pressed up against your spine, that maybe, just maybe he wouldn't feel like he was touching ice.

"Let's get you into some warm clothes," he mumbled, not yet removing himself from your hold, waiting for your cue.

You pressed your face further into his neck, turning your head, so your cheek was on his shoulder now, gazing towards the side of his kitchen where his empty fridge was. "Don't think I should stay," you mumbled quietly.

"Too late. You're here now," he replied, now deciding that it was the right moment to pull back before you did, completely.

His hands drifted to your hips, helping you off the counter, and then he grabbed the sandwich and set it on a plate. "Eat."

And then he wandered away to his room, hoping that he'd find something warm enough for you. It seemed like right now there was nothing warm enough. Not even he was warm enough for you. Looking through his closet, he managed to find one of the few long-sleeved shirts he had.

Everything else was clothes for work. He didn't have much interest in buying things for himself. He didn't like to think about why, that he didn't deem it necessary, that he didn't want his home to pile up with things, in case one day he didn't come home.

His hand tightened around the fabric, tearing it off the hanger before he trudged back into the kitchen, heart squeezing at the sight of you pressing what seemed to be the third piece into your mouth as you stared into nothing.

"Here. This will keep you warm." Jack held out the long-sleeved shirt, and you raised an eyebrow, taking another piece of the sandwich.

"That's big," you mumbled around a bite.

He huffed. "Well, yeah sweetheart, it's mine."

You shot him a look, not appreciating the condescending tone, but he just shot you a grin and you shook your head. "Hand's greasy." you mumbled.

You turned your back to him and he quickly got the idea. 

Carefully setting his shirt on the counter, he reached for the fabric of yours. You raised your arms and let him help you out of the soft pink cotton. He didn't dare glance anywhere, keeping his eyes locked on his own black shirt. If you were okay, right now, with being vulnerable, he wasn't going to take advantage of it, even if he had a feeling you wanted to.

He helped you into the shirt, his eyes still not lingering anywhere inappropriate, and let it swallow you whole.

When you turned, he carefully extricated your hair from your collar, letting it drape over your back, while you continued to watch him with lifeless eyes. Or you would have liked to be looking at him with lifeless eyes. In reality, you were torn. You knew you were being weird. Pulling away, but then reaching for him again.

You realized, with a startle, how awful you were being, how mean, how selfish. You looked at your plate, seeing the small bites and then wordlessly turned to the sink, washing your hands off the grease, washing them off of anything that was Jack.

You needed to get out of here.

When you turned, the apology was ready. "I'm sorry." you shook your head, toying with the edge of the sleeve of his shirt. "I—I'm being a lot right now." you said quietly. "And I—"

But Jack was already shaking his head, reaching for your hands and pulling you towards him, right into his chest.

"Hey, none of that." he mumbled, fingers reaching up to brush your hair out of your face, while his other hand remained around your waist, keeping you close to him. "You're not being a lot. And I want you here."

He shot you an almost disappointed look for thinking the opposite and then brushed a thumb under your eye as if making sure you didn't cry while he had been grabbing the shirt. You didn't.

"But—as difficult as this is— we need to talk." He continued on quietly, in the same low voice, and he felt you freeze up under his hand. As if it was a surprise to you, like you hadn't known the moment the words I'm in love with you had stumbled out of your mouth, that the two of you needed to talk.

His palm remained on your cheek as he waited for any sort of compliance or agreement and it took a while. Your eyes bore into his shirt as you stood there silently, before turning your head, eyes glancing back at the plate, sorrow clouding your features again.

"Hey." Jack used a small amount of strength to pull your face back to him, tapping his index finger against your skin. "I'm serious," he added quietly, and for a second he thought about saying it, saying the words plain out loud that he was in love with you more than you'd think, but you were like a deer, and he was terrified that at the smallest sound of affection you'd run away.

"I know you are," you mumbled, and he had to suppress a smile at your petulant sound.

"Okay then," he replied, trying to sound cheery. "I'd like to take you out on a date."

Your face fell completely, the color draining out of it and Jack realized this was going to be much harder than he expected.

Not in the way you feared it to be, no.

He had no problem convincing you of his love for you. The hard part was having to watch you be this much in pain. The only reason, the only doubt lingering in the back of his mind, was that he wasn't sure he could watch you go through so many cycles of sadness because of him. It made him feel selfish, made him think that maybe he was doing this for himself, to not be so lonely.

But with one look at your pretty face, he knew it wasn't true. He wanted you. When he looked at you, he didn't think about the ways his house might sound less empty, and his thoughts less frigthening.

He just wanted you in his house. He just wanted you around. He just wanted you.

"Need a response, pretty girl," he said quietly, tilting your head to catch your eyes, and you graciously let him. Your pretty eyes lifted to meet his.

He brushed a thumb over your cheek, encouraging you for a response and it worked. "Where?" you whispered.

And he smiled softly, knowing in the back of his mind to not take it as encouragement, you were still too hesitant. "A real expensive restaurant, that has all the sorts and types of pasta you like." He smiled softly, tilting your head up just for a fraction, so your eyes met his properly, so that he was your entire view. "Even has tiramisu."

Your lips twitched. "When?"

Going through W-questions, he realized. "Whenever you want," he twirled a hair strand around his finger, now realizing again that he was touching you. Really touching you and you seemed to like it.

He brushed with the pad of his thumb over your hair. Soft. He had expected it to feel like this. His hand on your waist wandered under your shirt, under the pretense that he was checking your temperature, but he knew he was lying to himself. He just wanted to touch you.

You seemed to be warmer than before, not yet warm, but not as cold as before.

You nodded slowly and on you went to the last W-question. "Why?"

Jack squeezed your waist gently. "Because I like you." A frown formed on your face and Jack knew why. Tapping his index finger against your temple, he added in a quiet voice. "Don't think you're ready to hear it yet."

The form turned into the expression of someone who knew they'd been caught. You wanted to hear the same words you'd uttered in the car earlier, but Jack knew you better. The confession would make you feel better temporarily before the fear caught up with you and you would crumble. And despite how the word pushed against the tip of his tongue, how his heart seemed to be bursting at the seams, wanting to just say the words and have you finally acknowledge them, he knew the disaster would be much worse.

You hummed, the only way you'd agree, before shuffling your feet on the floor, and he knew you wanted to get closer without actually making the first step. So he pressed his hand firmer into your waist, pulling you in, until your forehead hit his chest and then your cheek. You tilted your head until your cheek laid against his racing heartbeat. He felt your exhale against his body, and your fingers curling into fists at your sides, desperate not to cling onto him, and he let you have that last piece of resistance.

His chin rested against the top of your head as he brushed a hand over your back.

"What are you scared of honey? Hmm?" he mumbled, letting his lips linger in your hair even as you burrowed closer, trying to hide from both the question and the answer. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, deciding to just lay it out in the open. If you weren't going to talk he would.

"Can't know that." you muffled against his chest.

"Yeah, I can," he replied, pressing you closer as if to prove it.

"No, you can't," you mumbled, trying not to take too much pleasure in the way his fingers were untangling the knots in your hair.

He sighed, lifting his head to stare up at the ceiling as if praying for the universe to finally make you listen to him for once in your life.

You leaned back, eyes lifting to his face. "You're annoyed," you stated, trying your best to disguise the hurt that was trying to creep into your voice.

"Thought you knew me better than that," he mumbled, fingers drifting to the waistband of your pants, letting it snap against your hip, and you let out a small "Ouch Jack!" before he shot you a grin. "Not annoyed," he finally said. "Just unsure how to make you believe me."

"I won't," you stared at him, as if it was silly that he thought that you would in the first place.

"Why?" and finally he got tired, tired of standing for this long. He dropped his hands, reaching out to grip yours instead and lead you to the bedroom.

"Because—there's no guarantee that you won't hurt me. You can't know. It's all empty promises." You hesitated at the bedroom door, but then curiosity took over as you stepped in.

Jack didn't plan on asking you to stay over in his bed, because he knew your response would be no. He pushed the covers away, ushering you into the bed, and you sat there silently, before mumbling something about not wanting to sleep in jeans, trying to ignore the fact that he still hadn't replied yet.

He reached for some boxers in his closet, handing them to you, and you walked into the adjoining bathroom.

"It might seem like empty promises to you," you heard through the door as you carefully folded the jeans. "But they won't be," he added, trying to put as much care into his words as possible.

He knew it was more than important to watch his words now. Everything could be too much or not enough for you right now, and he wanted to be neither.

You came out of the bathroom, standing in front of him like a wet puppy, drowning in his clothes. "Jack—" you whispered, and he smiled sadly, already aware of what you were going to say.

He knew you like the back of his hand, and you wished oh so desperately that he didn't.

You didn't fish the sentence. It doesn't matter what you say, I won't believe you.

"Get into bed," he ordered quietly.

You followed without a word as he guided you onto the soft mattress with a hand on your back, and settled against the headboard.

"Scoot over ,pretty," he added, and you did until you were in the middle of the bed, watching him join you, settling against the headboard, but not without bending down and getting rid of the prosthetic. He settled the metal against the bed, before letting out a sigh of relief, finally resting against the headboard.

"Were you in pain the entire time?" you asked, startled over the fact that his face had taken on a relieved expression.

"No," he lied, and he felt the stiffness in your body at the response.

You knew he was lying.

Maybe you were able to read him better than he thought. At least when your insecurities weren't clouding your judgment.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, clearly not fond of what he had done.

Setting his pain aside to take care of yours.

He always did this, and he wasn't sure how to fix it either. He just worked like that. Fixing other people's pain was easier than fixing his.

His arm stretched out until it was behind your waist, and then he drew you in slowly. He was relieved to hear no protest from you, no push back, no nothing. Just like in the kitchen, you wanted him to touch you, you just didn't want to be the one reaching out. He pulled you in until you were right under his arm, having no choice but to rest your hand on his chest.

"I can't promise you I won't make any mistakes ever," he mumbled against the top of your head. "But I can swear that I'll try not to."

Your fingers bunched his shirt under your fingers, and you lifted your head to look into his eyes, his pretty hazel earnest eyes. You stared and stared and then smiled weakly.

"I know," you whispered and squeezed your eyes shut, and then you decided.

This was as bad as it would get.

You could see in his eyes how desperately he wanted you, and the panic coursed through your veins, making you squirm in his arms for a second. But you knew it would be there nonetheless, whether he would be in the ER far away, or here, promising to always take care of you.

So why not just tell him? It wouldn't get any scarier or easier.

You sat up slowly, and then, before Jack knew it, you were settled in his lap. It startled him, you could see it in the way his eyes widened before keeping his composure, clearly trying not to showcase too much happiness, to not scare you off that he was taking this moment as something.

"I like you—I like you a lot," you said quietly, and Jack's heart squeezed once again upon hearing the words. He could hear them again and again and never get sick of them. "But—this is scary for me," you whispered. "I don't want to get hurt, and you can't promise me you won't. There's always going to be some way for you to accidentally hurt me or do something I wont like. And there are so many easy ways to hurt me, Jack," you whispered. "And I leave. When I get hurt, I leave. And I don't want to leave you."

Ah.

Jack was at a loss of words. He hadn't expected that to be the answer to everything. That you were so scared of being hurt that your real fear was that you would be led to do something irrational, something that would hurt you even more in return than the initial thing.

"I like being with you," you mumbled quietly. "And I know myself. I know that if I ever get scared, that I'll leave, and I won't come back."

One tear managed to escape and Jack brushed it away with his thumb, before letting his hands go back to your hips, his boxers.

"And I'm not easy to deal with," you let out a small laugh. "Obviously," you gestured at the two of you. "I'm an exhausting person to be around and no one wants to be around someone they're constantly worried about hurting." You were now toying with the fabric of his shirt, toying with a loose strand.

Jack watched your fingers, before slowly taking your hand in his. "I want to." he replied in the same quiet voice. "I want to be around you."

Your eyelashes fluttered at that, as if exposing the very thing you were trying to cover up with your words. "But I leave. I'm someone who leaves," You whispered. "And you—you try so hard to not be alone, and I'm going to—I'm going to be the reason you'll be alone." Another tear escaped and Jack was devastated at the sight of it.

You were worried about him?

He would take every ounce of loneliness and heartbreak just at the idea of being able to have you in his arms. Even if it was one night, even if it was just tonight.

"You don't have to worry about me, sweetheart," he mumbled, sitting up straighter, mindful of the way you were in his lap. He wanted to face you properly even if the cost of that was the sight of your glistening eyes.

"Can't help it. You make it hard not to," you replied quietly, biting your lip, suppressing the shakiness of it all.

And you were right. He had made it hard on you. He got shot at in his free time, he went to the roof at least once a month, and he didn't sleep and worked too much. How could you not worry about him?

He felt the guilt flash across his face, and his mouth set in a hard line, realizing the weight you'd been carrying all because of him.

"I didn't mean—I didn't mean to make you feel bad. This isn't—" you pressed a palm over your mouth, trying to gather the words. "Jack, this just—this won't work." You finally managed out under more tears, and both hands were now clinging onto him, gripping his shirt tightly.

"We haven't even tried," he replied breathless, worried he was losing you, worried he was ruining something that he was trying to fix.

"We shouldn't." You shook your head as if to confirm again that you were right about this.

"I want to," he finally said, hoping that maybe if he was selfish you'd let him.

"You shouldn't," you replied, even more sad.

It was getting tiring to watch the heartbreak unfold in your face all because of him. It had always been so important to him to protect you, to protect you from horrible patients, nasty attendings and hurtful comments.

Yet here he was.

"Sorry to disappoint sweetheart," he whispered, brushing a hand over your thigh, his thumb halting on a scar there, brushing over it gently.

Your eyes snapped down to the scar, watching him touch the scar tenderly and your eyes hung on the way his eyebrows furrowed as if he was experiencing the moment when you received the scar. It had just been a small fall of a skateboard when you were ten, trying to be like the cool girls on TV. No big deal, yet Jack touched it like it happened recently.

You watched the way his curls fell over his forehead, how tired he looked, but how the determination just wouldn't leave his face. He wasn't letting this go anytime soon.

"Jack," you whispered. "I'm serious."

He looked up, and he looked prettier than he had ever before, and you almost came to regret the decision you were making until he spoke. "I'm in love with you."

He brushed a hand over your scar, and you shivered, both at the tender touch and the words. You hated how your heart fluttered, how you wanted to just fall into his arms and never leave his lap again. But this was all scary. Terrifying, you felt nauseous as the words bounced around in your head. I'm in love with you.

Jack Abbot was in love with you.

"And I want to try," he said quietly. "And if I hurt you— if you leave— I'll be here. I'll wait for you."

Your eyes flickered across his face, as if it was some joke. The nausea tripled as you stared at him. You weren't sure how he'd found the exact words you'd looked for all your life, the words that managed to balm the wound that was so deep-rooted in your soul, you knew it was never going to be fixed. And you knew that if you got up from his lap, the bubble would burst. The words wouldn't seem as comforting as they did now. But still, you couldn't resist.

"What if I never come back?" you whispered, worried that this would make him take his words back completely, tell you some excuse about how he'll wait for a month or two.

"Then I'll just love you from afar," he replied, his hazel eyes meeting yours. "And I'll keep waiting."

Jack had hope that you'd come back. He knew you'd leave. He knew he wasn't perfect. He knew he'd hurt you. He was someone who hurt by trying to do the exact opposite.

But he knew you'd come back. He just knew.

And maybe you knew too, sensed that your soul would always be tethered to his in some way, that some invisible string would always pull you back to Jack Abbot.

"Okay," you whispered, and you let yourself fall into his arms and into the dark abyss you had always been so scared of.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to make the old springs squeal beneath you and Jack’s first hiss isn’t one of pleasure.

“Shut. Up.” 

His hand closes around your jaw before the laugh can properly make it out, fingers digging into the hinge just shy of painful. His thumb finds the soft under of your chin and presses until your mouth falls open for him.

It’s supposed to be corrective, presumably. Intimidating. To make you reconsider whatever smart thing you were about to say.

Instead, you turn your head just enough to catch the heel of his palm between your teeth. Salt. Sunscreen. Jack.

You bite down lightly and watch the quick flare in his eyes that says try me again.

It makes you want to try him again.

This is perhaps your most enduring character defect, the congenital need to worry at Jack Abbot until something gives, to poke one finger into every concealed pressure point and keep pressing until that pleasant facade finally fractures and you get the man underneath, irritated and looking at you like patience is a finite natural resource you have personally exhausted.

Conveniently, this defect has also made the two of you very easy to hide.

Wanting Jack has never looked substantially different than hating him. Same symptoms, really. 

At work it manifests as narrowed eyes across the nurses’ station, remarks delivered half an octave louder than necessary, shoulders knocking in hallways wide enough to accommodate two functioning adults.

In private, the argument merely changes medium.

You end up underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips while he fucks every complaint back into you, and somehow neither of you has to concede the point.

That is, more or less, what is happening now.

Jack is attempting to fuck a confession out of you, specifically the admission that he had been right when he told you not to challenge the ocean after three frozen margaritas and one declaration that rip currents were mostly “a mindset.”

In your defense, this had sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. The ocean disagreed.

You made it maybe six yards before a wave hit your broadside, folded you clean in half, stole your sunglasses, and deposited you at Jack’s feet with enough seaweed caught in your bikini to suggest the beginnings of marine conservation.

You called him an insufferable bastard for saying he told you so. 

Now he keeps insisting he “rescued” you because he hauled you upright by the waist while you sputtered saltwater.

He would like an apology. You would like him dead. Compromise remains unlikely. You would swallow your own tongue before giving him the satisfaction. 

You nip him again, sharper this time, then grin around his thumb. “Go on — make me. You’ve been trying all day.” 

“Fucking brat.” He drags his thumb free, replacing it with two thick fingers that press insistently at your tongue. “Keep talking and I’ll stuff you so full the only word you remember is sorry.” 

He’s close to delivering on that promise, hips battering the breath from your lungs until all you can do is claw the navy sheets below you.

You almost give him the noise he’s hunting for, but feeding Jack’s ego has never been on your to-do list, so you smother the sound and glare your defiance instead.

You clamp down on his fingers, hard enough to make him grunt, and he jerks back, slick digits slipping free. 

“Jesus — watch the teeth,” he growls, shaking the sting before flattening your wrist to the mattress. “You want a muzzle, sweetheart?” 

You swipe your tongue over enamel, savoring the residue. “So many threats, Doctor. I’m starting to think you’re all talk.” 

“Careful,” Jack murmurs with a hollow laugh. “You might hurt my feelings.”

He apparently decides conversation has exhausted its usefulness.

One second you are on you looking at him; the next he has you flipped facedown, dragged your hips into the air, and buried himself back inside you with enough force to make the entire bed complain in sympathy. 

His chest covers your back, breath searing the shell of your ear. A half-moan, half-sob cracks loose out of you, palms skidding for purchase as your pelvis jerks forward as if distance could blunt the stretch, make it more manageable.

Jack only laughs again, settling both hands over your shoulder blades as he lets his weight weld you to the sheets.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” Each thrust stakes you there, sensation cresting so hot the edges of the room tremble out of focus and into watercolors.

You mash your face into the pillow, trying to hide the choked noises bleeding from you but they seep through cotton and feathers just the same.

“Listen to you,” he croons, mock-tender, thumb stroking a false comfort along your spine. He grinds you down while he pushes in again, slow enough you feel the catch of every ridge. “So fucking mouthy until I start making you feel good.” 

His hand snakes beneath you, palm burning a trail down your stomach until two fingers find your clit. The first tight circle detonates in your core. Supernova heat.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t fight common sense,” he purrs. “Just admit it — You were right, Jack. Should’ve trust you. Smartest guy I know. That’s all I want.” Another figure-eight of his thumb, another planet collision behind your eyes. “I keep you safe, I make you feel good — why’s it so hard to give me a little credit?”

“Because — you’re such — a cocky — asshole,” you gasp, the insult dissolving into a helpless whine when his thumb presses harder. 

“Dirty mouth on you,” Jack tuts. “C’mon, honey. Be sweet for ten little seconds — tell me I’m right — and I’ll let you come.”

You give him nothing but a furious side-to-side wobble, hair stuck wetly across your cheeks.

He can make your thighs shake and turn your brain into warm soup but he cannot make you surrender a point you are still technically convinced is yours. 

The knot low in your belly winds tighter in retaliation, every muscle beginning that little climb towards something inevitable, and then Jack simply stops.

Fingers gone. Thrust halted. He holds himself inside you like a blade sheathed to the hilt, every inch throbbing but inert, punishment by deprivation. 

Your muscles fire once more on instinct, grasping at a phantom that’s already gone, walls twitching uselessly around empty air.

The knot loosens with insulting patience — twist, release, release — until climax slips from reachable to hypothetical. 

A brittle, involuntary sound hooks in your throat, proof that your body has accepted what your mind refuses to: Jack Abbot means to leave you suspended in this awful limbo until you fold. 

“Please — no.” You writhe beneath him in shallow arcs, powerless under the weight pinning you. “Need you — need you to keep going.” 

He slips a broad palm under your jaw, lifting your mouth off the pillow for your gasps to reach him unfiltered. “You know what I need, honey. Say the words, and I’ll give you everything you’re begging for.” 

“I — I’m sorry,” you finally spit out. “You were right, Jack. Always are. Just — please — don’t stop.” 

The words hit like blood in the water. He buries himself with a hoarse snarl, rhythm turning brutal, inexorable, as though the apology were a starting gun. Wood knocks hard against the plaster wall and your body jolts forward with every drive.

“Was that so hard?” His voice drips triumph while his teeth worry a shallow crescent into your shoulder. “Christ, sweetheart, what’re you always fighting me for? You know I’m gonna get my way.” 

The only reply you manage is a shaky “uh-huh — ah, Jack —” strangled into the pillow, every syllable climbing higher until it breaks apart in a thin, urgent keen that tells him exactly how close you are. 

“There you go, pretty girl. Give it to me — yeah, just like that.” 

That’s all it takes.

Your body locks, squeezes, and he answers with a raw-throated groan, bracing you inside the bracket on his arms while your trembling tries to shake both of you off the bed.

Then everything goes incandescent. A long, rushing hush, white and depthless, flooding every corner of your mind as you come all over his length.

Somewhere inside all that brightness, Jack loses whatever rhythm he had left.

He lasts two more strokes. 

“Fuck — sweetheart.” His hips snap tight against your ass, burying himself as deep as he can go, filling you in heavy surges that make your already-softened core flutter all over again. 

You barely understand it at first, only feel another strange wave roll through you, your body squeezing reflexively around every throb until his arms tighten and his forehead drops heavily between your shoulder blades. 

Jack stays folded over you until both your breathing begins to settle, the hard rise and fall of his chest gradually slowing against your spine.

When he finally moves, it is with considerably more care than anything he has done in the last thirty minutes.

He withdraws from you slowly, and your cunt manages one useless twitch at the emptiness he leaves behind. Pathetic, really, but apparently it's all the reaction your spent body can afford.

Sensing the weakness, the bastard takes advantage.

He rolls you onto your other side until you're nose-to-nose, the world tilting under the authority of a man rearranging furniture. Normally, you'd bark at him to ask first. Right now you just marvel that you're the furniture.

You blink at him through the pleasant cotton packed between your ears.

Jack studies the damage he's done, mouth curling like he's content with his handiwork, then lowers himself to press a kiss above your hipbone.

He works upward without hurry, lips brushing warm over skin still prickling with aftershocks, teeth occasionally catching in a light nip that makes you squirm before he kisses the same place better.

Your fingers slide into the silver-flecked hair at his temples, nails scratching lightly until you feel the growl rumble against your ribs.

“Funny how suddenly you like me again.”

“Like is generous.” You give the silver strands at his temple a tug. “Give me five minutes. I’ll remember everything I hate about you.”

“Mm. I can do a lot with five minutes.” He lifts his head just enough to give you that smug, crooked look.

“Four and a half now.”

Jack laughs, apparently delighted by the threat of your imminent return to hostility, and works his way up until there is nowhere left between you for him to kiss.

He folds down beside you and takes your mouth one final time before you can decide whether final kisses are perhaps too affectionate for people who supposedly cannot stand each other.

“Better use ’em wisely, then.”

He does, in fact, use them wisely. Spending what remains of his allotted minutes with his mouth between your thighs and apparently deciding there is some obscure world record for orgasms induced out of spite that he intends to break before sunrise.

But by breakfast, the consequences have arrived.

You sit at the island with a fork slack between your fingers, pancakes cooling untouched beneath a generous pour of syrup.

Your eyelids keep flirting with gravity; every time they drop Jack clears his throat in exaggerated warnings, as if falling face-first into breakfast would somehow be his fault.

It would be. Somehow. You'd make it so.

“Late night?” Frank asks from across the island, not bothering to look up from whatever he’s doing to his coffee.

Your head lifts approximately half an inch.

“No, I'm fine,” you say, far too quickly. You hear it the second it leaves your mouth, that bright little note of guilt you have apparently developed overnight, and clear your throat before anyone else can appreciate it. “I'm fine. Just tired. All that swimming yesterday wore me out.”

Dana, standing at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, lets out a thoughtful hum as she rinses a plate.

“Funny, everyone seems to be dragging this morning,” she remarks, flicking water off her wrist. “Can’t imagine why.”

“I can.” Robby lifts his mug. “Some of us were awake until two in the morning. Against our will.”

There is a tiny, merciful interval where you almost misunderstand him.

Of course people were awake. There are more than twenty coworkers crammed into one beach house, sleeping on couches and air mattresses and whatever other horizontal surfaces they could claim before someone else did.

Somebody is always awake. Somebody is always opening a refrigerator or flushing a toilet or talking too loudly in the hallway.

But when you finally drag your eyes up from your pancakes and find several people already looking at you with expressions ranging from tired amusement to outright accusation, the alternate interpretation arrives all at once.

They heard you. They heard Jack. Possibly extensively.

Fuck.

You lower your eyes and shovel another piece of pancake into your mouth.

Then again, maybe they're staring for some completely unrelated reason. A syrup stain, bed hair, the fact that you still haven't blinked in ten seconds.

“So, Jack,” Trinity suddenly says from the other side of the island, casual enough that for one stupid second you don’t hear the trap opening beneath your feet, “how's it feel being right all the time?”

You keep chewing.

“I mean, so right,” she adds, her voice climbing into a suspiciously breathy imitation. “The rightest man alive, apparently.”

The pancake becomes significantly harder to swallow as a hot ribbon of mortification slides up your throat. You manage a strangled cough and focus on sawing your next bite into pieces the size of atoms so you don't have to lift your head and meet anyone's eyes.

Without missing a beat, Jack wipes a smear of syrup from his thumb and shrugs. “Feels pretty nice, if I’m honest.”

“You are such a smug little —”

“Language,” Dana cuts in from the sink without even turning around.

You clamp your lips together, cheeks still burning, then lean just enough into Jack’s line of sight and mouth, shit.

His smirk cuts sideways across his face, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before coming back up darker than they were a second ago. His nostrils flare faintly, then his thighs spread another inch beneath the island as he leans back.

A minute repositioning of his hips that would mean nothing to anybody else and means everything to you because you know exactly what Jack looks like when his body gets ahead of his better judgment.

“Ew,” Trinity says suddenly, pointing between you and Jack with her fork. “This is flirting, isn’t it? You two have just been doing foreplay in front of us for, like, years.”

Robby grimaces. “Freaks.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you insist, despite the heat steadily colonizing your entire face.

Jack undermines you immediately as he shoots you a wink. “It’s worked pretty well for us.”

Your eyes widen ten sizes. “Shut. Up.”

His grin only gets worse, teeth showing this time, and something about that makes you want to kick his ankle under the island just to restore the natural order of things.

Frank shakes his head. “Get a room.”

“We had one. Apparently that was the problem,” Jack says.

A chorus of disgusted groans answers him.

MARIA NOTE jack abbot getting pussy as a direct consequence of being annoying… terrible precedent to set actually 🍋🫧🌀 HOPE YOU ENJOY I LOVE YOU ALLLL

You’ve told him a couple of times since starting your “situationship” that he had to do his best to be more nonchalant given the nature of your agreement. Though your first mistake was getting involved with the least casual person working at PTMC.

Cutting through the group of doctors and patients, you made your way to one of the supply rooms on the ED floor. You went on a mission to look for more gauze and scalpels to replenish the carts, and you figured it was a good excuse to get away from wandering eyes. During your search, the supply room door opened and closed quickly, and your ears picked up the signature gait you’ve come to learn more intimately over the past few weeks.

“Did you really follow me in here?” You asked out loud, not bothering to stop digging through the various compartments despite beginning to lose track of what you were looking for.

“No. I came looking for gauze.”

“You know you didn’t come in here for that. Don’t bullshit me, Jack.” Turning on your heel, you faced the attending that did in fact follow you into the room.

“You do realize we work in a hospital, right? Sometimes we need to look for supplies to tend to the needs of our patients.” Jack stood with his hands behind his back as he usually did when talking to someone, this time you noticed his shoulders were dropped and his overall stance was less tense.

“And do you have to grab things when I’m also in the room?”

“No. That part is just a bonus.” His words made you roll your eyes, and you tried your hardest to ignore the little flutter in your chest just from hearing him talk.

“Jack, we talked about this. You can’t keep popping up where I’m at or looking at me too much. Do you really want people to start gossiping about us?”

“I don’t look at you.” Of course that would be the only thing he’d focus on.

“Yes. Yes you do. You do it too much.”

“I didn’t think that was a problem. Haven’t heard any complaints so far, especially a couple of nights ago.” Jack didn’t bother to wipe the smug grin off of his face as he said that, forcing you to close your eyes and take a deep breath as the comment rolls off of you.

In reality, you were ignoring the brief flashbacks from the other night that crept up in your head. Every few days, you stumbled into Jack’s place after a shift with his arms holding you up as you clawed at his scrubs. You kick your shoes off and made hasty work of his undershirt while making your way to his bedroom, not needing a guide to find your way around. Being in his place like this was nothing new, it had become a newfound habit that you developed over the past two months since starting whatever you wanted to call this.

Friends with benefits? Fuck buddies? Situationship?

Regardless of the label, it worked for the both of you. The next minute, you find yourself tangled in his soft sheets with your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked you. Your arms were around his broad freckled shoulders and your nails raked lines down his back as you moaned with every thrust he gave you. You could feel his stubble still rubbing between your thighs from when he put his mouth on you, your slick walls clench hard around his thick length that stretched you out so good it sent your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Jack always had a thing for eye contact when you two fucked. He mentioned wanting to see your face so he can read your reactions, so he’d know you were feeling good from his touch. What you didn’t realize was how intense his staring could be during these vulnerable moments. He’d pinch the end of your chin and force you to hold his gaze while he raised one of your legs higher up his waist so he can plunge into you even deeper. He whispers sweet nothings reserved only for you to hear and watches carefully for the telltale signs that you were going to come again for him.

All it takes is a rub of his thumb and another hard thrust to have you moaning out his name and tightening your legs around his wide waist as you came on his cock, looking up at him with glossed over eyes as you did. He leans down to kiss you and keeps bucking into you until the pressure became too much, quickly pulling out and groaning loudly against your mouth as he spills his release on your lower stomach.

Jack pretends to act like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about when it came to his notorious staring problem, but playing his role was part of this sick game you were both playing with each other. 

“So now we’re counting how many days since our last rendezvous?” You say after a few beats, clutching what you had in your hand a bit tighter than before.

“I always count.” Jack replies with ease, as if it were the easiest thing for him to confess. He takes a step towards you, coming into your very limited personal space. “Speaking of, you’ve been avoiding me lately.”

“I’ve been busy working. Our shifts haven’t lined up too well.”

“You’re free starting Thursday.” He can’t be serious.

“I have plans.” That part you weren’t lying about. You were heading to a bar downtown with Trinity, Victoria, and other members of the younger crew you’ve grown to know after some gnarly back to back shifts.

“Then find me after those plans.” It was hard for you to be entirely mad at him when he’s trying to win you over. Despite his charms, you refused to admit that you’re missing him too.

“I’m not sure if you realize this, Jack, but you’re clingy.” You don’t know if you meant that as a warning or as a compliment, but from the unsurprised look on Jack’s face and his shrug you can’t tell how he interpreted your statement.

“Just putting out an offer. You know where to find me.”

Jack reaches behind you and you step back into the shelf he’s currently digging through. As much as you try to deny it, your eyes instantly go to the freckles on his arm, the same arm you scratch, bite, and drool on when he’s fucking you from behind. He knows you’re looking, he always does, and the dimple in his cheek makes an appearance with the smile he gives you. Jack withdraws himself and holds the gauze he allegedly came looking for, and makes his way to the door of the supply room.

“I’ll see you out there.”

You watch the silver curls on his head disappear from your sight as Jack exits the door, leaving you in the small room alone to ruminate over your thoughts. You’ve lost track of time since being in here, and you know better than to go out right after Jack had been spotted leaving the same room you’re currently in. It all seems ridiculous in hindsight, but this was what you both agreed to—casual fucking while keeping things professional at work, just enough so people don’t catch on to what you’re doing.

The reality was this was much messier than you initially planned. Anybody in their right mind would see the writing on the wall and know it was time to call it quits, but there was just something about Jack Abbot that was too magnetic for you to simply ignore. You’d always been stubborn, that was the first thing he complained about before the first time you leaned into him and kissed his lips after too many drinks.

Exhaling through your nose, you gathered your supplies in your hands and finally left the room, heading to the first cart you saw and began organizing the drawers as needed. Even after your conversation with Jack, you can still feel him looking over at you whenever he got the chance, and at this point you didn’t have the strength to tell him to knock it off a second time.

Maybe you will shoot him a text on Thursday night when you’re out, or maybe you won't, it all depends on how many shots of tequila Trinity pressures you to take. It was what got you in this mess to begin with, might as well keep up with the pattern.

“Good morning. I think”, Jack says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. He’s still in his pajamas, flannel pants and an old t-shirt that rides up just a little as he reaches behind him.

Your eye twitches. You take a deep breath. 

“Where is my brother?” you ask, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Out,” Jack says flatly. He starts moving towards the kitchen. “Want some coffee?”

“I think I’ll just- I’m going to go,” you say, bending down to pick up your shoes. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Jack looks at you. “Wyatt would kill me if I let you leave like that. Have some coffee, get cleaned up, and maybe tell me what’s going on.”

You’re tired. You’re so tired. Your throat is raw from crying in the back of the rideshare, and you wanted nothing more than to crumple up in your brother’s arms and bitch and moan all morning.

Not sit awkwardly in the kitchen with his very attractive roommate, who you have only interacted with a handful of times.

“Okay,” you say reluctantly. You pull out your phone and try to call Wyatt, but he’s not answering.

Jack pulls a chair away from the kitchen table and walks towards the coffee machine, clearly intending for you to take a seat.

“Did Wyatt say when he would be back?” you ask, sliding into the chair.

“He went out last night on a date,” Jack says, rifling through the cabinets. “My guess is that it went very well.”

“Gross,” you groan.

Jack sets an aspirin and a glass of water down in front of you. No comment, no jabs, just sets it down and turns away. You pop the aspirin immediately.

Jack pours coffee into two mugs and sets one in front of you. You inhale the steam, trying to  stop replaying last night in your head. Every time your mind wanders to something else, you find yourself right back there.

“So,” Jack clears his throat. 

“Don’t do that,” your eyes snap to him.

“Do what?” He finds this amusing, clearly.

“You don’t have to pretend you care. Your place was closer than mine. I just need a second, just to get my head on right, and I’ll be out of your hair,” you take a long sip of coffee. “Also this tastes like shit.”

“I’ll let Wyatt know that we need to up the beverage budget,” Jack smirks into his mug. “And, you’re the one sitting in my kitchen at 7 o’clock in the morning. I’m not pretending. I care.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” you shrug, trying to seem stronger than you feel. “It’s not like we know each other like that.”

Jack nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek. For a moment you think you’ve upset him, your brash early morning irritation rubbed him the wrong way. Jack grabs a tea towel and runs it through the sink before rounding the table. He pulls a chair close to you and sits down, your knees nearly knocking together. 

“I know I don’t have to,” he says softly. He says it like he wants to make sure you believe him. Like it’s the only thing that matters right now. “Trust me, I care.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy trying to monitor your breathing. 

Jack leans in close and gently dabs the tea towel under your eye, the cool water wiping away the mascara and calming your red, puffy eyes. You see small black flakes fall away on the towel with every gentle stroke.

“Who made you cry?” he says so quietly, so softly, it’s almost like the words barely make it from his lips. It’s so tender, it makes you want to weep. If you had any tears left, you might have. 

The memory makes you shut your eyes and almost physically recoil. 

“It’s-” you sigh. “It’s dumb.”

“Try me,” Jack says. He leans back in the chair, setting the towel down and nudging the coffee closer to you.

“I went out with a friend last night. It was a bar that we’ve been to before, just for a few drinks and some dancing, nothing crazy.”

Jack watches you intently as you speak, like there’s nothing else in the world more important than this story. 

“I met this guy,” you look away from him, suddenly embarrassed. “And he was nice and sweet and funny. I don’t know, I just liked talking to him.”

When you look back, Jack’s face has changed. Just slightly. His jaw tenses. 

“Did he hurt you?” Jack asks quietly.

You close your eyes for a moment and inhale deeply. 

“I thought he liked me. I thought we were like, I don’t know, hitting it off,” you take a breath. “We hung out all night pretty much. At some point, I had so much to drink. He offered us a ride and took us back to my friend's place. I didn’t even realize he had come up with us.”

Jack leans closer, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s still listening.

“I woke up this morning on her couch,” you say quietly. “Alone. And they were in her bed. Together.”

“They slept together?” Jack asks.

You nod.

“I guess it wasn’t me he was after,” you shrug. “I feel so stupid. I left immediately and came here.”

Frustrated, hot tears well in your eyes. One slips down. Before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches out and drags his thumb over your cheek. You close your eyes and resist the urge to lean into his warm touch.

“You’re not stupid,” he says softly.  “That guy’s an idiot. And your friend sucks.”

You snort, running a tired hand over your hair. You drop your face to avoid his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I’m realizing that now.”

“You’re incredible, just so you know,” Jack says, moving his face down to catch your eye. “Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” you say, your lips pulling into a flat line. “But you don’t have to say that just to make me feel better. I’ll be okay.”

Jack is so close to you, you can smell the coffee on his breath. “I’m not just saying that because you’re Wyatt’s sister,” he says. 

Wyatt’s sister. When Jack says it, it almost cracks the illusion. This is Wyatt’s best friend. His roommate. Your heart pounds in your chest and you suddenly feel overwhelmed.

You rise abruptly from the chair, so fast your stomach lurches. Jack’s eyes follow you up.

“Can I shower here?” you ask.

“Y-yeah,” Jack blinks.”Of course.”

Your brother is a fucking twig, so Jack gives you one of his worn sleep shirts and a pair of shorts to change into. The hot shower settles you. Soothes your skin and clears your senses. It brings you back down to earth a little. 

Not enough to stop thinking about Jack’s attention on you as he wiped your eyes or listened to you. But enough to remind you that nothing would ever happen with him.

You dry off in the bathroom and slip into the shirt and sleep shorts. It’s odd, being so surrounded by Jack. His clothes, the way they smell. 

When you leave the bathroom, Jack is sitting on the couch. His eyes fall to you immediately, taking in the sight of you in his clothes, your hair still damp. He swallows. You blink.

You can’t do this with him. Not right now.

“I’m going to,” you point to Wyatt’s room. “When Wyatt gets back, I’m in here.”

“Yeah, of course,” Jack rises from the couch, rubbing his hands on the front of his flannels. He approaches you slowly. “Need anything else?”

“No,” you give a small smile. “You’ve been really sweet. Thank you, Jack.”

“Anytime,” he smiles. Both of you linger in each other’s eyes for just a moment longer.

You’re the one to break the spell, slipping into Wyatt’s room and carefully shutting the door.

You collapse in your brother’s bed, emotionally and physically worn out. Sleep finds you quickly, making up for the broken fits on your friend’s couch last night. 

When you wake up a few hours later, you hear hushed voices outside the door. 

Wyatt’s home. 

You rise from the bed, and try to get to the door as quietly as possible, pressing your ear to try to hear their conversation.

“I tried calling her back this morning, is she still knocked out?”

“Yeah, man, I think so.”

“Thanks for looking out for her, Jack.”

“Of course. You know I would.”

You hear footsteps draw closer and stumble backwards to the bed. There’s a soft knock at the door, and Wyatt peaks his head in. 

In an attempt to make it look like you weren’t just listening to their conversation, you’re sitting with your back to the headboard, knees pulled up to your face. 

“Hey,” Wyat says softly. He steps in and closes the door behind him.

“Hi,” you give a weak smile.

He crosses the room to sit at the edge of the bed. 

“I’m sorry for just showing up here,” you say. 

Wyatt’s eyebrows knit together and he shakes his head. “What? I want you to come here if you have a problem. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.”

“It’s okay,” you smile. “Jack was very nice. He made me coffee.”

Wyatt eyes you for a moment. He looks down at Jack’s shirt on you and bites the inside of his cheek. There’s something he’s not saying.

“What?” you furrow your brows.

Wyatt rises from the bed and pulls a new shirt from his dresser. “I have to go to work. Jack’s going to be here, so stay as long as you want, okay?”

“Okay,” you reply.

“And at some point, I do want to hear what happened.”

The new shirt Wyatt is wearing gives you a glimpse at a small bruise at the base of his neck. You smirk and nod to him. “So, your date went well then?”

Wyatt cracks his neck and opens the door. “I’ll see you later,” he says with a smile. But he’s obviously blushing.

The sun is coming in strong, and your headache is waning, so you decide to emerge from Wyatt’s room. You shuffle into the living room, where Jack is sitting on the couch, surrounded by stacks and stacks of notebooks and textbooks.

He’s changed clothes, jeans and a t-shirt. You almost miss the soft comfort of him in his pajamas.

His eyes fall on you almost immediately. It’s hard to read him, but he doesn’t seem annoyed that you’re still in his apartment.

“Morning, princess,” he clears his throat and smiles.

“Is it still morning?” you ask, approaching the couch in small steps.

“Barely,” his eyes follow you. “It’s 11:30.”

“Right,” you nod. “What is all of this?”

You plop on the couch next to him, at a respectable distance, but close enough that you can smell the cologne he obviously put on at some point.

“Studying,” he shrugs. “Exam tomorrow.”

“Damn,” you say, leaning over one of his books. “I think I would go crosseyed if I had to memorize all of this. I’ll never understand how my brother made it into med school. You have to actually be smart to understand this.”

“Careful,” Jack smirks, “I almost took that as a compliment.”

You roll your eyes, trying to not think about how good he smells, and get up before you can say anything stupid. You meander over to the kitchen, only to find the fridge is woefully sparse. Seriously, how do guys survive on mostly beverages and a pack of deli meat?

You turn back around to find Jack watching you, amused.

“Looking for something?” he asks.

“Do you guys eat?” you reply, leaning your hip on the counter.

“Eat? Yes,” Jack nods. “Cook? Nope.”

“Great, I know not to come here during a snowstorm,” you mutter, pulling out your phone.

“What’re you doing?” Jack asks. 

“I’m hungry, dummy,” you say. “You want something from the Thai place down the street?”

The food is delivered quickly, and Jack is convinced to step away from his studies long enough to join you for lunch. Meaning he reluctantly pushes his books to the side and you sit cross legged on the couch next to him.

The food soothes your stomach, the last step in finally feeling remotely human again.

“I think this is the longest we’ve ever talked,” you say, holding your food close to your chest.

“That’s not true,” Jack shakes his head. “Do you remember the party we had here last fall?”

You search your memory and land on the night he’s talking about. You try to hide the blush in your cheeks that you know is rising.

“Yes,” you nod.

You had about three too many jello shots, and desperately needed some fresh air. You slipped out onto the balcony, only to find Jack already there. 

His eyes fell on you, your skirt and halter top. If you were any less drunk, you might have had the sense to be slightly embarrassed.

“Needed some air?” Jack asked. 

“I’m sorry, if you wanted to be alone, I can-”

“No, I didn’t,” Jack cut in. He nodded to the chair next to him.

You gave a small smile and settled down next to him. Jack’s eyes followed you down, only relaxing once you’d taken a settling breath. 

“Have you had any water?” Jack asked after a moment.

“Uhm,” you blinked, honestly trying to remember. 

Jack didn’t wait for your response, just handed you a water bottle. 

“Thank you,” you said, taking it from him. It was unopened, so either he also hadn’t had water, or was somehow just waiting for you to need it. Unlikely.

You weren’t close with Jack. At that point, you met him the day Wyatt moved in with him, and when Wyatt came to help you into your own apartment, with a few brief interactions in between. He was nice, and clearly very dedicated to his studies. But that was all you really knew about him. 

Other than the fact that he was very, painfully, unfairly pretty.

Apparently, neither of you were feeling particularly chatty. So you spent the next thirty minutes or so just…coexisting. You came down from your drunken high and had to pretend you didn’t feel Jack’s eyes on you every so often, finally sober enough to feel a modicum of embarrassment.

“We didn’t really talk that much, though,” you point out. “We mostly just sat next to each other in reassuring silence.”

“And now you’re wearing my clothes,” Jack nods to you, “I think that means we’re married now.”

“Wyatt’s going to be crushed, then” you say, taking a bite of food. “You guys can’t be friends anymore.”

“Why’s that?” Jack eyes you.

“One person can’t be friends with two siblings,” you shrug. “One of them always beats out the other. It’s basic math.”

“So we’re friends now?” Jack asks.

“I don’t know,” you manage, trying too hard to focus on your food. “I wouldn’t let an acquaintance see me the way you saw me this morning.”

“So, if we weren’t friends,” Jack starts to reason, “then there wouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“You don’t want to be friends with me?” you eye him. 

“Just making sure I understand the parameters,” Jack shrugs. 

“Come on,” you nudge him with your knee, “I can’t be that bad to be around.”

“You’re not,” he smiles, finally taking a bite of food.

After a little bit of silence, mostly dedicated to you trying to stop your heart from beating so fast, you look over to Jack and study him. The mention of the party brings up some unresolved questions you’ve been harboring.

Wyatt has mentioned that Jack is a walking charmer, and that he would flirt with a paperclip if it had a heartbeat and a generally positive disposition. But he’s never so much as flirted with you in a joking way.

He feels your eyes on him and looks around, putting his food down. 

“Don’t tell me I have food on my face,” Jack says, dragging a hand down his mouth.

“Why haven’t you ever flirted with me?” you ask before you can think better of it.

Jack almost chokes on his food. He clears his throat and sets it down on the coffee table. 

“Is it because of Wyatt? Did he give you the whole ‘touch my sister and you die’ bit?” You push further, noting the way Jack’s cheeks light bright red.

“Do you want me to flirt with you?” Jack asks. And it’s loaded. 

“I’m just wondering why you haven't,” you shrug.

His mouth is a soft line, just barely curved at the corners. His eyes don’t leave yours. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

“No comment,” you say, fidgeting with your fingers and avoiding eye contact. Maybe you should have thought this through more. It didn’t occur to you what it would actually feel like if Jack was suddenly comfortable enough to use that charisma on you.

“No comment is definitely a comment,” Jack replies. He leans back on the couch, his hand on the cushion next to you. Close.

“You can flirt with me,” you shrug, “doesn’t mean I’ll flirt back.”

“Then what’s the fun in that?” Jack’s voice is low, intoxicating.

You freeze. 

It would be so easy to tell him. Tell Jack just how much his voice gets under your skin, how much his gaze lights you up. How guilty you feel talking to him when your brother’s room is just around the corner. 

You’ve moved closer at some point, like magnets in your bodies that can’t stand to be apart. Your eyes flicker down to Jack’s mouth, when he licks his lips, your breath catches.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Jack shifts so that he’s completely facing you.

You take a steadying breath and set your own food down, laying your head back on the couch, eyes flickering between Jack and your hands.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Maybe I do.”

Jack is a breath away now, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“Well, you are Wyatt’s sister,” Jack says. “Can’t ignore that.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” you push him further. “Come on, Jack. Tell me.”

“Maybe you make me nervous,” Jack says softly. “And not a lot of people can do that.”

Oh.

It’s not the teasing, half answer you were expecting. It’s shockingly honest. Your breath catches in your throat, and you realize just how nervous you are. Jack shifts closer, and you reach your hand out to graze his knee.

You tilt your chin out, letting your lips graze his. It’s a chaste kiss, safe and tentative. Room for either one of you to back out. 

But neither one of you does. You blink up at him, waiting.

Jack takes a breath. Before he leans in and kisses you. 

A real, full kiss. No room for interpretation or misunderstanding. And you kiss him back. Because his kiss is warm and comforting and he’s cute and makes you feel seen.

You pull away first, Jack almost following you back.

“Oh,” you say. 

“Oh?” Jack echoes. He looks borderline mortified for the brief second you keep him on edge.

 “I was really hoping you’d be bad at that,” you say.

Jack lets out a low breath, his face settles somewhere between smug satisfaction and embarrassed blush. 

“Do it again, please,” you whisper.

Jack’s face changes again. He cups your cheek and pulls you in for another kiss, more intentional than the last. Your hands press against his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. You can’t tell if you’re trying to push him away or pull him closer. His hands push the hem of your shirt- his shirt- up, pressing his palms to your ribs. 

He’s tugging on you gently. There’s a restraint in him. Jack wants more, but he won’t take it. 

You slide into his lap, plush thighs straddling him. You’re breathless, body completely burning up. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s against the Geneva Conventions to hook up with your brother’s best friend,” you say, hands running over his chest. It’s so much more fun to make Jack squirm, make him remember the line between you two, and dare him to cross it.

Jack opens his mouth and pauses, momentarily caught off guard. His hands rest on your waist, fingers twitching ever so slightly. He recalibrates, and his momentary lapse in confidence settles into a smirk.

“We haven’t hooked up,” one hand snakes up to your face, just at the base of your jaw.

“It’s a figure of speech,” you shrug, trying to deflect. It’s not working, obviously. 

“It’s not,” he pulls you down closer. You don’t fight it. “Maybe a Freudian slip?”

“That guy was a quack,” you say, voice lowering when there’s nothing but a breath between you.

You melt into him again, and this time, your body reacts, hips moving slightly over him. Jack lets out a broken noise, his mouth sliding down to your collarbone.

“Jack,” you breathe, tilting your head back. “I want you, please.”

Something in the way you say his name cracks something in him. He groans, grip tightening around you. 

“Bedroom,” he mutters against your skin. “Now.”

You reluctantly slide off his lap, your heart pounding in his chest. He casts you a ruined, desperate look before taking you by the hand, lacing your fingers together.

Where Wyatt’s room is cluttered and cozy, Jack’s is organized and bright. He’s not a neat freak, but he clearly doesn’t need much to survive. There’s small glimpses of his personality here and there. In the posters tacked to his wall and the postcards on his corkboard. 

You don’t have long to take it in. When Jack shuts the door, he takes you by the waist, gently moving you against it until you have nowhere else to go.

Jack turns to you, eyes dropping back down to your lips. “You’re sure about this?” he asks.

“No,” you say, sliding your hands over his chest, up his shoulders. “But I want it anyway.”

“If we do this,” he puts his arms out, caging you in and holding himself up against the door. “I’m- This isn’t…”

His voice trails off. You hold your breath, waiting for the last part of that sentence.

“This won’t mean nothing to me,” he looks at you with those pretty hazel eyes.

You bring your hand to his face, thumb grazing the freckles on his cheek. Jack closes his eyes, letting himself feel your touch, before dropping his mouth down right outside your ear, his breath both warm and shaky. 

“Jack…” you breathe. Your fingers curl slightly against him.

“Tell me what you want,” his nose nudges your cheek. 

“I want you,” you sigh, leaning back against the door. “Not because I was feeling insecure and not because some douchebag made me cry.”

Jack studies your face, lost in his own thoughts for a moment.

“I want you because I like you,” you say, “and I think you like me, too.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he says, dropping his mouth to your jaw. 

“Careful,” you bite back a moan and thread your fingers through his curls. “I just might take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he mutters, body flush against yours. 

When he kisses you again, it’s different. It’s desperate and needy, pulling little sounds and moans from you with every pass of his lips, every swipe of his tongue.

You lift the hem of the shirt you’re wearing, and Jack is eager to help you strip it off.

“Fucking hell,” Jack breathes, taking you in. Your skin ripples with tiny goose bumps under his gaze.

He kisses you harder, hands exploring these new parts of your skin, appreciating them like he has been. He palms your breast, and you whimper into his kiss.

The only thing pulling him away is your fingers on his back, desperately clawing at the fabric of his shirt. 

“Off,” you mutter, and the word barely makes it out.

Jack slides his shirt over his shoulders, and you barely have time to miss his hands against your skin. He grips your hips, fingers digging just barely. Just enough for you to feel how much he wants this. How much he wants you.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes. “So beautiful.”

It almost hurts to hear him say it. You don’t know why.

You take his hand and lead him to his bed, and Jack happily follows. Your back hits the matress softly. Jack crawls over you, hands on either side of your head and legs pressed against the outside of your thighs. He kisses you again, the weight of the setting making him slower and more deliberate. He moves down your body, pressing light kisses to your skin. 

Your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, right above your breast.

It’s like he’s learning you. Memorizing every soft fold and mark of your body. Which parts make you squirm more than others.

His fingers slide into the waistband of your- his- shorts and he carefully pulls them down. You raise your hips just enough to help him, and you’re left bare under him.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. “No underwear?”

“I didn’t want to rewear the pair from last night.” You bite your lip as you watch Jack settle on the ground on his knees. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Jack nudges your legs apart, pressing kisses to the side of your knee, and down your thighs. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a beat. 

“You’re this wet in my goddamn shorts,” he says, spreading your legs open wider. “‘Course I don’t mind.”

He wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the bed, so your legs can drape over his shoulders. 

“I’ll make you feel so good,” he says, and you can feel his breath on your pussy, “promise.”

You feel his tongue first. One long stroke over you. It pulls an ungodly noise from you, and you slap a hand over your mouth. Almost embarrassed. Almost broken. Completely undone.

Jack looks up at you and smirks. 

“Come on, princess,” he says, settling a wide spread hand on your hip. “I want to hear you.”

“Then do something that makes me moan,” you breathe.

Jack’s fingers dig into your thighs, his mouth moving back to you. It makes you desperate and needy in a way you’ve never felt before. Your back arches off the mattress, and his grip on your hip tightens, keeping you from squirming away. 

“Jack,” you moan accidentally. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but fuck if he hasn’t earned it.

“Come on, baby,” Jack mutters, “you’re doing so good.”

Your fingers slip into Jack’s hair, tugging him closer. Gently, just enough. But you can feel the groan he lets out against your clit, and it unwraps you even more. 

Your thighs press against Jack’s ears, the pressure in your body building. 

“So- Jack- I’m-” the words come out in between shallow breaths as he pulls you right to the edges. One hand leaves Jack’s hair to white-knuckle the bed sheets, relieving some of the energy without ripping his beautiful hair out.

You come on his face with a loud cry, Jack’s tongue staying with you through it. He pulls away just enough to kiss your thighs again. Your legs are limp over the side of the mattress, your body and brain completely scrambled.

“Good?” Jack breathes, climbing over you to kiss you again. You slide your tongue into his mouth, the taste of yourself mixed with the taste of him.

“Good,” you breathe, eyes searching his. 

Jack sits back on his heels. First, you think he’s going to start taking his pants off, but (unfortunately) he just looks at you. His hands smooth down your ribs, your legs.

“What?” you say, heat rising in your cheeks. You fight back a smirk.

“Nothing,” he says, biting his lip. 

It isn’t nothing. The adoration in Jack’s eyes is something you could get addicted to. It’s everything.

You sit upright and scooch closer to him. He looks down at you, hands holding you flush against him at your waist. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then right behind his ear. Jack closes his eyes, and you can almost feel the moans he’s biting back.

Your hands move to his jeans, unbuttoning them. 

You start to push the denim down, and Jack grabs your wrists.

“Greedy girl,” he mutters.

You kiss him, taking his bottom lip in your teeth. He doesn’t budge. 

“Jack,” you whisper, letting the vowel drag across your lips. You say it softly, sweetly, like you’re reaching inside him and pulling him closer to you. You press a kiss to that spot behind his ear again, letting your nails drag over his shoulders and across his chest.

Jack lets out a low noise against you, and you can feel the last of his control slipping away. 

“Lay back,” he says softly.

You do as you’re told. Because you would do almost anything Jack told you to do, as long as he kept looking at you like that. Jack watches you move, as your head rests on his pillows. You take your bra off, the last scrap of fabric keeping him from you now gone. 

Jack’s eyes graze over you again.

With a low groan, Jack slides off the bed and proceeds to take off the rest of his clothes. You watch, still perched on the pillows, as his thick cock snaps up, hard and ready. You make a point to drag your eyes away from it slowly, finding his gaze still on you. 

He reaches into his nightstand for a condom. 

“Jack Abbot,” you say, watching him rip the foil wrapper, “horny and responsible.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, sliding back to you.

“I’ve noticed,” you reply. 

Jack settles between your legs. He bends down for another kiss. Another reassurance that you want this as much as he does. Your hips scoot up just slightly, back arching towards him. 

“Please,” you mutter into his mouth. “I need you.”

“I told you I’d make you feel good,” he says, propping himself over you with one arm. 

The other moves down in between you, and you feel his fingers slide around your cunt. 

You inhale sharply, the feeling shooting through your body. 

“Mission accomplished,” you mewl. 

Jack smiles against your lips. 

When he finally sinks into you, you have to press a hand to his hip. 

“Slower, please,” you let out a broken whine. 

“Now she wants slower,” Jack breathes. He’s smiling, but it’s clear that he feels this the same way you do. Overwhelmed, affected, good.

Jack moves in another inch. Your back arches slightly, but you take him in all the way. The air in your lungs be damned. 

“Talk to me, pretty girl,” Jack looks down at you. “You feel so good wrapped around me, you know that?”

You’re so full. Full of him and full of fire and full of want. With a satisfied breath, you hold Jack’s face in your hands. 

“I think I get it,” you smile. “I’m good, Jack.”

Jack moves slowly at first. It’s heavy breaths and tangles hands and hungry mouths. 

Then you bring your ankles around Jack’s hips, pulling him impossibly closer. 

Jack closes his eyes, feeling you clench around him. Feeling your hands on his shoulders, nails pressing crescents into his skin.

“Yes,” you whisper. Just loud enough for him to hear.

Slowly, you found a pace and rhythm that scratched the itch inside you. Jack moved over you like his need was finally overtaking him. 

“More,” you say quietly. “More, Jack. Please.”

Jack kisses you like he needs it. Like he needs your mouth on his just one more time, before he straightens up in front of you. He holds your legs in both hands and watches as his dick slides in and out, slowly moving faster and deeper. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he pants, like he can’t believe he’s seeing you with his own eyes. 

You can only imagine what you look like. Laid out, hair everywhere, face completely awash in bliss. It doesn’t matter. Because Jack looks at you like he’s yours. Like he would keep you for the rest of his life if you’d let him.

“Jack,” you whimper, squirming around under him. 

He drops one leg and presses a thumb to your clit, giving you the release and friction you’re so clearly craving. 

“I know, baby,” he says. 

“Do you?” you moan. You’re so close. It’s almost too much.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he mutters. “Give me another one, let me feel you.”

Short, choppy squeals slip out of your mouth as Jack pulls another orgasm from you. Your body goes taught, legs quivering as the feeling washes over you. Your hands fly to the sheets, gripping them tightly as your body fights Jack’s relentless stimulation. 

The feeling of you losing control around him clearly pushes Jack right to the edge. He drops your legs and folds over you, face buried in your neck. 

You hold him close, hands moving down his back and in his hair. WIth your lips pressed to his ear, you whisper sweet nothings and press light kisses to his skin.

“Jack, baby,” you coo, fighting to keep your head clear.

Jack lets out a low noise, your name slipping out through broken groans as he finishes inside you. 

He stays there like that for a moment, riding out the high and endorphins. You hold him over you, like a warm, weighted blanket, your hands gently moving up and down his back. 

“Fuck,” Jack says, voice muffled by the pillow behind you. 

You don’t rush him, don’t tell him to move or get off. Both of you take a moment to find your heads and a steady breathing pattern.

“Wyatt is going to kill you,” you smirk, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Wyatt knows,” Jack replies, voice still muffled.

“Wyatt knows what?” you ask, confused.

“That I care about you,” Jack pulls himself up and looks down at you. He kisses you again, slower this time. “He sees the way I look at you when you come over.”

You blink, completely at a loss for words.

“I’m so confused right now,” you say as Jack settles next to you. He drapes one arm over you and pulls your body against him. “I’ve never noticed the way you look at me.”

“Maybe your brother is smart enough for med school,” he smirks, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

⋆ ꩜ ⋆

"What would you say to a date?"

You turn to find none other than Dana Evans being the one with the absurd question. You're not even entirely sure where she came from. Suddenly she's propped up, hip against the desk, crashing your peace with that certain gleam in her eye that means trouble. 

This wasn't the first time Dana's complained about your singleness. The way your life consisted of the commute to work, the commute home, a cheesy romance movie, and bed. On the occasional wild day maybe you'd take a trip to a coffee shop, or an in-person trip to the grocery store instead of DoorDash. That is if you were feeling really adventurous. Somehow in those times though you've never managed to have some rom-com meet-cute like in all the movies you watched. 

"As flattered as I am, I was under the impression you were married!" You dodge not only the question but also her. Turning on your heels, you walk to the leftmost side of the desk, keeping your eyes down. 

Sure, a date sounds nice in theory. The same way a leading man chasing you through an airport seems nice in theory. But, if it actually happened you'd most likely pepper spray him. 

"Not me." She says dryly. "Maybe in my younger days though." 

You give her a sideways glance, which she's already giving you. The thought intrigues you more than you care to say. What you would give to know more about Dana's college days!

"I've got a guy for you."

"Dana, really I'm good. I don't have time to even fantasize about a date right now."

To you, a date was never a fantasy. They just never turned out right. Men would speak over you, or you'd intimidate them and it's a night full of awkward silences and bad company. 

However, you find the occasional times to fantasize about Jack Abbot.

Your crush on Abbot started slow and accidental really. A night off work for the first time in months. Which of course you spent doing the one thing you love most: turning off the lights, drinking wine in your pajamas, and watching whatever rom-com popped up first in your recommended tab. This night just happened to be Two Weeks' Notice. You'd seen it a thousand times and could probably quote half of Sandra Bullock's monologues. 

But, there was something different about it this time. Something about the way she was falling in love with her charmingly sarcastic boss. It seemed less like something you'd laugh at and instead it started making perfect sense to you. 

I mean Sandra Bullock is falling in love with her boss. Why can't you?

Somehow by the second glass of red, Hugh Grant's face somehow started to morph into Jack Abbott's. 

But, most of all it was the mistake of falling asleep during the fourth glass and the dreams that followed, guest starring a sexy doctor. 

As quick as this crush started, it was anything but quick to leave. No matter how much you willed it away. 

Sandra Bullock-esque rom-coms don't happen to people like you. Hot boss or not. 

"It won't kill you." Dana's arms thud against the counter as she lays them down with purpose. 

"It might." A voice that belongs to Shen interjects into the conversation you already wish you weren't having. "Have you seen how awkward she gets when hot dads bring their kids in?"

"I do not!" You half-yell. "I'm a professional. I don't think about things like that at work."

"Yeah, and that's why you eye fuck Abb-" 

"OKAY!" You yell. Prying eyes are on you immediately as your voice cuts through the ED. You give an awkward thin-lipped smile and apologetic wave to the strangers. "Okay. Point received." 

Now the only fantasy you're having at work is ripping the Dunkin cup from Shen's hand and drenching him in it. 

"Ignore him." Dana shoos Shen away. He slinks off slurping what's left of his melted iced coffee. 

You can't miss the small glint in Dana's eye as she bites back a laugh at Shen's accusation. Which is totally false!

"Dinner. That's all I'm asking." Dana pries once again. You shake your head, not even bothering to verbally answer anymore. "An hour, two max."

"Dana when I'm not here I'm sleeping or trying to get all my shit done before I have to be back here. I don't have time." 

"You have time." She responds insistently. 

It's almost impressive how she hasn't budged. 

"Fine. I don't want to make the time then."

"You don't want to go out and just have a free dinner with a handsome guy?" Dana's eyebrows shoot up.

Unfortunately, the idea intrigues you somewhere deep down. That same part of you that smiles and rewinds when the movie finally crescendos with a dramatic declaration of love. But, in reality, the movie would end differently for you. A terrible date with a guy who went to a doctor a few times and now feels confident in his ability to mansplain medicine. No love at first sight for you. 

"Sounds like hell."

You can't even remember the last time you looked at a man that wasn't on your TV. Well, I mean besides the ones you're forced to see every day. Abbot… Who apparently you REALLY look at.

Your mind trails off as he moves from room to room in front of you. That quiet confidence radiating off of him like it always does. UGH, and he's wearing those camo pants tonight. OH. You totally are eye-fucking him aren't you?!

You snap your eyes from him back to Dana immediately. "Tell me about this guy." 

No part of you really wants this, but you've got to get your mind off Abbott. Fully. You one hundred percent, unequivocally, cannot be crushing on Jack Abbot. 

"It's a guy I know. He's been single for too long. Like you." She says pointedly. "I think you'll like him. He's good people." 

"You sure you wanna do this?" It's a genuine question, not a threat. Introducing you to someone could be a bad move on her part. You're not exactly revered as a charmer. "Because, if I don't like him, I'll leave."

You we're strong willed and didn't enjoy wasting your time. There was nothing wrong with it, but some men would disagree. Apparently you could be a quote, "a real ball buster" as your college boyfriend so eloquently wrote in the very text message he dumped you with. 

As time went on, you came to realize you liked love more in theory or in dreams. You were not cut out to be a rom-com star. 

"I know." Dana draws out her words, rolling her eyes at you. "But, I have a good feeling."

"What's his name?" You give a defeated sigh. 

Dana's face lights up with that cocky closed-lip smile she gets when she's won something. She's beaten you down enough and she knows it. Success!

"No names." Leaving no room for rebuttal, she claps her hand flat against the counter to make her point. "I don't want you looking him up."

"Come on-"

"No. You and Santos do that cyber stalking thing and you'll try and find him." She's already turned on her heels before you can get another word out. 

 "It's not stalking!" You yell after her. "It's the way the world works. Get with the times Dana!"

Well, looks like you just got yourself a date you didn't really want to go on in the first place. But if all goes well you'll fall in love and never think of Jack Abbot as anything more than a boss ever again. 

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

"Jack, c'mere I gotta talk to you." 

Dana surveys the floor, making sure you're nowhere in sight. Luckily for her, you're tied up in a trauma room with a very chatty guest who, based on their facial expression is not very happy with you. 

His face turns confused for a second, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening before he falls in step.

"You need a date." She says simply. 

For once in his whole life he's actually speechless. He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is an offended scoff. 

"When's the last time you've been on a date?" She asks, crossing her arms over her chest. 

The offended sound comes out once again as he blunders for a second. "I don't know. A year…?"

He tried once, maybe twice after his wife passed. Someone who asked him out both times. He'd never actually pursued anything himself. It wasn't exactly that he was resisting, there was just never anyone who caught his attention first.

Then came you. But to him, that was forbidden.

"That's sad."

"I'm doing just fine for myself-"

She holds up her hand for him to stop before he says anything further. "I didn't ask about that. And, I don't believe I want to know that."

Robby laughs from somewhere behind her. Of course, listening in on the conversation. Somehow his ears seem to be everywhere at once. There's no conversation he misses in this hospital. 

"What?" Jack asks him. The tone of his voice would almost sound offended if he wasn't chuckling.