#1 romcomrry advocate

His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.

He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.

That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.

The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.

She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.

"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."

He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"

She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."

The words hung in the air.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."

Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. He was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.

The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.

He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.

But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.

Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.

Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.

He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.

And then… he met you.

The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.

Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.

On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.

"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.

"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.

She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.

"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."

"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"

"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."

He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.

The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.

"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."

Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.

"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.

"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."

"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."

"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."

Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.

"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."

"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.

Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.  

"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.

Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.

"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."

Ellis groaned.

"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.

"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."

Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."

As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"

Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them

"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."

He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.

He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.

Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"

Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.

 "…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.

You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.

Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"

Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.

"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."

People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.

What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.

Ellis smirked.

The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.

"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."

Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.

"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"

A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.

"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."

The room laughed again.

"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."

Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.

"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."

The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.

"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"

You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.  

"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."

A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.

"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"

"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.

The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.

You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.

"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.

MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+

AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000

The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.

"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.

"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.

You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."

Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.

The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.

"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."

"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."

You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.

"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."

You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"

Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.

"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.

You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.

"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."

"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?

He decided to change topics.

"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."

"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."

"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.

"Incredible, thanks for asking."

He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.

"Who was the nurse?"

"Dana Evans."

At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.

"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."

The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.

"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"

"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.

"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.

"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."

"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."

Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.

"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."

"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."

"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."

Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.

"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:

Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management

"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."

He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.

"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."

"It's on the house."

He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."

"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.

You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.

You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.

You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.

And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.

You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."

He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.

"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."

When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.

Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.

Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.

"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.

You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."

He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Sure."

"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.

Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.

"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."

You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."

"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.

You leaned back in your chair.

"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.

He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love caramel frappuccinos—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—pickleball, and your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."

You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.

"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.

"I-I was hoping that—um—I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.

"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Good. That's... really good."

You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.

"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."

You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"

"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"

You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right? 

She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."

"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."

You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."

"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."

"I guess," you muttered.  

The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.

The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.

"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."

"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."

"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."

You snorted.

"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."

"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.

You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it

"Come home," she would say.

The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.

You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.

Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself

"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.

"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."

You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.

She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."

Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.

You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."

Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."

You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.

"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."

Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"

"You just what?" you pressed.

Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."

You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."

He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"

"Yeah," you shrugged.  "I guess I do."

He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.

"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."

Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.

In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with men until they hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.

"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."

You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.

He heard you.

Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.

Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.

"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.

Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.

"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."

Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.

"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."

Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.

"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.

Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.

The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.

The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.

"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.

"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."

Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.

High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.

But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.

Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.

Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.

Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.

There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.

His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.

Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.

You had changed.

The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.

You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.

"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."

"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"

"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.

So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finished talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.

"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."

He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."

Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?

Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.

"Bottom's up."

You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."

"What happened with your ex?"

You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."

He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."

The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."

"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I got a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."

You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.

"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.

"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. "A real man doesn't ask his girl to dim her light so he can feel big—he feels proud as hell watching her shine."

"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they’re drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.

Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."

You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.

"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."

"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."

You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."

Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.

"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."

He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."

"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.

"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."

He blinked slowly.

"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."

You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.

"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"

"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."

You snickered.

"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."

Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.  

You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was both softer and more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.

Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.

"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.

"Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.

You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.

"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.

His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"

After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.

But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.

He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.

"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.

He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."

Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.

"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”

"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.

"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."

You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."

Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.

The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.

"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.

Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.

Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.

"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.

Remmy barked in agreement.

Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.

Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.

You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.

"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.

Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.

After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up in his car, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.

It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.

You hadn't seen Jack yesterday—he was currently off for 3 days. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.

"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.

"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."

"I wasn't talking about the food."

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."

"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."

Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.

"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.

"I'm being honest about my intentions."

"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"

A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.

So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?

"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."

Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"

You were adorable.

"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."

"You weren't boring the other day when you—"

"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."

"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"

"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."

"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"

You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."

"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."

He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.

"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.

"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."

Girlfriend?

You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.

"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."

He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.

"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.

This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)

He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.

After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let dinner settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.

Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.

I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.

Being married to Jack Abbot was a dream come true. 

He was kind, empathetic, passionate, patient, fantastic in bed, and (this is just a theory) psychic. 

Or you might just be easy to read. Either way, he almost always seemed to know what you needed or wanted at any given moment. 

God forbid you wanted to surprise him with anything, either. He could sniff out any sort of deception, even if it was well intentioned, like some sort of emotional or mental bloodhound.

Jack was also always prepared for almost everything. He had supplies and a game plan for almost every situation and scenario that could possibly come up. Mass casualty incident? Camo duffel in the coat closet by the front door. You had a hard day? Bubble bath kit under his sink in the bathroom. 

 Combine all of that together and you’d never been able to surprise him. Ever. 

Things were changing ever so slowly, though. Now, the two of you had been together for 7 years now, married for 4, so the playing field was starting to level out. You found yourself able to sift through his facial expressions and body language, deciphering some of the thoughts that crossed his mind. Some of it was the familiarity of your everyday routine, any deviation clueing you into something festering on his mind. Some of it was just knowing your husband so intimately in a way that could only come with time.

And even though you were as close to an expert as one could be in Jack Abbot, you still missed some of the more subtle things. 

But there was nothing subtle about this. You’d have to have been blind to miss the longing in his eyes anytime the two of you were anywhere close to a baby. It was impossible not to notice how his usually stoic and analytical hazel eyes softened at the sight of their tiny waving hands, the corners of his lips curving up when they cooed, his gaze instinctively snapping towards a crying infant while his shoulders tensed. 

Those signs had given you a rather obvious hint, but the final nail in the coffin had been when your sister and her wife had visited from Philly a few months ago. They had some sort of business to take care of in Pittsburgh, so you’d offered to watch their 6 month old son. Jack had been out running errands when he’d been dropped off. When he walked through the door, grocery bags in hand, you’d watched him freeze out of the corner of your eye. There you were, in your shared kitchen, balancing the baby on your hip, talking to the child about nothing in particular while you stirred a pot on the stove. 

Jack had unfrozen quickly, but you’d noticed. You noticed everything for the rest of the day until your sister came to collect her child. How Jack swallowed hard anytime you held the baby, how he nearly melted when you cooed and played peek-a-boo, how his eyes stayed locked for just a moment too long on the teeny tiny pair of shoes in his hands before he passed them off to your sister.

Jack Abbot wanted a baby.

And you wanted to finally be able to catch your husband off guard. 

 And now his 50th birthday was coming up, and you had a great gift planned. And if everything went according to your carefully crafted plan, you’d be able to give him an even better gift next year. 

Step 1: remove the biggest obstacle.

Being a doctor married to a doctor made the biggest part of your plan both easier and harder. 

You started on Monday. His birthday fell on Friday, and the two of you very conveniently had the following 4 days off. But not before working opposite shifts every day the rest of the week.

That was part luck, part planning on your end. You’d gladly agreed to cover Al Hashimi’s shifts while the ED was down a day shift attending since she was going to a conference. Jack had not been thrilled, but your sacrifice meant the two of you could enjoy an extra-long weekend staycation. He’d grumbled about it for a solid 3 days before finally settling down.

It also gave you time to make a trip upstairs to gynecology while your husband was fast asleep at home and none the wiser.

All it took was a quick lie to Robby about a routine pap smear and a favor called in from a friend upstairs and you were seated with your legs hiked up in stirrups. 

“You know, I really did not ever need to see your vagina,” Joan, your gynecologist friend, was grumbling as she completed the procedure. 

“You’re the only one I could ask who wouldn’t spill the beans,” your eyes stayed glued on the ceiling. “Everyone else is either a resident and not willing to bend the rules, or older and more loyal to him.”

“This is a hospital,” her expression was unimpressed. “There are no sides, no one is more loyal to him.”

“Yes the fuck they are,” you lowered your legs as she gave you the all clear. “Why do you think I told Robby I was getting a pap smear?”

“Becuase telling your husband's best friend, who is your boss by the way, that you were going to get your contraception removed so that said husband can fuck you six ways to sunday for his birthday is inappropriate workplace conversation,” she turned her back to you, depositing the device in a specimen jar before beginning to clean every thing up.

“That is true,” you conceded, “and Robby’s a snitch.”

“I still can’t believe you’re actually going to give him your IUD for his birthday,” Joan shook her head. “Isn’t that a little gross?”

“I’m obviously going to clean it!” You tugged your black scrubs up, wincing a little at the dull ache in your lower stomach. “Plus, it’ll be romantic. And shouldn’t you be more sex-positive? You’re a fucking gynocologist.”

“Romantic,” her voice was deadpan. “And I am plenty sex-positive. Especially unprotected sex. Creates more patients for me. Kinda like a dentist who recommends nothing but sugar.”

You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling as you watched her move back to the counter. “Glad to see you are faithfully committed to your oath.”

“Here,” she handed you a little cup with two white pills, choosing to ignore you. “Tylenol. You don’t get anything stronger since you insisted on doing this mid shift.”

“Thanks,” you swallowed them dry. “For the pills and for doing this for me. I can’t have him figuring this out before. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“I know I always wanted a used medical device for my biggest milestone birthdays,” she grumbled to herself as she wrote down her notes on a sheet of paper. “I’ll wait to put this in your chart until after your insemination.”

“Now you’re making it gross,” your face scrunched up. “Most normal people refer to that as ‘trying for a baby’ you know.”

“Yeah sure. Now, get out of my department and go back to your zoo,” she waved her hand dismissively, fighting a smile the whole time.

Step 2: stay strong.

Now with the most important part of your plan complete, you simply had to make it through the next week without Jack catching on. Even with your separate schedules, that was easier said than done.

Monday night at shift change you were desperately trying to hide the cramps wracking your abdomen as you walked the night shift through handovers alongside Robby.

Jack noticed immediately.

“You ok, baby?” He’d pulled you aside the second the handover was completed, his hand resting on your hip as he guided the two of you into a semi secluded corner.

“Yeah I’m ok,” you couldn’t fight the grimace as another wave washed over you. You really shouldn’t have skipped that second dose of acetaminophen during the 4pm rush. “Just cramping.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Jack frowned, his eyes sweeping over you more intently. His focus flicked between your lower stomach and your face.

“You’re not supposed to start your period for another 3 weeks.”

“It’s still a little odd that you track them so closely,” you tried to brush him off, shrugging.

“I’m a doctor and you’re my wife,” Jack cracked a grin as your eyes narrowed. “You’re my wife who is also a doctor. An amazing one.”

You gave him a kiss for that, quick and chaste and the most PDA you’d dare express in the ED.

 “My IUD is due for replacement in a few months,” you couldn’t beat back a rising smile, fueled by both his care and the knowledge of what you were planning. “It’s probably starting to go and make me irregular.”

“Get that checked out, ok?” His hands cupped your face. 

“I will, Jack, I promise.”

“Good we-” he swallowed hard, smile faltering ever so slightly. “We don’t want you to be… unprotected.”

The regret in his voice and the twinge of hope in his eyes as he said unprotected only reinforced what you already knew. He really wanted this. 

God, you couldn’t wait to tell him. You weren’t sure if you’d ever been more excited to give a gift before.

Warmth flooded through you at the thought of how he’d react. Would there be happy tears? Maybe he’d simply bend you over the nearest surface, eager to get started. He’d probably double and triple check that you were sure. Jack always did that, no matter how many times you reassured him that you wanted him, you needed him. Like he still couldn’t believe you were his just as much as he was yours.

Thankfully, his mind reading seemed to fail for a moment. Likely because of the cramp that gripped you midway through your rumination, hiding your true expression behind a grimace. 

“I’m ok, Jack,” with one more kiss, you were untangling yourself from him. “I’m going to go sleep for twelve hours. I love you.”

“Alright,” he followed you as you gathered your things and headed towards the ambulance bay. “Text me when you get home. If you forget again, I’m not making that pasta you like for a month.”

“Empty threats,” you pecked his cheek on your way past him. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

“I love you,” the love written so plainly on his face as you walked away from him and out those doors made you almost want to run back and tell him everything.

Maybe that was why you were semi-convinced he was psychic. It was probably less about an alleged supernatural ability and more about your face being easy to read and your lips unable to keep a secret, combined with the fact that you had resigned yourself to your husband being all-knowing. 

In your defense, you’d seen Jack level patients and colleagues and even yourself with that look. Head titled, eyes narrowed, eyebrows lifted, that signature confidence combined with a small sigh of disapproval when he knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. It made everyone spill their guts eventually. No one held out very long.

But he hadn’t used that look on you since you’d been his resident years ago. You were all too aware that the bastard had long since learned that all he had to do was give you a soft smile and tell you he loved you and you melted immediately.

And normally, you didn’t have anything to keep from him. Normally, it was mildly irritating if he managed to figure out 

But you had to stay strong.

Step 3: final preparations.

Surprisingly, you did actually manage to hold out. All the way until Friday.

Jack had the overnight shift from Thursday to Friday, but you were done and clear. A full body shower and shave was followed by a few episodes of the trashiest reality TV you could find until it was officially your bed time. You texted him a simple “Happy birthday baby” at 12:01 am before grabbing what little sleep you could before he inevitably came home just as the sun was rising. 

At just past 7:30 am, your husband was crawling into the sheets, sliding up behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist as the heat of his bare chest warmed you from the inside out.

You were drifting in that blissfully in that half aware state between sleep and wakefulness as he pressed light kisses along the side of your neck available to him. A soft hum left your lips as you arched back into him, body already aching for him. 

But you couldn’t give in.

Not yet, at least. As much as it pained you to deny him the sleepy morning sex you’d grown to crave, especially on his birthday, you couldn’t let him fuck you until you’d given him your present. And you couldn’t give him your present until you had made him dinner and slipped on that beautiful white matching set you’d bought.

So you had to stall. Redirect. Get him to actually get a decent amount of rest for once in his life, so you could ride him off into the sunset.

“Happy birthday, handsome,” your hand reached back to run your fingers through his loose curls.

“Very happy birthday to me, indeed,” his grip on your waist tightened as his front pressed even more firmly against your back. You could just barely feel the faint beginnings of hardness through the thin material of his boxers.

“Uh-uh,” you twisted in his grip. Shifting until you were face to face, you pressed a long, slow kiss to his lips. He sighed into your mouth, allowing you to take the lead as his tongue swiped against yours.

 “You need to sleep. You’re exhausted.”

He grumbled as you pulled away, his half lidded eyes flipping between the exhaustion of a week of 12 hour nights shifts and pure desire as he looked at you wrapped in his arms.

Jack had once told you that this was when you looked the most beautiful. Sleepy, wearing just his t-shirt and a pair of underwear with your hair a mess, snuggled in the sheets of your shared bed. He had called the domesticity of it addictive, had said he couldn’t get enough of the quiet moments like this, tangled together with the outside world locked away. The two of you just existing in that warm, heady feeling of safety and security, wrapped up in each other for hours.

You’d always thought you understood. You’d agreed that the soft moments surrounded by his love in the home two of you had built were the best, but you were starting to think you never really got it until now. The idea of your family, of it growing beyond just the small, two person unit the two of you had become over these years, was electrifying. 

God, you wanted that. You’d already given him your heart. You wanted to give him everything.

“I’m not too tired to make you feel good,” his hand slid from your hip down to dip beneath the hem of your underwear.

It took every ounce of self control to grab his wrist, stopping him. 

“No,” you gave him one more soft kiss before you were pushing him back to lie flat. Throwing one of your legs over his, you curled into his side. He let out a sigh of disappointment as your head rested on his chest, but he was still curling his freckled arms around you to hold you close. “We are going to sleep now. And then, tonight, I am going to make you dinner. Then you get to open your present, and then you can fuck me. However you want, as many times as you want.”

“You’re so cruel,” you couldn’t see his face but you could hear the smile in his voice as he pressed a kiss to your hair. Already, you could tell he was starting to drift off. “But fine. As long as I get to have you for dessert.”

His voice, low and gravelly, vibrating through his chest had your panties growing increasingly uncomfortable. His sturdy thigh pressed between your legs certainly wasn’t helping, but you could do this. You were a grown woman, a doctor of emergency medicine. You had the willpower to make it 10 more hours without jumping your husband.

When you woke around 1pm, Jack was still dead to the world. His lips were parted, hair mussed, and his breaths deep and even. Despite the gray making his curls much more salt than pepper, he looked younger like this. 

You gave yourself a moment to take him in before slipping out of the bed and his grasp.

It was time to make the last few preparations.

Your movements were as quiet as you could make them as you got dressed. With one last glance at his sleeping form, you slipped out the front door.

Grocery shopping went smoothly, the bakery passed off the small bourbon chocolate cake you’d ordered with little fuss, and the jeweler down the road didn’t even charge you for the little black velvet box. They had a million of them, she’d said, no big deal.

You were back home by 3:30pm. Jack was up and awake by then, making himself a cup of coffee when you strolled in, arms laden with grocery bags. For just a second, you let your eyes trail over him. He was facing away, giving you a beautiful view of the freckles dusting his muscled back. The sweatpants riding low on his hips, the right leg tied in a knot to stop the hem from dragging, hid the strength and shape of his ass and legs from you, but your imagination filled in the gaps. 

“Done objectifying me yet?” Jack just barely looked over his shoulder as he continued to fiddle with the machine before him.

“Never,” you set the bags down, giving his ass a slap as you moved past.

He laughed, reaching for his crutches as he moved to follow you back out to the driveway. 

“Let me help you with the bags.”

“Not a chance,” you blocked the doorway. “Go sit down and enjoy your day off.”

He looked like he was going to argue for a moment, but then he acquiesced. With one, chaste kiss to your lips, he moved back to the counter. 

Jack was stubborn, though, so he started unloading the grocery bags, placing ingredients in their rightful places.

You watched him move through the space for just a moment before you returned to your car to grab the last few bags and the box with the cake. The jewelry box was tucked into the back pocket of your denim shorts, hidden by your oversized shirt as you deposited everything else onto the counter, next to the first batch of empty bags. Jack had disappeared from the kitchen, but he walked out of the bedroom just as you began to organize the ingredients you needed, his leg fastened on.

“What are you gonna make me?” Jack had settled back against the counter after you swatted his hands away from the cake box, trying to keep his fingers out of the frosting while he tried to steal a taste. He was lazily sipping his coffee, eyes watching as you fluttered about, retrieving some of the items that you needed.

“Steak,” you held up the meat wrapped in butcher paper as you pulled it from the bag. “Cabbage,” his nose wrinkled and your eyes rolled. For a brief moment, you really considered throwing the vegetable at him. “Relax, you big baby. Cabbage au gratin. Lots of cheese and that cream sauce you like.”

“Hmm, ok,” he was smirking over the rim of his mug. “What else?”

“What else? What, that’s not enough for you?” 

He set the coffee down, closing the small distance between the two of you so his hands could rest on your hips, chest pressing into your back. You panicked for a moment as his lips met your clothed shoulder, hoping and praying that he didn’t notice the box in your pocket. It was still empty, but you didn’t want to give him any hints about your plan.

“I’m gonna need a lot of energy tonight, baby,” his hands slid underneath your shirt to rest against your bare stomach as he nosed at your hair, his breath brushing over your ear. “I’m pretty sure I was promised however I want, as many times as I want.”

You were so close to breaking. Your resolve was hanging on by a thread. 

“And,” his hand slid farther up, cupping your breast through your bra. You could barely restrain a whine. “My dear wife decided to swap shifts. We haven’t had any… quality time in a week. I’ve got a lot of plans for you tonight, baby.”

“Jack,” your voice was weak.

“Not to mention,” his fingers squeezed your nipple through the mesh of your bra. “I wouldn’t be a very good husband if I didn’t help you get your sleep cycle back on track. Gotta get you used to working all night, baby.”

“You’ve gotta wait, Jackie,” you were arching back into him, offering no resistance as his broad hand slid to lay over the span of your stomach.

Fuck. 

The feeling of that steady, callous hand laying against the smooth skin of your lower abdomen jolted you back to reality.

You needed to wait. It wouldn’t be fair or right to fuck him before you had a conversation, plus you’d put so much thought into planning the perfect night. You couldn’t let your incubus of a husband seduce you into ruining it now.

“Jack,” your voice was stronger now. “Patience.”

He huffed a laugh against the shell of your ear, his hands tightening against you just once before letting you go and stepping back. You could very clearly see the hard length of him straining through the fabric of his pants as you turned to face him, back braced against the counter. His hands came up to land beside your hips on the stone as he caged you in.

“I don’t know what you have planned, but I might die if I don’t get my hands on you soon,” his lips laid a kiss on your cheek before he was stepping back. “I’m gonna go shower before you torture me anymore.”

Step 4: the proposition.

Jack behaved himself all throughout dinner, his hand settling at a tasteful spot on your bare thigh, exposed by the dress you’d pulled on over the lacy white set he hadn’t seen yet. Entirely appropriate compliments coming from him as you laid the cabbage, the steak, and the salad and rolls he hadn’t let you tell him about earlier before the two of you on the table.

But dinner was done, leftovers packed away, the rest of the cake returned to its box while two half-eaten slices laid before the two of you.

While he was in the shower, you’d managed to retrieve your IUD (very thoroughly sanitized, thank you very much) and place it in the jewelry box. It fit perfectly. You’d tied the box closed with a short length of red ribbon you’d acquired from the Christmas supplies stored in the spare room. 

That box had been sitting on the counter while you ate dinner and dessert, but now it sat between the two of you on the table. For the first time all week, your confidence in your plan was starting to falter.

Jack was a great man and an amazing husband. That was undeniable. He was great at so many different things. The one area he fell behind in, though, was communication.

He wasn’t necessarily bad at it, but he definitely wasn’t the best. It wasn’t that he couldn’t or didn’t communicate with you. No, it was more that he held certain things back. He didn’t let himself verbalize things when he thought he didn’t deserve them, or when he thought he was asking for too much.

He hadn’t asked you for a baby. Sure, the two of you had talked about it before getting married, as all couples should, but the conversation hadn’t resurfaced since then. That conversation had been the first time he had truly been completely open and laid bare before you. He had told you he wanted kids, more than anything, but he worried about being too old, too broken, too unavailable.

You’d assured him he was none of those things, that you wanted to start a family with him. You could see on his face that he only half believed you.

It hadn’t been a possibility right when you got married, with you just finishing your residency and settling into being an attending, along with the both of you wanting time to really settle into your relationship before broaching that topic again.

But it hadn’t been brought up again.

Suddenly, the box sitting between you felt like a bomb. What if you had overstepped? Sure, you had thought the look on his face when he saw you with a baby was longing, but what if it wasn’t? What if you were about to blow up your marriage and ruin his 50th birthday?

“Hey,” Jack’s hand came to cover yours, jerking you out of your spiral. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” your throat felt full as you looked up at him. “Just… just nervous to see if you like your present.”

He smiled at that. “I’m sure I’ll love it, baby.”

“I really hope you do.”

You could barely breathe as you watched his fingers undo the red bow keeping the box sealed. The few seconds it took for him to unwind the fabric felt like years, the soft sound of the ribbon sliding against the velvet felt like the loudest noise in the world.

The lid blocked your view of the interior of the box, but you knew exactly what it looked like. That thin plastic ‘T’ sticking up out of the slot where a ring would normally go. Stark white against the deep red interior of the little black box.

Jack’s brow scrunched up for a second as he gazed down at the object in his hands.

“Is this your-”

“Yes,” your voice was quiet when you cut him off, your eyes searching his face. He looked confused, eyes fixed on the IUD, before the expression melted into shock as he looked up at you. 

“You-” he floundered over his words, gaze rapidly flicking back and forth between you and the box. “This- you took it- what-”

For a moment, you were concerned he was having a stroke. But then he took a deep breath, set the box down, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Your nerves crept back in, unwelcome and self deprecating as the worst case scenarios ran through your mind.

“I need you to tell me exactly what this means, baby,” his hand was grabbing yours again, squeezing tight. He still looked a little shocked, but you could see his eyes lighting up with what you desperately hoped was happiness.

“I-” your throat locked down, the words stuck as your eyes locked on his.

“Words, baby,” he slipped out of his seat, settling on his knees before you.

“Jack, your leg-”

“I don’t care, I’m fine,” his hands settled on your thighs, just above your knees. His fingers dug in as he looked up at you. 

Hope. That’s what you were seeing written plain as day across his features. Hope and love and yearning.

“Baby, please,” he sounded desperate. “I need to know exactly what you meant when you gave me your IUD.”

“I -” your breath faltered for just a second as his hands squeezed tighter as the first syllable left your lips. “I want to have a baby, Jack. I want your baby.”

“Fuck,” his voice was raw and gutteral, like the curse ripped out of him involuntarily. “I want it. So badly, you have no idea.”

You couldn’t help your laugh. The sound was wet, emotion curling in your chest as the worry and anxiety fled. “Trust me, I know exactly how much you want it.”

The confusion crept back onto his face.

“You’re not subtle, Jack.”

“I’m so subtle. I’m an unreadable pillar of strength,” he was smiling, eyes still full of love and adoration.

“You were anything other than subtle with this.”

“Maybe because I want to come home to you and our child everyday,” his words silenced your laughter, tears threatening to spill as he kept speaking. “I want to watch them grow up, teach them how to ride a bike, be obnoxiously loud and embarrassing at sports games.”

Jack was getting to his feet now, pulling you up with him until his forehead was pressed to yours.

“I want to teach them how to drive, cry at their high school graduation, move them into college dorms,” his own voice was thick with emotion as tears dripped silently down your cheeks. His hands came up to cradle your cheeks, swiping the stray droplets away with his thumbs. Your hands gripped his forearms as you listened. “I want it all with you. I want to be horribly, disgustingly domestic and in love, show our kid what love looks like. I want them to be safe and happy and healthy and so, so loved.”

“Jack,” your voice was shaky as you clung to him.

“I want it. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want it with you. I want it all with you.”

His lips connected with yours. The kiss was tender and slow, every emotion leaking out as your lips and tongues moved against each other in your dining room. He tasted like the chocolate cake and something so distinctly Jack. It was addictive.

When the two of you parted to gasp for breath, his hands settled on your waist, yours coming up to tangle one in his hair, the other flat against his sturdy chest.

“You know,” you leaned in, tracing feather light kisses over the curve of his throat. “I promised you you could have whatever you want after dinner.”

His head dropped back and he let out a groan. His hands tightened on your waist.

“But do you know what I want?”

“What do you want, baby?” His voice was breathy. One of his hands drifted down to grab a handful of your ass, his leg slipping between yours to apply pressure where you needed him the most.

Your teeth caught the lobe of his ear between your teeth.

“I want you to take me to our bedroom,” your hand in his hair yanked ever so slightly. “I want you to take one of those little pills you keep for emergencies,” your fingers trailed down his chest slowly as his breathing picked up in pace. “And I want you to fuck me until you physically cannot any more.”

Step 5: success.

So maybe you weren’t as good at reading your husband as you thought.

You were so sure as soon as he got you into the bedroom and got an eyeful of the see through lace covering your body, he’d be inside of you immediately, especially with the promise of your uterus open for business.

But he held back, eyes tracing your form, sprawled out on the bed and still covered, barely, by your lingerie. He was moving through the room like he had all the time in the world.

You watched with bated breath as he slowly undid his belt and the button of his pants, leaving both still on. The buttons on his shirt were next, the fabric hanging open and untucked as he approached his nightstand. All you could see of his torso was a thin strip, could just barely spot the light dusting of still auburn hair disappearing in the waist band of his slacks.

His hand dug into the drawer for a second before he was producing the little orange bottle. He held it delicately between his fingers, eyes meeting yours.

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Everything in Jack’s eyes seemed to be begging you to agree, to not dangle this in front of him and then so cruelly rip it away.

“I want this,” you sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed to rest your hands on his hips, his legs between yours as he towered over you. “I want you to put a baby in me, Jack.”

He groaned, his hands fumbling to get the cap off the bottle and one pill in his mouth. 

He didn’t usually need those little blue pills, but between the anti depressants he regularly took and the stress of both your jobs, occasionally they came in handy. Today, however, the outline of his erection, right in front of your face, told you he definitely didn’t need it right now. But both of you knew that one round was not going to be even close to enough.

The temptation of that bulge in his pants was too much as you watched his throat bob while he swallowed the pill dry. Your hands drifted from his hips to the undone button of his slacks. Slowly, your fingers pulled the zipper down.

His hand caught yours before you could start sliding the fabric down his legs.

“Not now,” his fingers pressed into your pulse, your heartrate hammering as you looked up at him. “Take off your clothes and lie down.”

For a moment, you wanted to argue, wanted to insist that this was his birthday, you should be taking care of him. But the heat in his eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes traced over your body had another idea popping into your head, wondering exactly how far you could push him tonight.

Your hands were a little shaky as you unclasped your bra, if the white scrap of barely there lace could even be called that. It fell from your body as you stood from the bed, crowding into Jack.

He took half a step back to give you some space as he watched. Your hands tossed your hair back over your shoulders, taking the opportunity to trail your fingers down your collarbones, loosely cupping and caressing your own breasts. Your lips parted on a gasp as your fingers tweaked your nipples. With half lidded eyes, you arched into him, almost touching as you continued to play with your breasts.

When you decided he’d had enough, you let your hands move on, dragging down your abdomen only to stop just above the waistband of your panties. You laid your hands over the smooth, bumpless skin. 

“Can’t wait for your baby to be right here,” you were laying it on thick. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth digging into your lower lip, breaths coming a little too deep to lift your breasts even more with every inhale.

Jack was getting impatient, you could tell. That fire burning in his eyes, his fingers flexing, all while you took your sweet time shimmying out of the underwear. 

By the time it hit the floor, he looked ready to pounce, but he was still keeping himself in check. You figured he probably wanted to take things nice and slow, make them tender. At least at first. He usually was attentive and giving, treating you gently especially when emotions were running high. Not like you would break if he didn’t, more like you deserved to be loved softly.

But there was time for soft later. Right now, the tension and knowledge of what he was about to do to you felt explosive. You wanted him to take you hard. To take out the sexual frustration of a week or so of abstinence on your body. To pin you down and have his way with you. Afterwards there’d be time for sweet and tender. And there definitely would be more than just one round tonight given the pill he’d just taken.

You were right about how close he was to snapping. The final straw seemed to be when you reached down, picking your underwear up from the floor. He watched the movement, a warning look on his face, but you didn’t stop. Instead, you took his hand, setting the soaking wet miniscule lace in his palm.

“Happy birthday,” with that, you turned around, crawling onto the bed on all fours, swaying your hips as you went.

You didn’t get very far before his hands were grabbing you by the waist, dragging you back to the edge. Your lower legs hung off the bed as he pressed his hips against your ass. He was burning hot, even through his clothes. You could feel the heat and weight of him as you ground back, smearing the wetness leaking from you onto his pants.

“I wanted to be nice,” behind you, you heard rustling as his shirt finally dropped off his shoulders. The clinking of his belt followed, thudding as it hit the floor next. “I wanted to make love to my sweet little wife, but I don’t think that’s what you want, huh?”

“I want you to fuck me, Jack,” you heard him drag his pants and boxers down, the thick length of his cock springing free to brush agaisnt you. Your hips pushed back, almost involuntarily, craving him inside of you. “Make love to me later, knock me up now.”

“Fuck,” his fingers found your clit, stroking through your folds and finding you oh so ready for him. He was making small, tight circles around the bud, sending small shockwaves of pleasure through you.

“Stop wasting time,” your words were breathy, slowly losing their bite. “At this rate it’ll be another 30 years before I get pregnant.”

“Shut up,” you could feel him lining himself up. “Let me make you feel good.”

“I’ll feel good if you- oh fuck!” 

Jack interrupted your whining by slamming in all the way. Usually, he was slow, guiding himself inside, taking the time to let you adjust. Not now, though, now he barely gave you a second to get used to the feeling before he was pulling out and pushing back in.

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice was strained, his hips working vigorously as he used his grip on your waist to drag you back onto him every time he thrust in. 

The sound was obscene. Wet slapping accompanied by your whines and gasps as he reached deep inside of you, bumping all the way up against your cervix with each push in. His own panting was nearly drowned out, but the groan that escaped him when you clamped down tight as he shifted angles was loud.

“Right there, huh?” Jack tilted his hips, angling towards that spot while one of his hands pushed down on your upper back. Your arms gave way, head meeting the sheets as he continued to pound away.

“Fuck, Jack, right there!” Your cries were high pitched and needy as he kept up the pace. His pounding was rhythmic, barely faltering even when his fingers found your clit again, and you tightened around him even more. The circles he was drawing were fast, matching the speed and timing of his thrusts.

Jack had long since learned to play your body like a fiddle and he was pulling no punches tonight. His hand not on your clit shifted, sliding down to press the heel of his palm right above your pubic bone. The added pressure had you crying out, walls pulsing as an orgasm washed over you unexpectedly.

It came in waves, your back arching and pushing your hips into his even more fervently as the pleasure grew and radiated out from between your legs. It was sudden, overwhelming, and seemingly never ending as he kept fucking you through it, his pace unchanging, his hands never moving from where they lay. 

“Fuck, baby,” he was panting, leaning halfway over you as you twitched. “God, fuck, I’m close.”

“C’mon, do it Jack,” you knew your voice was whiny and breathy, but you couldn’t care less as you begged him. “Please, do it. Cum inside me. I need it!”

This was far from the first time he’d fucked you raw. The two of you hadn’t used a condom since the early days of your relationship. After one broke and forced an incredibly awkward pharmacy run for Plan B, you’d gotten your IUD. Once it was effective, you had never had a barrier between you. Jack was well accustomed to coming inside of you.

But this was different. That protection was gone, sitting on the dining room table where he’d left it after dinner. And now you were begging him to cum inside you, not just because it felt good for both of you, but because you wanted to have his child. You wanted him leaking out of you, filling you up until you had no room left inside. You wanted the consequences of this action, the visible and physical manifestation of him left inside of you.

His hand on your stomach shot out, clutching the duvet beside your head as he leaned even farther over you. Jack’s rhythm grew erratic, faster than before as he folded over you. His fingers never stopped circling but they did hitch, that steady pressure faltering as he got closer.

“Fuck, oh fuck, you feel so good,” he was so close you could feel it. Feel him pulsing and twitching inside of you while his chest, damp with sweat pressed against your back. 

“Please,” the word was tangled with a moan as it left your lips. The orgasm that had seemed never ending was rising again, impossibly fast. “Please, Jack, want your baby, please.”

“Oh shit, fuck, fuck! Oh, I’m cumming, oh fuck!”

You felt the heat inside you, that warmth radiating out as he buried himself deep, hips rutting in grinding little thrusts as he came. It was overwhelming. Your own orgasm, much weaker than the previous one, jerked through your body as you felt him fill you.

The two of you stayed quiet, no words exchanged while you rode out the pleasure coursing through both your veins. Jack stayed buried as deep as he could inside of you, his hand finally leaving your clit when you stopped pulsing around him, only for it to find the front of your thigh, keeping you tightly pressed against him.

“I love you,” he whispered against your shoulder blade while he caught his breath.

“I love you, too,” you couldn’t really reach back to touch him in this position. At least, not without the growing ache in your lower back worsening. “I’m getting sore, Jack.”

“If I tell you to lay down and get comfortable, will you actually listen this time?” The smirk on his face as you peaked over your shoulder made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. He slowly pushed himself up, lifting his weight off your body and pulling out.

“Yes, fine, I’ll listen,” you winced a little as his dick left your body, gasping a little when you realized he was still half hard.

“Shit, stop for a sec,” his hand palmed your ass cheek, stopping you from crawling forward to get comfortable. For a moment, you were confused. But then you felt it. His cum was dripping from you, spilling now that he’d finally pulled out. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

The low groan in his voice had you clenching around nothing, pushing even more out of you.

“Gotta keep it all in there, baby,” his fingers came up, pushing it back inside of you. They curled downwards, brushing against the sensitive skin just behind your clit, your legs shaking as he repeated the motion. “Fuck you’re so wet. So full of me.”

“Jack, please,” you weren’t entirely sure what you were asking for, all you knew was that you needed him. Over your own panting breaths you could just make out the wet sound of his own hand dragging over his length.

“Ok, ok,” his fingers pulled out of you. “Get comfortable, I need you again.”

Your legs were weak and it took you a second to focus again as you made your way to the center of the bed, falling onto your back, your head resting among the pillows. Your eyes found him like a magnet, snapping into focus as he finally pulled his pants all the way down.

He was fully hard again, and you watched with blatant hunger as he sat on the edge of the bed, hastily unfastening his prosthetic before he was climbing over to you.

“Left your hips for me,” you followed his instruction, allowing him to slide a pillow below your ass to keep you propped up for him. “Good girl.”

He settled, kneeling, between your legs, length still glistening from just having been inside you. Jack dragged the head of his cock over your folds, taking in the way your body twisted and undulated, silently begging for him to be back inside you.

“Are you ready?” 

How kind and totally unnecessary for him to check in on you. You were mere seconds away from flipping him over and riding him.

“Yes, please Jack,” your hands reached down for him, trying to guide him in yourself.

“Ah-ah,” he tangled your fingers in his, leaning over you to trap your hands above your head with one of his. “I fucked you how you wanted, now we do it how I want it.”

“Just get inside me, please! I want you so bad,” you had a sneaking suspicion he might have wanted to tease you for even longer, but your husband had never been able to resist you for very long. You could see how much he wanted it, and your begging seemed to have won out over his desire to tease.

“God, you’re still so tight,” Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck as he slid inside. “How the fuck are you always so tight?”

“Made for you!” Your voice came out high and squeaky as he began to move. 

“Fuck yes you were,” his lips landed on the sensitive skin of your throat, sucking and kissing and no doubt leaving countless marks you’d be struggling to cover when you went back to work.

The pace he set this time was much slower than before, but somehow filthier. The slow, insistent grind of him withdrawing and pushing back in had your clit grinding against the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his cock. The sounds this time were quieter but no less salacious. The unmistakable sound of how wet you were filled the room every time he pushed in as deep as he could get, mixed with the whimpers and gasps of his name you let out as you clung to him. He was rather quiet the first time until he got close, but he must have been more sensitive now as his groans and curses vibrated against your neck. 

Those noises only built in volume as the two of you fell into a cycle, pushing each other even higher.

Every time you clenched tightly around him as he hit just the right spot, his teeth would scrape the sensitive skin on your neck or shoulder. In return, your fingernails would dig in tighter against the muscles in his back and his hips would press as deep he could, brushing against the spot that made you clench tighter.

“You feel so good around me, baby,” his movements were beginning to stutter as the two of you got closer again. His hand tangled in your hair as he pulled his head away from your neck, keeping your eyes locked on his.

Jack looked wild. His pupils were blown wide, eyes full of tenderness even as his skin was flushed, his mouth open as he let loose sounds of pleasure. 

“You’re all mine.”

You tried to nod against his grip in your hair, eyes slipping shut as he ground even harder into you. Everything was hazy. The pleasurable feeling of every movement sent zaps tingling up your spine.

“No, no keep your eyes open,” you gasped as he broke his semi-steady rhythm to thrust hard into you. Your eyes opened, locking onto his. “Good girl, that’s good.”

He was getting louder now, getting closer and consequently pushing you there as well. 

“Say it, baby,” you were tightening around his length uncontrollably now, impossibly close. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I-I’m fuck!” You could barely get the first word out as his hand once again found its way between your bodies, rubbing against you as you squirmed. The pleasure was almost too much. “I’m your- fuck, fuck! I’m yours, Jack!”

“All mine,” his lips landed on yours while his fingers sped up. The kiss was sloppy, mostly tongues and teeth while you panted into each other's mouths. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum again, ohhh fuck.”

His hips snapped once, twice and then stilled as deep as he could get. Jack never stopped rubbing your clit, though, pushing you through to cum around him for the 3rd time so far as came inside you again.

You could barely feel the extra fluid. The space between your legs was already messy and your orgasm pushed every last thought out of your head as your body shook. Your legs tightened around his hips as your body arched up into him. One of his arms slid beneath your lower back, his hips burying his cock even deeper inside.

As your body trembled and the pleasure slowly faded, you realised he was speaking to you, the bussing in your ears finally fading enough for you to hear him.

“-love you so much, baby,” his head had dropped back down to the crook of your neck, but his lips hadn’t resumed their attack. The words were quiet. You knew he was talking to you, but the words almost seemed too personal. Like Jack’s filter had been fucked out of him, and the words spilling against your skin were his inner monologue. “Can’t believe you want to make me a dad. I swear, I’ll do my best. I’ll be so good. I can’t wait to hold her and love her-”

“Her?” You finally felt coherent enough to interrupt.

Jack jumped like he had forgotten you were there, even with his length still buried inside of you.

He hesitated for a moment, before lifting his head to look you in the eye. “I want a daughter,” his hand came to rest over your lower stomach. “One of the residents told me I seem like a girl-dad a year or so ago and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. And now, getting you pregnant… I hope it’s a girl.”

You were torn between laughing and crying. You remembered the off hand comment from one of the bolder first year students, along with the look of utter confusion on Jack’s face. He hadn’t understood the comment, simply telling them he didn’t have kids and to get back to work.

But the tenderness in his voice, the absolute love in his eyes as he looked down at you had a lump forming in your throat. 

“You know it’s not that quick,” your hand came up to cradle his jaw covered in that silver stubble you loved so much. “It might take a while for me to get pregnant. And there's no way to guarantee it’ll be a girl.”

His head turned slightly to press a kiss to your palm. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m happy to keep trying.”

Your cheeks flushed at the insinuation, choosing to redirect. “And if it’s a boy?”

Jack lowered himself back over you, his nose brushing yours. “Then I’ll have a son. The only thing that matters is that the both of you are safe, happy, and healthy.”

“I love you,” the words were tight, barely getting out of your throat around the steadily growing lump of overwhelming emotion.

The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.

It had taken years to get there.

Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.

It was exhausting.

Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.

You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.

You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.

You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.

Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.

You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.

Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.

It gave you perspective.

After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.

Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.

There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.

Six months.

You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.

Not heartbreak.

Clarity.

Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.

You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.

Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.

Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.

Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.

And the data had led you here.

To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.

Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.

You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.

The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.

You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.

Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.

Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.

And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.

The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.

It was that he remembered things.

Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.

You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.

Jack had smiled.

"That's a huge accomplishment."

Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.

Jack apparently didn't.

You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.

He slowed slightly.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How'd the graduation go?"

You stopped walking.

Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.

"What?"

"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"

For a moment you simply stared at him.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.

"You remembered that?"

Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"

The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.

The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.

You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.

At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

Because maybe caring looked like this.

Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.

You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.

Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.

Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.

The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.

You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.

The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.

By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.

You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.

You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.

A granola bar.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Jack didn't even look up.

"You haven't eaten."

For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.

"What?"

"I saw you skip lunch."

His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.

"Eat."

Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You got me food?"

That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.

"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."

A beat passed.

"Which isn't sustainable."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.

You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.

"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"

"Someone has to."

"You say that like I'm a child."

"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."

You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.

"How did you even notice?"

He looked up again.

"Notice what?"

"That I hadn't eaten."

The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.

"You always eat lunch."

You blinked. "What?"

"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."

He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.

"Today you didn't."

Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.

To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.

Not because he wanted credit.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

Not because he expected anything in return.

Simply because he cared.

As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.

No grand gesture.

Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.

A simple act of care.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.

"You like him."

Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

She didn't even look up from her computer.

"You like him."

You stared at her.

"Who?"

That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.

"Abbot."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

"Come again?"

"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."

A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.

"I don't have a crush on him."

"Sure."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"Santos."

"What?"

"I do not have a crush on Jack."

The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.

"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."

"I do not get weird."

"You do."

"I don't."

Santos raised an eyebrow.

You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.

"Don't you have patients?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject."

"You are."

You pointed at her dramatically.

"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"

"Partially."

At least she was honest.

Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.

"There."

"Oh, shut up."

"There!"

Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.

And yet you found yourself watching.

Not because he was handsome.

Although he was.

Not because he was charming.

Although he could be.

It was something far more annoying than that.

Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.

Not perfect.

Good.

There was a difference.

You'd seen him struggle too.

Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.

A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.

Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.

Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.

Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.

In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.

And somehow that made him even more competent.

That was the problem.

Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.

You respected him.

You respected the way he treated people.

You respected the way he worked.

You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.

And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.

Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.

Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.

"You done staring?"

You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"

You sighed. "What?"

Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.

"I get it."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.

"He makes people feel safe."

The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.

And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.

The realization happened at a bar.

Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.

Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.

The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.

People were simply existing.

Laughing.

Drinking.

Living.

You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.

You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.

Actually happy.

You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.

You had already chosen yourself.

And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.

"Vodka cranberry."

Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.

You glanced over.

"What about it?"

He nodded toward your drink.

"You always order vodka cranberries."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"

"Maybe."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I like knowing things."

"Yeah, I've noticed that."

The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.

"You seem happy."

The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.

You looked over at him. "So do you."

"No."

The small smile on his face faded slightly.

"I'm serious."

Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.

"Good."

The word came quietly. Sincerely.

"You deserve that. It suits you."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.

He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.

And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.

You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.

Jack had never made you feel that way.

Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.

And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.

Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.

Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.

"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."

Jack laughed immediately.

"Past tense?"

You smiled. "Definitely."

"What changed?"

The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.

You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."

Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.

"I used to fall in love with potential."

The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.

Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."

"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."

His smile widened. "Very terrible."

"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."

You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't."

"It should."

Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."

The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.

"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."

The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.

"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.

The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.

"Consistency."

Jack nodded slightly.

"Kindness."

You thought for another second.

"Emotional intelligence."

Then, completely serious, you added,

"A guy with a real job."

The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.

"A real job?"

"I'm serious."

"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You pointed at him.

"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."

His shoulders shook with laughter.

"I stand corrected."

"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."

"What?"

"I'm not joking."

"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."

"It is, trust me."

By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.

When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.

Not intensely.

Not romantically.

Just honestly.

Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.

You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.

It felt intentional.

Steady.

Healthy.

The realization settled quietly into your chest.

Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.

Jack wasn't potential.

He wasn't a project.

He wasn't a possibility.

He was already there.

Already doing the work.

Already growing.

Already becoming.

And maybe that was what made room for something real.

Not two people searching for someone to complete them.

Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.

And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.

The first kiss happened months later.

Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.

You knew the sound of his laugh.

You knew how he took his coffee.

You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.

You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.

You knew how he listened.

And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.

The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.

As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.

You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.

When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.

Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.

The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.

"You just did, big guy."

His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.

And there it was.

That look.

The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.

Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.

Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"

Just like that.

No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.

Just honesty.

Direct. Simple. Certain.

The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.

You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.

For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.

None of it had been wasted.

Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.

Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.

Your smile widened before you could stop it.

"Yeah."

The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.

It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.

Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.

Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.

You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.

Then his hand lifted.

Gentle. Careful.

He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.

The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.

When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.

When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.

Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.

But the opposite had turned out to be true.

Having expectations hadn't prevented love.

It had protected you until the right person arrived.

Because these days, you had expectations.

And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.

He'd exceeded them.

You were already by the crib, a mug of coffee warm between your hands. You looked up as he slipped into the room, your eyes softening at the dark circles under his.

"Hey, handsome," you whispered, setting your mug down on the side table. "Survived the night?"

"Barely," Jack murmured back. He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Missed you, beautiful."

"Missed you too, Doctor." You tilted your head, kissing his cheek. "Say hi. She’s just waking up."

Jack smiled, pulling away to step over to the crib. Inside, your daughter was starting to stir. She blinked sleepily, her eyes rubbing against her fists until they landed right on Jack. Instantly, a tiny smile broke behind her pacifier.

"Daddy!" she screamed with a sleepy voice.

She immediately poked her hands up into the air, making her uppie arms.

Jack’s heart completely melted. He leaned over the railing, scooping her warm body up against his chest.

"Hi my beautiful girl," Jack whispered as he pressed a long kiss into her hair.

She let out a giggle, her hands immediately coming up to cup his face. Her fingers patted his cheeks, testing the rough morning stubble on his jaw. "S'atchy," she mumbled, but she didn't pull away. She leaned her forehead against his nose, rubbing it side to side in a sleepy greeting.

"Yeah, Daddy needs a shave, doesn't he?" Jack cooed, rocking her gently from side to side as she buried her face into his neck.

As he hoisted her a little higher, Jack noticed something else in the crib. A familiar fluffy brown teddy bear dressed in a miniature set of blue hospital scrubs with a very cute little stethoscope.

"Since when does she sleep with plushies?" Jack asked softly, turning to you with an arched eyebrow. "She usually kicks everything out the second she lays down."

You let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his shoulder. Hearing your voice, your daughter reached one hand to pat your face, ensuring both of her favorite people were within arm's reach.

"She only sleeps with that one," you explained. "And only on specific nights. When you're on a night shift and you can't put her to bed, she gets incredibly restless. She sits by the door waiting for you."

Jack’s chest tightened. The guilt of the long hours at the hospital was a constant weight.

"So, I started giving her the bear on those nights," you continued, reaching out to smooth a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. "I told her that whenever Daddy is at the hospital helping people, this guy is on duty to keep her safe until you get home. Now, she won't go to sleep without him when you're gone. I think it's her way of keeping you close until you come back."

Jack looked down at the scrubwearing bear on the mattress. He reached down with his free hand and picked up the plushie, holding it up so his daughter could see it.

"Who's this, sweet girl?" Jack asked her gently, shaking the bear's little paw. "Is this your helper?"

The toddler blinked sleepily at the bear, then looked right at Jack, her little thumb poking the bear as she nodded. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and pointed a tiny finger at the plushie.

"He's night dada," she mumbled softly, her voice muffled around her paci.

Jack froze. New emotions emerged at the realization that she considered the little bear her version of him when the sun went down.

"Night Dada, huh?" Jack pressed the plush bear gently into her arms, and she instantly hugged it tight against her chest, right alongside his own neck. "He takes good care of you when Daddy's at work?"

The toddler nodded and whispered. "Dad doctor."

He wrapped his free arm securely around you, needing the comfort of his family.

"Thank you," he whispered to you, leaning down to kiss your lips. "For being here for her when I can't."

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