#1 romcomrry advocate

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

If he wasn’t saving lives in the ER, he was risking his own. It doesn’t matter that you’ve knelt in front of him, the hardwood cool and unforgiving, as you pleaded for him to take a day off. Just one. 

There is always something. A colleague who has children and needs that day to take them to Disneyland. Or a patient who only trusts him. A shift he just has to cover.  

You’ve heard nearly every excuse possible and smiled like it didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter, because maybe you didn’t. 

When you and Jack first started dating, he warned you that surgeons are the worst kinds of doctors to date because of their pretentiousness. He seemed to have forgotten to mention that ER doctors came in second on that list. 

It wasn’t the desire for fame or hubris that made Jack so careless about your feelings. It was his devotion to everyone but you. 

Sure, he’d kiss you and make you feel special—on a day when he could afford it. When he wasn’t chasing the high of being needed by strangers who’d maybe not even remember his name once he had saved them. 

You know the placement of every freckle on his body, and still, it doesn’t change anything. 

The third glass of wine doesn’t taste as bitter as the first. You don’t particularly like this brand or year or anything about it—you just know that Jack had bought it for today, back when he was still telling himself that he’d be home to celebrate with you. 

As the cap of the bottle dances between your fingers, the metal now warm from your body heat, you glance at the clock. 

Three hours and twelve minutes.

God, you’re a fucking loser. 

Maybe it would be a different story if you were married. Maybe you could forgive yourself for your desperation, your constant attempts to convince yourself you mattered to him as much as he mattered to you. If there were a little bit of proof of his commitment, you’d be able to look into the mirror without feeling sick with shame. 

But there is no ring on your finger or the promise that one will come one day. Jack doesn’t want to get married again. He says you two don’t need that. 

Three hours, thirteen minutes. 

You slosh the wine in your mouth while the darkest of thoughts creep in. It’s just a little fantasy you’ve curated and perfected over the years, and it’s an insane one, but you love to lose yourself in it every now and then. 

Jack comes home. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Goosebumps creep up his arms and neck as he calls out your name. When no answer comes, he runs up the stairs and finds the bathroom door ajar. Light seeps out under it, along with a small pool of water tainted light pink. 

Fine. You’re a little melodramatic. Maybe Jack’s neglect has driven you to regress into your teenage self who also fantasized about this whenever her dad yelled at her. 

Once the fourth hour starts, the wine bottle is empty, and you’re so drunk it feels like time has stopped. The tears certainly have. They’ve been replaced by this hollow laugh that echoes through the house while you watch the trashiest TV show you could find. 

While the alcohol courses through your veins, your eyes zero in on the women’s lip and cheek fillers. It stands out to you like black ink on white paper. 

You wish Jack would’ve been a plastic surgeon instead. You wouldn’t care that he sees women’s naked breasts and gives BBLs on a daily basis if that meant that he was home in time for dinner. 

Once you stand up to get a new bottle, you feel all the blood rushing to your head. Your legs are unsteady, and your forehead and nose feel so heavy, like they’re pulling you forward. 

You find out just how firm the fridge is when you knock against it. 

It’s not like you feel it anyway. 

The next bottle of wine is closed with a cork stopper. You’ve seen Jack open this kind of bottle with that metal apparatus that looks like you could find it in a gynecologist’s office. You have no idea how to use it. So you take a knife and start hacking away. You only miss your fingers by pure, dumb luck. 

That luck runs out when you try to pop out the cork stopper by hitting the bottom of the wine against the kitchen counter. 

What used to be the bottle is now a bunch of shards and a cold, wet feeling seeping through your socks. 

You laugh hysterically and drop to your knees, not half as careful as you should be. Something pierces your big toe, but you don’t care. 

The front door opens. Jack steps inside. And his eyes widen. If anything, Jack has always had one hell of a timing.

You’re a fucking mess. 

“Jackie,” you slur. 

You try to get up, but your muscles protest. 

“Jesus, what the fuck?” he hisses. 

He is by your side in an instant, stepping over the glass carefully. It crunches underneath his boots when he picks you up by your underarms and puts you down on the counter. 

“Baby, what the fuck happened?”

You giggle. You fucking love it when he calls you baby. 

“Oopsie,” you whisper. 

Jack stares at you with disbelief. His fingers catch your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his.  For a second, his mouth opens, and you await the lecture that never comes. Instead, his eyes dart over your face, taking it all in—the smeared makeup, the heat radiating from your cheeks, the glassy, far-away look. 

“Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly. 

You try to bite back a smile as you reply, “As a skunk.”

He lets go of your chin and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair.  You let yourself slide off the counter, trying to close the distance again. 

“Stop,” Jack yells.  His arm snaps forward, pushing you back. For a moment, you stumble. Your back hits the counter, and you look up at Jack with a hurt expression. Then your eyes follow his, and you realize that you almost stepped into the glass. A stupid smile spreads over your face.

Jack’s expression falls. 

“Hey,” he says sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing, huh?”

He grabs you by your biceps and pulls you away from the sharp mess on the floor. You only feel the closeness as his fingers dig into your skin. 

“I missed you today,” you murmur dreamily.  Even to you, your own voice sounds far away. Or maybe only to you? You can’t tell. 

Jack stares at you, his eyes searching for something. Anything. 

“Talk to me,” he demands. “What is going on? Why are you wasted on a fucking Thursday?”

Oh, that one blows.  On a Thursday. Yes, a random Thursday.

You giggle so hard your throat hurts. 

“You’re never gonna believe this, but—” As you pause dramatically, Jack’s eyebrow twitches, “—it’s kinda an important Thursday. Like… really important.”

It’s almost visible how the wheels in Jack’s head start turning. They spark, creak, and squeak as he searches for the answer that’s written all over your face in the runny mascara and that look bordering on insanity. 

 His face falls when the wheels come to a stop.

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

As his eyes dart to the calendar pinned to the fridge, you feel your stomach turning. 

“Yeah,” you say.  Your mouth feels dry now, and nothing’s quite as funny anymore.

Jack looks at you, but you don’t meet his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” You believe him. That’s the worst part. But it doesn’t matter how sorry he is, because you’re sorrier. To the little girl you once were who thought she’d be happier than her parents ever got to be.

You shift your weight and wince softly. 

Jack’s eyes widen.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.  His voice comes out rough. 

“No,” you murmur. 

Jack pats you down anyway, his hands searching alongside his eyes as he inspects your legs. At the end, he finds a small shard of glass stuck in your big toe.  You're holding onto Jack’s head as he looks at your foot. His ears have grown red. 

“You are hurt,” he mumbles. “I—Lemme…”

Torn between another apology and his worry, Jack picks you up. His arms slide under your back and your knees. The room tilts dangerously—you had almost forgotten that the contents of an entire wine bottle were coursing through your veins. 

“Rollercoaster,” you whisper.

He shushes you as he carries you to the upstairs bathroom where you keep the first aid kit.  The bright, white light flickers to life and hurts your eyes, making you groan. Jack only glances at you with more concern before he sets you down on the bathroom counter. 

“Hold still,” he instructs.  His arms keep you in place for a few seconds, like he is trying to show your body how to keep balance. “Don’t fall, please,” he adds, a little gentler. 

Then he crouches down, grunting a little as his knee pops. Somewhere through the haze of the wine, you remember that he just worked for sixteen hours. But then again, it’s your anniversary, and your empathy for his exhaustion is outweighed by your own misery. By far.

 He finds the first aid kit and takes a pair of tweezers before he catches your foot with his other hand. 

“It’s not too deep,” he says quietly. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel it until you moved.”

Yeah, you think to yourself, that’s definitely why. 

“Spoken like the doctor you are,” you answer. 

Jack looks up at you for a second, his lips pressed together. He murmurs something you don’t quite catch and then pulls out the shard.

You gasp as the pain shoots from your toe to your knee and pulls up high into your hip. 

“Ow, what the—?” you hiss. 

Jack keeps your leg still and rubs your shin slightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Not for that.”

The air in the room grows cold.  Jack straightens up, and his knee pops again. 

“I’m sorry for today, too,” he begins.  He doesn’t get very far because you immediately hold up your hand. 

“No,” you bite out sharply.

For a few seconds, you just sit on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. Jack watches, fumbling with his fingers as he searches your face. 

“Can I clean your cut, please?” he asks.  You shake your head vehemently. 

“It could get infected if I don’t,” he retorts.

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come out. Instead, a wave of nausea hits you. 

“’m gonna be sick,” you mumble. 

Jack’s eyes widen before his hands land on your waist.  He half-carries, half-drags you to the toilet and makes it just in time as the wine comes back up, tasting ten times as bad as it did when it went down. 

“Shit, baby,” Jack curses. He gathers as much of your hair as he can save and rubs your back as you throw up once, then twice. 

It’s all liquid, too, because you haven’t eaten in a few hours—you were planning on having a big dinner with your boyfriend after all, as one does on their anniversary.  As your stomach cramps, you think about the muffins that you ordered, lemon batter and raspberry icing. 

The third time your tummy revolts, it’s just dry-heaving. 

Spit dribbles down your chin, and your hands tremble. You’re somehow sweating and shaking simultaneously. Jack whispers and shushes, but you don’t want his comfort. You want to keep drinking until you pass out. 

“Leave me alone,” you murmur, your hands flailing weakly. 

“And let you knock yourself unconscious? No, thank you,” he replies. “You’re so fucking drunk, you’re lucky you haven’t given yourself alcohol poisoning.” It’s clear he’s aiming for dry and sarcastic, but you hear the fear in his voice. 

“Get out,” you rasp. Your throat might as well be on fire.

“No,” he snaps. 

“You don’t care if I crack my head open,” you accuse. 

His grip on your arm tightens. “Hey,” he says sharply, “That’s not true. I care very much.”

You groan and rest your chin on the toilet seat as your head begins to spin again. 

“Then why are you never here?”

The silence that follows is only broken by your renewed retching. 

Once you’ve emptied your stomach, Jack leaves you by yourself on the bathroom tiles for a few seconds. His eyes keep flickering back to you as he turns on the shower, testing its warmth with the tips of his fingers. 

He returns to your side and flushes the toilet for you. 

“Can you stand?” he asks.  You’re surprised at just how soft his voice is. 

You shake your head. He doesn’t sigh. 

Instead, he nods quietly and maneuvers you against the wall. 

“Put your arms up, baby,” he instructs quietly. 

Piece by piece, he removes your clothes. You feel how his fingers tremble as he unhooks the clasps of your new bra, all black lace and clearly bought for today.  Once you’re down to nothing, he starts undressing, too. He leans his prosthetic against the wall and then manages to get both of you in the shower. 

The tiles are cold underneath you, but the warm spray from above keeps you quiet. Jack doesn’t say anything as he sits next to you, his grey curls slowly growing darker as the water hits. He doesn’t reach for you either, but his knee presses against yours. 

“You love me?” you whisper. 

Jack braces next to you. You feel the tension travel up from where his leg touches yours. 

“I do,” he murmurs. 

You swallow hard. “Then why do you never choose me?”

He’s already there when you arrive, hands in his jacket pockets, and the second he sees you his whole face does something helpless and unguarded that he clearly doesn’t mean to let you see.

“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than usual.

“Hey yourself.” You look up at the marquee.

FOOL’S RUSH IN — ONE NIGHT ONLY.

“Okay. Late 90’s rom-com. Bold choice, Abbot.”

“You know it?”

“I know of it. I was, what, one when it came out.” You watch his jaw tighten, anxious. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve checked your watch 4 times since I walked up.”

“That’s a medical habit. Occupational hazard.” But he’s fighting a smile, and he holds the door for you, and inside the theater is nearly empty… a scattering of other people, mismatched velvet seats, the kind of hush that only exists in old buildings that have outlived their purpose and don’t care. Inside it smells like butter, candy, and old dusty carpet with something underneath that might just be decades of other people’s first dates.

You end up in the back row because Jack Abbot, apparently, is a back-row person, and you don’t dislike that about him. Or anything whatsoever.

“So why this one,” you ask, once you’re settled, his arm already finding its way along the back of your seat like he can’t help it. “Out of every movie in the world.”

He’s quiet for a second. Current trailers are still running, throwing blue light across his face.

“My sister loved it. When I was in my residency, when I never had time for anything, she’d make me watch it whenever I came home. Said I needed at least one thing in my life that wasn’t a medical journal or a chart.” He shrugs. “Haven’t watched it in years but I saw it announced on my way to work and thought maybe—” He stops.

“Thought maybe what?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Jack.”

“I thought maybe I could watch again with another person I care about.” He says it fast, like ripping off a bandage, eyes on the screen instead of you. “That’s it. That’s the whole reason.”

You don’t say anything right away, because your chest has gone soft and full in a way you’re not used to, and you’re worried if you open your mouth it’ll come out as something bigger than you’re ready for. So instead you reach over and lace your fingers through his on the armrest, and you feel him exhale.

“I like it already,” you tell him. “And it hasn’t even begun.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The movie is exactly as ridiculous and charming as you’d expect. Las Vegas neon and impulsive marriage and two people who have no business being together making it work anyway.

The plot feels extremely relatable.

Almost at the end you find yourself humming along under your breath to It’s Now Or Never by Elvis Presley.

“You know this song?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I have an unreasonable amount of music knowledge from decades I wasn’t alive for. It’s a whole thing.”

He shakes his head, staring at you like you’ve short-circuited something within him. “That’s my exact music taste. That’s disturbing.”

“Weird disturbing, or regular disturbing?”

“Don’t,” he says, but he’s grinning now, wide and unguarded, the kind of grin that makes the almost 20 years between you feel less like a gap and more like a coincidence of timing. “You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m nervous.”

“You said you weren’t nervous.”

“I lied. Occupational hazard of that too, apparently.”

You laugh, and somebody in the row ahead shushes you both, and you spend the rest of the movie with your head on his shoulder and his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hand, and it is, without question, the best old romcom you’ve ever seen.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The credits roll. The lights come up slowly, like they’re giving everyone a second to remember where they are.

Neither of you moves. A couple minutes pass and then he turns to look at you.

“That line,” Jack says, staring straight ahead at the blank screen like it’s easier than looking at you. “Near the end. Where he tells her he loves her so much it hurts and he realizes he doesn’t want the version of his life where he doesn’t take the chance on her—”

“I remember.” You do… it had landed somewhere under your ribs a few minutes ago and hadn’t left.

“I know it’s too soon but I’ve been thinking about that line for three weeks.” He finally turns to look at you, and for once there’s nothing careful in his expression, none of the hallway-glance restraint, just him. “I don’t want to live the version where I don’t ask. So. I’m asking. Be my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

It’s not smooth. It’s not the speech he probably practiced in his head on the drive over. It’s better than that, because you can tell it’s real and the same man who checked his watch four times and texted you three panicked messages about a movie theater, laid bare in the worst lighting a single-screen cinema in the middle of Pittsburgh has to offer.

“Yeah,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which feels like its own small miracle. “Of course. Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting ages to do it properly, and somewhere behind you the ancient sound system is still playing the last few bars of the classical rendition of an old song neither of you can name.

And you think, for the first time, that you’d sit through every movie in the world if it meant more nights exactly like this one because you love him too. So much it hurts.

—

i’m thinking about how once the front door clicks shut with the heaviness of his double shift resting on his shoulders, he sighs in relief. closing his eyes and letting his keys plop into the bowl in the foyer.

jack struggled as he dropped his backpack onto the floor, kicking it with his foot so it could rest against the wall as he made his way into the quiet home.

"baby?" he called, his tired smile lighting up his eyes as he looked for her.

"out here!" she called.

jack walked slowly, following her voice through the kitchen, the afternoon sun beaming across the hardwood floors until he stepped onto the back porch.

and there he found her.

she was standing barefoot in the garden, the hem of that little yellow sundress dancing around her thighs. it was his favorite one that she owned.

the large stainless steel salad bowl she held was overflowing with strawberries as she looked over her sun-kissed shoulder, cheeks warm from the sun, hair a little messy from the wind.

"hi."

jack rested his side against the screen door as he watched her delicate fingers pluck a berry, “hi, baby.” he hummed.

she smiled, “rough shift?" she wanted to know.

“it was a kick in the ass.” he sighed tiredly, his forhead wrinkling as he frowned.

she plucked another berry from the basket, nodding while he explained what he had to deal with on this particular double. she rubbed a berry against her dress as she made her way towards him before holding it up between her fingers.

"c'mere." she hummed, snapping him out of his stress.

jack obeyed.

"open up.” she gleaned as she rose to her tippy toes once he was finally in front of her.

jack raised an eyebrow, making them both giggle as he spoke softly, "yes, ma'am."

he leaned down, parting his lips just enough for her to place the strawberry against them. but, instead of letting go for him to pull it into his mouth, she held it there.

his eyes flickered to hers, with that dangerous glint.

"are y’gonna feed me," he murmured, voice low and raspy, "or d’ya just wanna be a tease?"

"hmm” she tutted, “maybe a bit of both." she shrugged, biting her lip as he huffed a quiet laugh.

his chest puffed up in that way that made her swoon while she watched as he finally took a bite, the juice immediately sweet against his tongue.

"good?" she gaped up at him.

"best i've ever had." he moaned as he chewed.

"i can’t believe i grew them." she said proudly.

"i can.” he said, resting his hand on her cheek as her head craned down to rest in his large palm.

"mm." she peered up at him lovingly.

then, suddenly another strawberry appeared at his lips causing him so smile smugly.

"again." she suggested making him bop his head to the side.

"you’re a very demanding little lady, huh?” he chuckled making her nod her pretty little head up at him.

“i know you want some more.” she beamed. her dress flowing at her hips now as the wind dangerously moved the hem higher. “baby, you worked fourteen hours. you earned some pampering."

he rolled his eyes so playfully that she almost missed him reaching for her waist— his hands rested there instinctively, thumbs brushing against the soft fabric of her dress.

"jack..." she giggled.

"what?" he cocked a brow as he pulled her closer into his chest.

"you're squishing my strawberries." she squealed as she looked down at the bowl now resting flush against her chest, the berries all cold and damp.

"eh."

"jack!."

"shh" he buried his face against the side of her neck, breathing her in. she smelled sunshine, and grass, and strawberries.

"i fuckin’ missed you all day,” he mumbled into her skin.

she softened immediately at the way his voice quivered. she felt the way his hands groped her tightly and sighed as she breathed him in.

"i missed you too."

he stayed there another few seconds before pulling back just enough to look at her. "did you wear this on purpose?”

"maybe." she shrugged.

"'maybe,'" he repeated with a grin.

"i know it's your favorite.” she smiled, pulling away from him as she adjusted the bowl in her hands.

she reached up, to brush her thumb across the tiny smear of strawberry juice she'd left at the corner of his mouth. "oh, honey! you've got—"

but before she could finish, he caught her wrist gently making her gasp. his eyes didn't leave hers as he moved her thumb wipe away the juice.

he then took her thumb into his mouth, sucking on it slowly making her legs shake instinctively as she watched him.

"j—jack." she whispered.

he removed his lips with a loud ‘pop’ before her hands dropped down to glutch at her chest. he chuckled leaning in slowly to let their lips meet softly, tasting like strawberries and summer and finally being home.

when they pulled apart, she laughed under her breath.

"doctor that made me dizzy." she said, placing the back of her palm against her forehead.

"oh poor thing," he cooed, taking her up effortlessly into his freckled arms. “let’s go get you check out.”

she smiled. “whatever you think is best, doctor."

and without another word, he strode them back inside, glancing down at her as she pecked small, little kisses against his jawline.

he placed the bowl that rested in her lap on the island counter with a big ‘plop’ as they passed.

strawberries could wait.

You make a show of dropping your purse on the kitchen counter, making your way to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water instead. Phoebe still doesn’t move, not even an inch. It’s from across the lounge that Jack has to stifle a laugh by pursing his lips, angling his head so he’s not staring at the back of Phoebe’s outfit. 

He doesn’t interfere, finds it quite amusing to watch the way Phoebe stubbornly tries to take control of your parenting. It’s like she’s waiting you out, like she knows it’s a matter of time before you cave and just let her go out in what she’s chosen. 

In any other instance, maybe you would. Pick your battles and all that. But not when it's roasting hot outside and she won’t be able to breathe. Phoebe isn’t the only stubborn one in this apartment. She got it from someone, and that someone is you. 

Jack watches in amusement as you sit at the kitchen island and take a sip from your water bottle, the silence so loud he’s worried that if he even breathes out a laugh, this frustration and stubbornness on both of your sides will then be directed at him. 

But five minutes pass. Then ten. And neither you nor Phoebe have moved. 

“Jack, if you’d like to go and get ice cream without us, go ahead.” You speak in a feigned, professional tone. The sound of it quirks Jack’s brow, but it still doesn’t make Phoebe move.

He cranes a neck to look around her, to meet your gaze. You nod your head to Phoebe, eyes wide and brows raised, a silent command for him to try instead. It causes a ruckus of movement in his stomach at the suggestion, at the approval from you to do so. 

But Jack doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of experience with disciplining stubborn kids, so he swallows thickly when he approaches the table to stand in front of Pheebs instead of behind her. 

“Diva,” he regards her softly, though there's a kink in his tone that she’s never heard from him before. One that holds something like authority.

Her head twitches, but ultimately, she ignores him like she’s ignored you. 

With a sigh, Jack leans down with his legs spread, his eyes level with hers, palms resting on his lower thighs. “Spider-Girl…”

Phoebe, the little shit, turns her head to look at him fully at that. Jack can just about make out the blinking of her eyes beneath the mesh mask as she shifts in her Spider-Man costume. 

“I know you wanna save the city, kid. But, it's too hot today for you to wear this outside.” 

You watch the interaction with squinted eyes and a racing heart. Jack is soft when he speaks with her, gentle yet firm enough that she knows not to argue with him the way she will with you. 

“Peter Parker doesn’t wear his Spidey stuff every day and he still manages to save people without it, right?” 

Her head dips until her chin is pressed to her chest. “I guess so.” Her words are muffled through the fabric of the mask. 

Jack hums, like he understands her upset and inner turmoil. “So, why don’t we change into something else? Maybe a pretty dress like Mommy? Or some shorts like me? Plus, you don’t wanna spill ice cream down your Spidey outfit.” 

It’s with a heavy sigh that Phoebe pinches the mask at the top of her head and pulls it off. Her cheeks are flushed red, hair an unruly mess despite you fixing it just an hour ago. Jack grins at her, stands back at his full height and tenderly smoothes down her wanton strands like he’s slicking them. 

You watch the exchange, heart lodged in your throat at how easy it is between them—how natural he is with her, how quickly they understand each other. Phoebe jumps down from the coffee table and trudges back into her bedroom to change and you watch Jack watch her go. 

Quietly, you stand and approach him and Jack meets your gaze with hesitancy. 

“Was that okay?” He asks lowly. 

Your bottom lip is sucked into your mouth as you nod your head, wrapping your arms around his broad waist when you reach him. “Uhuh,” you hum, pressing your lips to his slowly. 

Jack kisses you gently, slowly, lets his tongue swipe against yours only once before he pulls away with a crooked grin. 

“Yeah?” His tone is suggestive, amused, and you both love and hate how easily he can read you. 

That he knows you liked watching him step just slightly into the threshold of parenthood, that it rattled you a little to watch him be so respectful and kind but authoritative at the same time. That you liked how natural it was for him, how easily Phoebe listened. 

You roll your eyes at him but the act is nothing but fond and affectionate. 

You’ve felt much braver, secure, since your talk at the beginning of the week. Since Jack told you he was happy that Phoebe had been calling him your boyfriend. Since you became his girlfriend.

He’s been touchier since. Given, you’ve only been able to see him yesterday and now, but there’s a noticeable change between you both; in your actions and in the air. The hesitancy when reaching for one another is gone, no more reservations or timid uncertainty. 

And you love it. 

You love even more when Phoebe runs down the hall in a summer dress and twirls around, when Jack offers her a dramatic applause and then bows at the waist like a Jester would to his Queen. 

“You are an absolute fashionista, Pheebs.” He compliments, your daughter's grin stretching wider across her face. 

The sight of her unbridled joy does something sinister to Jack’s chest. He knows the sensation of self-sabbotage far too well, knows he’s beginning to get stuck in his head with guilt and shame for playing happy families.

He feels a sense of betrayal to his wife. Even though he knows she would want him to move on and find happiness again, even though he visited her just yesterday morning after shift and sat with her for hours. 

Talking, reminiscing, apologizing for beginning to fall for someone who wasn’t her. Explaining that he isn’t sorry for meeting someone new, he isn’t sorry for how deeply he feels for both you and Phoebe, but that he’s wholly and irrevocably distraught because he knows he’s truly moving forward from her. 

He sat and cried when he admitted to her gravestone that he no longer wears his ring on his finger, but that he keeps it on a chain close to his heart instead. And when a gentle breeze caressed his face right after, he let himself believe that Mary was there with him; soothing him, silently accepting his words and praising him for finding happiness. 

Despite how much lighter he’s been feeling today… there’s still that stab of guilt that lodges in his throat. Only briefly, not long enough for you to notice a change, but it’s there. Jack knows it’s there. 

He blinks it back when you smother suncream across every inch of Phoebe’s exposed skin, cracks a smile when she grimaces and whines when you smear it across her entire face and accidentally forces her to taste some of it. 

And when you’re out on the streets, with Pheebs walking between you; a hand in yours and a hand in Jack’s, he feels that gentle breeze caressing his face again. Tender and warm, most likely just the sun, but his shoulders ease at the feeling of it. 

At the thought of Mary supporting him. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

After ice cream and a quick trip to the park, you all make your way back to the apartment —Phoebe on Jack’s back and you following close behind, sneakily snapping photos of them together. 

It’s sly when Jack winks at you when you’re in the elevator and Pheebs is too busy blowing kisses to herself in the mirror that encases the back wall. You stifle a laugh at the sight, stepping into Jack’s side and he instinctively wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you close. 

“Hey, Diva?” Jack calls her softly. 

She perks up at the name, turns to him with raised brows and an expectant expression. Jack rolls his lips between his teeth in amusement before speaking. “You wanna meet someone?” 

You frown to yourself as you look at him, unsure who he’s referring to and why he wouldn’t run something like this by you first. But he squeezes your shoulder in a silent form of reassurance as the doors open on your floor. 

“Are they nice?” She questions with a frown and Jack barks out a laugh.

Instead of turning left to your apartment, Jack turns you both right with Phoebe skipping ahead, like she already knows 

“Yeah, she’s friendly.”

You blink as a smile curls its way into the corners of your mouth, piecing together just who exactly Jack is talking about. Phoebe stops outside Jack’s door, the fact that she’s remembered which one is his after only stopping by once to drop off cakes is a little insane. 

Jack opens the door slowly and Pheebs wanders inside like she owns the place. Jack ushers you in after her with a palm ghosting your lower back and you take in the difference of his apartment compared to yours. 

You’ve not been inside properly before—most dates start with him coming over if Phoebe is in bed or him picking you up and dropping you back after. 

Jack’s place is a mirror layout to yours with a small entrance hall that breaks directly into the lounge and open kitchen space. But unlike your mismatched fabrics and colors, Jack’s is much more cohesive in an organised way. 

Rustic dark wood coffee table and matching TV console, twin brown leather couches and black lamps in the corners of the room. A solid, dark oak bookcase and leather arm chair in the place where you cram a small dining table. 

His refrigerator isn’t littered with magnets like yours, but it does have a few that pin up several of Phoebe’s drawings that she’s made over the past few months. It’s a bit overwhelming to be in his home, with Phoebe. To be fully surrounded by his scent. 

It’s a reminder of the very different lives you live. Jack has no mess, everything has a place. There are no buckets of toys tucked away, no wanton blocks of Lego stuffed beneath the couch. Perhaps it's cruel to think, but his apartment does not feel like a home. 

You wonder briefly if he feels the same way. If that’s why he’s never really brought you into his space before.

“You have a kitty!” Phoebe’s shrill excitement breaks you from your spiralling thoughts and you’re quick to shush and scold her.

“Baby, inside voices. You don’t want to scare Sally.” 

“Sally!?” She coos, dropping on her knees and slowly crawling toward the fat cat that stares at the new guests. 

Jack watches in amusement, wraps his arms around you from behind and nuzzles his chin into the crook of your neck. You melt into him, arms wrapping around his as you watch Phoebe introduce herself to Sally and giggle uncontrollably when she nuzzles into the kids' touch. 

“We should’ve done this sooner. They’re little besties.” You giggle.

Jack hums, lets himself bask in the feel of you in his arms—uses it to reassure himself that this is okay. To have you and Phoebe in his space, to share what little he has considering you’ve shared so much already. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve only been here for a few minutes. The apartment already feels less quiet as Phoebe’s infectious laughter worms its way into the crevices of every room.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jack can’t take his eyes off you. 

And not like in the way he’s used to struggling, where every five minutes he has to look at you and just admire for a moment. No. Right now, he physically cannot take his eyes off you as you saunter down the hall from your bedroom and toward where he lounges on the couch.

Chocolate brown midi dress with a subtle draping through the waist, sheer dark brown tights that disappear into a pair of simple heels. You’ve painted your face in a way he’s only ever known you to; subtle enough for it to not be dramatic, yet precise enough to see the effort. 

There’s a familiar heat that’s curling in his lower tummy; a tightness that’s beginning to strangle and suffocate his muscles. Your delicate heels click elegantly across your hardwood floors, arms bent as you reach up to slip an earring in. 

Your eyes are focussed on your feet as you move, brows pinched just slightly in concentration as you attempt to clip the jewellery in place. 

Jack leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and he takes your moment of distraction to drink you in greedily

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You look incredible.”

Your eyes snap up to his at the sound of Jack’s raw voice. You don’t miss the hunger in his tone, the darkness that pools in his eyes. He’d let himself in five minutes ago like you’d told him to, had gotten himself comfortable on your couch while he waited.

And he looked nothing short of delicious. A simple white button up shirt beneath a black blazer, his thighs almost bursting at the seams in his tailored trousers. It’s a conscious effort not to bite down on your freshly glossed lip. 

The compliment sends a jolt of excitement through you. 

Clearly the two fancy dates he’s taken you on isn’t enough for him to get used to you being dressed up this way. You think it’s fair, though. You haven’t got used to him dressing like this either. 

“And you look delicious.” You drawl playfully, but it’s flirtatious enough for him to know that you mean it. 

He grins, crookedly, and rises from the couch to move closer to you. His eyes hover over your waist before replacing the tender gaze with a delicate touch. Your heels keep you face to face, your hands reaching to rest on his shoulders.

“Do we have to go to this?” You pout at him; the sight causes his grin to grow in adoration and he squeezes your hips reassuringly. 

“It’s for the best. It’s for Pheebs, not us or them.” He offers in a gentle tone, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his and your breath catches in your throat. 

It’s not lost on either of you the path tonight will likely take. How the double date will no doubt end with you at his place or him at yours. That it will end in an intimacy you’re yet to explore with one another. 

And despite the underlying assumption of it, there’s no pressure of expectation. Neither of you feel like it’s owed to each other because it’s been three months of nothing but kissing and dry humping. But tonight—perhaps it’s something in the air, or the fact that this double date makes things even more real between you—it feels like the right time. 

You’re fretting on the walk down to Jack’s car, picking at your freshly polished nails as he pulls out of his allocated parking spot and follows the route to Preston’s. 

You feel sick with nerves and annoyance. Angry at the fact that this is happening under Tom’s terms, anxious at the things he may try to say; Jack’s opinions on you that he might try to change. But more than that, there’s something fierce that’s bubbling beneath your skin. 

Hot, fiery, protective. After the years of being in a relationship with Tom and now trying to co-parent (if it can even be considered that, given how little he shows up for Phoebe), you’ve grown more than accustomed to his spiteful tongue and manipulative tendencies. 

You’re not prepared for Jack to be subjected to it—to bear witness to his passive cruelty. 

And Jack, being ever observant, takes note of your unusual quietness, your fidgety demeanor. It makes his heart sink, has him assuming the worst that this double date has sobered your rose-tinted view of him and the relationship. That you’re making a grave mistake with him. 

Still, he reaches a hand across the console to intertwine his fingers with yours, breaking your anxious habit. 

“Talk to me.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gripping Jack’s hand much harder than you ever have before. But the feel of his skin on yours brings at least a little bit of comfort. He’d be disgusted to know you’re considering that Tom will have any sway on Jack’s view of you. 

You loose a breath, let your head roll back against the headrest, turning slightly to admire the side of his face as he keeps his focus on the road again. You let your fingers on your spare hand trace patterns across his knuckles.

“Just anxious. I don’t like being around him. I don’t like knowing you’re going to be around him.” You explain quietly, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as you take a moment to try to compose your breathing.

You feel Jack squeeze your hand tenderly. “Honey, however tonight plays out…it won’t change a thing between us. His behavior is not going to change how I feel about you.” 

You nod at his words, forcing yourself to sit up straighter and heave a heavy breath again. 

“I know. I just—he can be an ass. And he’s self-absorbed, and he… he twists things so well…”

“Baby,” Jack cuts you off with a soft chuckle, chucks an admiring gaze at you before looking back at the road ahead. “From what little you’ve told me about him, he seems like some douchey finance bro that probably thinks he’s too big for this world because he had one successful trade in Crypto. Someone like that is not going to scare me away.”

A laugh tumbles from you before you can even stop it. “Douchy finance bro? I haven’t even told you what he does for work.” 

Jack shrugs, a smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t care what he does for work. Just the vibe I get.”

It’s enough to quell that crippling anxiety, enough to force it to pry its claws out of your skin. You release another breath, let your gaze fall to the window as the streets blur into soft strokes of color as you pass. 

“Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?” His voice causes heat to curl up your neck and all you can do is laugh breathlessly.

“Yes.” You turn to look at him but his eyes are back on the road again.

Jack nods. “Good. Because you do. Ridiculously so.”

Your lips curl to hide your bashful grin, but Jack can feel your skin warming, thinks he can actually hear your heartrate picking up in the silence of the car. 

But the moment Jack pulls up, your momentary relaxation is short-lived. You’re gnawing on your glossy bottom lip, effectively smearing it away as you look at the passenger window and directly at the entrance of Preston’s.

“What do you say about a quick tequila shot when we get in there?”

Your eyes close as you huff out a laugh, actually quite thankful for how easy he is to calm you down. And you’re also not at all opposed to a bit of hard liquor to take the edge off. 

You turn to him with a nervous smile, still worrying your bottom lip and Jack reaches a hand to caress your jaw, to pull your lip from between your teeth. 

“If it gets too much, or you just want to leave, say Poughkeepsie.”

You raise a brow at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement. 

“Poughkeepsie?” You deadpan. “As in a safe word?”

Jack pulls a face of consideration. “Maybe more of a distress signal.”

That gets a real laugh out of you—one that’s unrestrained and entirely unapologetic. Jack thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, thinks you look nothing short of angelic when your nose crinkles and your shoulders shake. 

You don’t tell him that you don’t need a distress signal. That you have absolutely zero problem with telling Tom exactly what you think of him and leaving without looking back. But the light that shines in Jack’s eyes when you laugh at his suggestion, when you lean in to kiss him with everything that you feel for him, you can’t bring yourself to tell him so. 

“Okay,” you agree with a giggle against his lips. “Poughkeepsie, it is.” 

He kisses you again, but it’s all teeth; both of you grinning too wide to really press your lips in the ways you want to.

Jack doesn’t let you open your door yourself. He rounds the car to open it for you, to press a hand on your lower back as he guides you into Preston’s. 

You hate that Tom suggested the double date to be here. It’s one of your favorite restaurants and bars in the city. Classy enough to require an effort, common enough for there not to be a three month wait list for a table. 

It’s very moody, the interior. Industrial loft style with expensive furniture and dim, golden lighting. Nothing harsh, nothing performative. It’s a place to eat and drink and enjoy yourself and your company. It’s just a shame your company tonight is about as interesting as a spam email. 

True to his word about some liquid courage, Jack keeps his hand on your lower back as you move past the hostess stand and straight for the bar. But it’s only three steps in that you clock a familiar face amongst the tables and stop dead in your tracks with a huff.

“So much for that tequila shot.” You mutter and Jack frowns slightly, trying to follow your line of sight. 

He sees it then. Them. A brunet and a blonde sat at a table, eyes sharp and looking between you and Jack. It takes him a moment to register that this brown-haired pretty boy is Tom. That the doe-eyed blonde sitting beside him is Kirsty. 

He feels your spine stiffen beneath his touch and he snakes his arms around your waist, to keep you close, to keep you grounded. 

You sigh, swallowing. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Your nerves are rolling off you violently, despite Jack’s comforting touch. He can feel how tense you are, like you’re already in fight or flight by just seeing Phoebe’s dad. It makes Jack’s skin crawl, makes him angry and frustrated and helpless.

It’s only now, that Jack is moving closer to the table and getting a clearer look at your ex, that Jack realizes just how much Phoebe looks like you. Your hair, your eyes, your smile. Diva holds little to no physical resemblance to Tom, and it makes a sick part of Jack happy. 

You stop at the table as Tom watches with the eyes of a shark. He doesn’t move, not even when Kirsty stands with a nervous smile and soothes out the non-existent creases in her dress. 

You glance at her, force your features to soften, to appear friendly. Jack doesn’t exactly offer the same courtesy. He stays neutral. No smile, no frown. 

“Hi, I’m Kirsty. It’s so nice to meet you!” 

Her voice is soft, kind, gentle. It makes you pause, a little stunned. She’s beautiful. Glass-like skin with a slim and slender build. She extends a hand across the table to you and you don’t have enough animosity to reject it. 

As quickly as you shake her hand, she offers it to Jack. “And you must be Jack! Nice to meet you.” 

Unfortunately, Jack does crack a soft smile at that. Does let his hand shake hers politely. You were both expecting Kirsty to be a complete and utter bitch. And yet… she’s kind, soft, just as nervous as you are. 

The little bubble of mutual caution is popped, though, when you look down at Tom who remains in his seat. Expressionless, yet relaxed. Lounging back in his chair with an arm thrown over the back of Kirsty’s empty one. 

“Tom.” You greet him bluntly.

“Y/N.” He returns it, just as dry.

He stares at you, though. Something like disbelief and disgust battling for first place in his expression. You don’t need to ask to know why. 

Because while you’re not sure what exactly Phoebe has told him about Jack, you know for a fact she hadn’t mentioned his age. If Tom’s shock is anything to go by. 

Jack watches Tom as Tom watches you. It sets his blood on fire in something both protective and disgusted. And when Tom’s eyes leave you to look at him with someone less than pleased in his expression, it takes every ounce of Jack’s patience to not hurl you over his shoulder and walk out the door. 

“Tom Scavo.” His voice drips off his tongue like silk when he introduces himself to Jack. 

It’s a voice that feigns confidence and security. It’s hard not to laugh in his face at how unironically wrong it is. 

“Jack Abbot.” He replies, and his voice is much deeper, raw and husky and something that promises comfort and stability. 

Not that it matters, Jack isn’t about to get into a pissing contest with your ex—with Phoebe’s dad—who holds all the arrogance and entitlement in the world on his face. 

You’re staring down at the table, trying to regulate yourself and not spiral on how fucking awkward and uncomfortable this entire situation is. Kirsty isn’t faring much better, but she’s not as good at hiding it. Wide eyes flickering between Jack and Tom like ones about to shoot and the other is about to pounce. 

It’s Jack who moves first, unwinding his arm around your waist to pull your chair out for you, sitting close beside you and resting a heavy palm on your upper thigh beneath the table. 

You could really do with that tequila shot right about now. 

Jack can sense as much when you subtly turn to side-eye one another; one of his brows slightly raised in amusement while your lips struggle not to curl in response. 

The private glance helps, though. Reminds you that you’re not in this alone. And you know that despite how shitty this evening might grow, one look at him and you can find the light in the darkness. 

You’re saved by the waiter, who introduces himself as Martin. He takes note of Tom’s red wine and Kirsty’s fruity cocktail and asks what he can get for you and Jack. 

“I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.” 

“Make that two. Thank you.” Jack smiles briefly at Martin as he saunters away toward the bar. 

Jack doubling your order has you looking at him, amused. “What about the car?” It’s a quiet tease, one only meant for his ears. 

He grins down at you, fights back the urge to kiss your full lips. Because Jack only plans on having one glass of wine, and he knows you know he’s not a lightweight to get even tipsy off one drink. 

“Well, I was only intending to have one, but if you’re planning on taking advantage of me later, we can come back for the car tomorrow.”

It’s entirely instinctive when your hand comes up to swat his chest at the playful but suggestive remark. It’s also entirely involuntary when your cheeks burn and flush with heat at the thought. 

You have to hide your face behind the menu for a moment, feigning consideration of your meal. The act causes you to miss the disgusted glare Tom throws at you and the soft longing in Kirsty’s eyes as she watches yours and Jack’s private exchange. 

“Jack, I hear you’re a doctor?” Kirsty asks softly, and a pang of guilt sears through you at the fact that she is the one to have to try and make conversation. 

Jack nods, keeps his tone and expression polite and kind toward her. “Yeah, I’m an attending physician over at PTMC.” 

Her eyes dazzle slightly in wonder as you lower the menu to force yourself to engage in the conversation. She’s about to open her mouth to say something else when Tom beats her to it. 

“That’s a senior position, I’m assuming.”

You narrow your eyes at his smug tone but keep your mouth closed when Jack offers a reassuring squeeze to your thigh. 

“What about you, Y/N?” Kirsty asks the question so quickly it’s like she can sense the route Tom is trying to go down and she’s desperate for that not to happen. 

Your stomach curls in bitterness toward yourself, for thinking so negative of her before even meeting her. 

“Oh, I work in pub—“

“She’s an aspiring author.” Tom cuts you off with a dig and a really fucking low blow. 

Because he’s always known you’ve kept your job under wraps. That you use a pseudonym for a reason, because you don’t want to be known publicly. 

Martin arrives and places two chilled glasses of white wine before you and Jack, about to ask if you’re ready to order food before sensing the tension off the table and thinking better of it, walking away. 

Jack reels back slightly. 

“You’re an author?” Kirsty asks with wide eyed excitement. 

“Aspiring.” Tom mutters under his breath but it’s loud enough for the table to hear—clear enough for Jack’s jaw to twitch. 

You blubber for a moment, torn between glaring at Tom and smiling kindly at his girlfriend that he is undeserving of. 

“Uh, yeah— I go under a pseudonym, though. I don't really like the idea of my name being out there like that.” You laugh, nervous and completely out of your element. 

Jack knows that’s not the only reason. That your primary concern has and always will be Phoebe, and the asshole kids as she grows up. That you don’t want to subject her teenage years to bullying because her mom writes erotic romances. 

He looks at Tom, keeps his expression friendly when he corrects him. “A New York Times Bestseller says a lot more than aspiring, don’t you think?” 

You dip your head to hide the flush on your cheeks and the curve of your mouth at Jack’s boyish defence of you. You already knew tonight would be a struggle of both of your patience, but you should’ve known that Jack will defend you. 

Even if he has to do it passive aggressively. 

He refuses to sit back and allow anybody to disrespect you. 

“Wow, that’s incredible.” Kirsty gushes, beaming wide and you meet her gaze with something guilty. 

You can’t help but wonder how the fuck she’s ended up with someone as awful as Tom. He hasn’t got much else but his face going for him. You know the sex is boring and his personality is drier than a desert. 

“What about you?” You ask Kirsty. 

Her smile shifts into a look of shy apprehension and she tucks locks of blonde hair behind a pierced ear. “Oh, I’m twenty, so I’m still in college. Lots of time to figure it out, though, right?” She laughs nervously. 

You blink at the information, feel Jack still slightly beside you. Christ. Kirsty looks young but…twenty? Tom’s freshly thirty-three.

“Yeah, loads of time!”

A smile forces its way on your lips as you drag your gaze to briefly meet Tom’s. But he’s already looking at you with barely contained disdain. Like he’s daring you to say something when your age gap with Jack is three years bigger than theirs. 

Both you and Jack reach for your drinks at the same time, suffocating your unfair judgement with wine. But is it entirely unfair when you’re a fully grown woman and Kirsty is barely legal?

“And obviously, you already know Tom works in Crypto exchange.” 

Jack chokes on his wine with a fit of splitting coughs when the words fall from Kirsty’s mouth. He places his glass down a bit too unceremoniously, dabbing his mouth and chin with a napkin as he struggles to breath through the coughing. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes and it takes everything in you to hold back your laughter. 

Jack reaches for his water instead to try and soothe the burn the alcohol has left in his throat. His hand remains in your thigh throughout the exchange and squeezes with a playful warning. 

Maybe you should’ve warned him in the car that his perception of Tom was a little too accurate. Even down to his job. 

But every movement the two of you make is observed and noted by Tom. He doesn’t say anything at first about it, remains polite when Martin returns to take your food order, to refill your drinks. 

It’s mostly Jack and Kirsty keeping the conversation afloat throughout dinner, weaving around Tom’s animosity. 

In all honesty, you’ve enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and watching. Maybe it’s the wine that’s relaxed you, or maybe it’s the fact that Jack goes out of his way to politely disagree with everything that Tom says. 

“Crypto is the way for the future of money.” 

“Nah, can’t go wrong with cash.”

“Don’t you think cash is a little outdated? Old fashioned?”

“I think it’s good to be prepared for an emergency.”

“Cash is pointless. A bit like romance novels.”

“You’re not a romantic, Tom?”

“I just think they’re unrealistic. All a bit of make believe, really.”

“Ah, I have to argue otherwise. Maybe I can lend you my copy of Y/N’s book. You might learn a thing or two.”

“Oh, I would actually love that, if the offer extends to me?” Kirsty asks around a mouthful of food, palm covering her lips as she speaks—like she’s too excited by the idea to wait to finish her food. 

You laugh under your breath and find yourself nodding, completely unaffected by Tom’s attempt at belittling you and your career. It’s a bit hard for him to hit how he wants when the other two people at the table disagree with him. 

“Sure. Just—beware, they're a bit…spicy.” 

Her eyes light up at the warning as she swallows her food, lowering her hand to offer a conspiratorial smile. 

“I say the spicier the better.” 

Tom grimaces at the interaction, something that sends a jolt of smugness through Jack. Good. Let him fester in his girlfriend praising you, in her clear excitement toward your career that Tom does everything he can to belittle. 

Let that jealousy explode in his eyes at the thought of you and Jack together like that. He doesn’t plan on correcting him that nothing has happened yet. 

“Where’s Phoebe tonight?” Kirsty asks as she takes a sip of her third cocktail. 

“She’s with my parents for the night. Her favorite kind of sleepover.” 

She beams at that. “She’s such a great kid. I don’t think she likes me very much, though. I didn’t mean to upset her last weekend…I only asked if she wanted to listen to music and make some breakfast together.” Kirsty admits sheepishly, upset evident in her tone. 

Your heart cracks at that. Because Kirsty was only being kind and friendly to Phoebe. Offering to do something that you and Pheebs do every Sunday. And Phoebe… had she thought that her dads new girlfriend was trying to replace you? 

Jack seems to come to the same conclusion, you can practically smell the pity rolling off him. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize for anything. It takes her time to open up to people sometimes.” You offer. 

“She seemed to take to Jack pretty quickly.” Tom comments in a bitter tone and you hate the way that Kirsty seems to shrink into herself at that. 

The same way that you used to. 

“There were no labels or expectations when she met Jack.” You’re quick to defend, the hand in your lap reaching beneath that table to rest on Jack’s thigh. 

You don’t tell him that the first time Phoebe met Jack was accidental, that it was also your first time meeting him, too. You don’t have to explain yourself. You refuse to. 

“He’s all she seems to talk about. Jack’s a doctor. Jack’s fun. Jack makes Mommy laugh. Jack’s a silver fox.” Tom continues and you still at that, eyes hardening as Tom glares at you, his anger and disbelief leaking out of his pores. 

“Really? That’s the type of shit you’re saying in front of our daughter?” His tone takes a spiteful turn. One that, despite your years apart, you still feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up at. 

Jack’s struggling to keep his cool, to not step in. Because he can handle Tom’s futile attempts of making Jack insecure, of focusing on his age and comments that come with it. But Jack cannot handle the blatant disrespect and nasty tone Tom’s directing at you. 

“No. She overheard me on the phone.” You explain through gritted teeth.

Tom cocks a brow. “And that makes it better? She’s fucking four and you’re teaching her this shit?” 

You frown. He’s good at this, manipulating things into something that they’re not. Like you’re going out of your way to educate your child on something inappropriate. 

“I’m not teaching her that, Tom. She overheard a conversation.” You’re speaking through gritted teeth, your anger beginning to boil over. 

He scoffs, opening his mouth to say something else but you stand abruptly before he can. “I’m going to the restroom.”

Something aches in you when Kirsty stands, too, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ll come, too many cocktails.” She tries to diffuse your well-placed anger with a light joke but she knows it’s not really any use. 

You turn to look at Jack, swallowing down the lump in your throat when you notice the conflict of anger and devastation in his eyes. You bend at the waist to press a kiss to his cheek, a silent apology of leaving him alone with Tom, before you and Kirsty make for the ladies room. 

Jack doesn’t watch you go, but Tom does. Metaphorical daggers stabbing into your back with every step and Jack’s knee begins to bounce beneath the table. 

“You talk to her like that in front of Phoebe?” Jack asks, his mouth set in a firm line of barely restrained anger. 

“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m Phoebe’s dad. Not you.” Tom’s tone isn’t angry or rash. But it is accusing. 

Yes, maybe he has the right to make such a statement. Yes, he may be Phoebe’s father but he does not exactly qualify for the title of Dad. 

In another circumstance, maybe Jack would find the statement amusing. But not in this one. In this one, it makes Jack angry. All Tom is doing is portraying his bitterness of you finding someone else as a proud father setting boundaries. 

It’s anything but. 

A dry, humorless chuckle escapes Jack.

“Oh, I understand perfectly that I have no right or opinion when it comes to Phoebe. But as for her mother, I have every right to tell you to watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking with her.”

The sheer venom in his words sets Tom slightly on edge. Because Jack’s threat lingers in his calm demeanor. His relaxed position in his seat, his warm and raw tone that turns grave at the end of his sentence. 

The soft clicking of your heels on the marble floor drifts closer until your presence is warm against the back of Jack’s chair. You sense the tension immediately, the hard set in Tom’s jaw as he stares at Jack. 

“What did we miss?” You ask carefully, dragging your eyes to assess Jack for any hint of emotion. 

He cranes his neck to look up at you. “Nothing, baby. Was just telling Tom about my trip to Poughkeepsie last year.”

You stare down at him, heart thumping at the ridiculous distress signal Jack came up with in the car. In all honesty, you assumed he was only teasing when he suggested it, or that if it needed to be used, it would be by you. 

But he sits there, looking up at you with a smile that does not reach his darkening eyes and you realize that he’s serious. He’s ready to leave before he does something to make matters so much fucking worse.

His hand reaches for yours that rests on the back of his chair, a touch so tender and reassuring. Because he doesn’t want you to worry, doesn’t want you to think that this abysmal night changes anything between you. 

You’re both too caught up in one another to notice the yearning look that Kirsty watches with. The realization that occurs to her when she sees what love and care and adoration is supposed to look like. 

You turn to her with an apologetic smile, not deigning to give Tom a glance. “We’re gonna head out. Pheebs is back early tomorrow.”

She nods, eyes crinkling when she moves across the table to wrap you in a friendly embrace. And you let her, allow yourself to relax against her because Kirsty is nothing but good. Her reassurance and apology on Tom’s behavior in the bathroom was unnecessary but appreciated all the same. 

It’s not her fault he’s a fucking cunt. 

“It was so lovely to meet you.” You both offer the sentiment at the same time, a laugh tumbling right after and she pulls away to respectfully shake Jack’s hand when he stands. 

Much like when you arrived, Tom remains seated. He doesn’t even feign niceties of a goodbye and instead relaxes into his seat with the smugness of a Persian Prince. 

Like he’s won this round. 

And Jack, ever the gentleman and bigger person, extends a hand across the table to Tom. 

Tom regards it as a test, of sorts. One that he surveys with scrutiny, like he’s just been dealt the losing hand. Whether he accepts or not, Jack wins. 

Only it’s not offered as a test. It’s out of Jack’s respect for you and his love for Phoebe that he puts his anger and hatred aside to offer his hand. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you when Tom ultimately focuses his attention on his empty plate instead. 

But there’s that sinking feeling of anger and upset when he does. 

When he leaves your Jack standing with his hand still extended.

It’s not a bruise to Jack’s pride or ego, though. He has to hide his amusement at Tom’s childishness and retrieves his hand to dig into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out his wallet, plucks a hundred and a fifty and sets the bills softly onto the table. 

“That should cover ours and a tip.”

Tom doesn’t look up, just burns holes into the cash he’s left when Jack turns to you and helps ease your purse over your shoulder. You offer a tight-lipped smile to Kirsty as you curl your palm around Jack’s elbow before you’re both weaving through tables for the exit. 

The moment the cool evening air hits you and your feet meet the sidewalk, neither of you stop. Jack unlocks the car with the press of a button on his keys, and opens and closes your door for you. You’re still holding your breath when Jack gets in the drivers side, still trying to process the night you’ve just had. 

He doesn’t start the engine straight away, just stairs ahead at the people that pass, the cars that drift. It’s eating at him, what he’s done. How he lost his cool just enough for him to have cross words with Tom. If he had it his way, Jack would’ve done a lot more than a verbal scolding. But the guilt of that alone is eating at him. 

“I threatened Tom.” He finds himself blurting quietly. 

Your head whirls around to look at him, eyes wide and heart stammering at the weight of what he’s just said. Of what he’s done. 

“You did what!?”

“Not—not physically, not properly. I—” He’s stammering, anxious that he’s overstepped and despite his reasoning for it, he knows it’s not good enough. 

Your eyes somehow grow wider at his attempted retraction. “You either threatened Phoebe’s dad or you didn’t. Which one is it, Jack?”

He turns to you with a frown, with agony in his eyes. “I didn’t threaten Phoebe’s dad. I threatened your ex.” He’s trying to paint it clearer for you, to understand the difference between the figures. 

And you do. Your shock and frustration shifts, your lips part and your eyes begin to hood. Because you’re picking up what he’s putting down; reading between the lines that Jack had clearly had enough of Tom’s belittling. 

“I spoke to him as a man who will not tolerate anybody disrespecting his girlfriend. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I not have every right to do that? As your partner?” 

You blink at him, brows softly pinching together as your shoulders drop and you realize exactly where he’s coming from. That he bit his tongue when it came to all the times Tom has and continues to let Phoebe down. Because it’s not his place. Because in the face of Phoebe’s father, he has no right. 

Your eyes close as you release a heavy sigh and you find yourself nodding softly. “Yeah, baby. You do. Of course, you do.”

He watches you carefully when you open your eyes and lean your head against the headrest, when you turn just slightly to look at him with exhaustion and apprehension. 

“I won’t apologize for it.” He tells you, bluntly. 

You huff a laugh through your nose at that, reach a hand lazily across the console to intertwine your fingers. “I’m not asking you to.”

Jack squeezes your hand with a nod, brings your knuckles to his lips where he kisses them tenderly. 

“He’s a fucking asshole.” Jack says, his eyes locked on yours like he can’t quite understand what you ever saw in him. Like he’s distraught that that piece of shit is Phoebe’s father. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Kirsty seems nice, though.” 

“Mmh,” Jack hums. “Poor girl.”

You don’t say anything, just watch him for a moment. Trying to let your body relax now that you’re out of Tom’s presence. Trying to read Jack’s emotions that he struggles to keep off his face. 

He only did have one glass of wine, so you know whatever is running through his head is completely valid and justified. 

“Thank you, for coming and sitting through that. And I’m sorry that you had to.” You say softly, untangling your fingers to caress his stubbled jaw. 

Jack leans into the touch, lets his hand wrap around your wrist to keep you there. Christ, he’s so fucking handsome. 

“Honey, you don’t need to thank me. And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault Tom’s an asshole and has the personality of a piece of drywall.”

A giggle tumbles out of you and you stroke your thumb across the soft skin of his cheekbone. 

He intertwines your fingers again as he begins to drive back to the apartment complex. The radio plays in the background and he listens to the sound of your voice as you single along softly. 

He finds peace in it, in the rolling of your tongue as the lyrics almost sigh out of you. Focusing on that helps to take his mind off his simmering anger. The frustration and hatred that’s still brewing toward Tom. 

He doesn’t mention how devastating it was to watch you curl into yourself in Tom’s presence. How infuriating and disgusting it was to hear the way he speaks to you, how uncaringly he belittles you. 

Instead, Jack drives silently, singing along every now and then with you to take his mind off it. To calm himself down and remind himself that that treatment will remain in the past. That you will never, ever experience a lover like that again so long as he is by your side. 

He opens the car door for you, closes it. Intertwines your fingers again as you walk into the complex together. You catch sight of a few of your neighbors. Deborah from downstairs who grins to herself at the sight of you both, Chirpy from apartment twelve that gives you both a less than pleased look, while the newly wed Mr and Mr Hammond wiggle their brows at you as you join them in the elevator. 

The ride to yours and Jack’s floor is silent but not uncomfortable. You let the pair of husbands leave first, both of you left lingering in the hall as the elevator goes back down empty. 

Jack turns left toward your apartment when you stop walking and squeeze his hand. He turns to you with a furrow. 

“Can we go back to yours tonight instead?” 

He blinks, then softens. This afternoon was the first time you really came into his space, any other time he’s always come to you. 

“Yeah, baby. Let’s go.” His heart swells when you both begin to walk to his front door, when he opens it and you immediately crouch down to pet a waiting Sally. 

She purrs beneath your touch as you scratch behind her ears, laughing when you stand to take off your heels and she nuzzles at your ankles. 

Jack shuts the door with a quiet click, keeps his own shoes on and tosses his keys in the bowl at the small entrance table. You place your bag beside the bowl, pad through the apartment to follow him into the kitchen and make yourself comfortable on one of the stools. 

There’s a stiffness in Jack’s posture. It’s evident he’s never really had a woman in his space like this since his wife. It makes you wonder if you’ve pushed too hard. That maybe you should’ve just agreed to go back to yours instead. 

But the gentle clinking of a wine glass being set atop marble before you catches your attention. Jack takes a heavy gulp of his own before shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over a stool. 

He rests a palm on either side of the island, leaning his weight into it and the motion is far more sinful than he intends for it to be. 

You’re left with nothing to do but reach for your wine and guzzle down half of it. Jack cocks a brow in amusement, in silent question and you place it back with a laugh. 

“We are never doing that again.” 

He grins. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He moves swiftly, despite the slight ache in his leg from being on it all day. You turn in the stool to face him as he cups your cheeks in his palms and leans down to press his lips against yours. 

You both sigh into the kiss, tasting each other and hints of elderflower. He pulls away to rest his forehead against yours, heaving in a breath. 

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you looked tonight? How hard it was to not kiss you the entire time?” 

You beam at him, eyes fluttering closed and relief is finally beginning to settle within you. The date already forgotten about, Tom’s spiteful words and childish behavior shoved to the very back of your mind. 

You lean closer to kiss him again. It’s needy and hungry and sensual, and Jack returns it with even more vigor. 

“Jack,” you whimper against his mouth, hands reaching for his chest, fingers fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt. 

He makes a sound from the back of his throat, lets his hands wander from your face and down your neck, reaching to the back of your dress as his fingers trace the zipper down your spine. 

You pop a button and then another. Grow frustrated with how long it takes and sneak your hands beneath the fabric to feel his warm, hard chest. 

Jack whimpers at the sensation, pinches at the zip and slowly tugs it down the track. 

“Jack,” you breathe again, fingers curling until your nails scratch gently at the skin of his chest. “Jack, take me to bed.” 

You don’t know what comes over him, what you’ve said or done that makes him snake his arms around your waist and lift you. Your legs wrap around his hips, your fingers tangle into his hair and he does not break the kiss as he somehow manages to carry you from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the dim lighting of his bedroom. 

You’re offered no time to look as Jack gently eases you back on your feet, returning his attention to the zipper at your back. He tugs it all the way down when his lips begin to travel from your mouth to your neck; licking and nipping hungrily. 

Your head rolls back as he pulls the shoulders of your outfit down your arms, as the dress pools at your ankles and leaves you in nothing but a bra, panties, and brown tights. 

He pulls away to look at you with blown eyes and swollen lips. He drinks you in like a man starved, hands covering over your hips like he doesn’t know if he wants to touch you there or somewhere else. 

Your skin burns under his attentive gaze, arousal almost gushing between your thighs. Your heart stammers sporadically as your hands find their way back to the buttons of his shirt again, desperately fumbling to pop them open. 

“Look at you.” Jack’s voice is wrecked; the words are so broken it makes you pause. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby.” 

Your lungs are on fire, can’t quite seem to catch a deep enough breath at how he’s looking at you. It makes you frustrated and you find yourself gripping either side of his partly open shirt and ripping it open. 

Buttons pop and clatter on hard wood in every direction. Freckled skin meets your line of vision; his torso toned and hard and hot beneath your touch. And when you peek up at Jack, he’s already smirking down at you. 

“Sorry,” you laugh breathlessly. 

He says nothing as he tugs the sleeves down his arms, throws the fabric haphazardly across the room. Jack catches your lips in a kiss again, tongues swirling in something erotic and entirely uncoordinated. 

“Lay down on the bed for me, Angel.” He commands softly against your mouth. 

The new pet name has your head spinning. You don’t argue, far too excited to even consider not giving him everything he wants from you. 

You keep your eyes on him when you move backward until the foot of the bed hits the backs of your knees. You sit down, shuffling backward until your head is resting on his pillows and you’re enveloped in the comforting scent of him. 

Jack moves slowly, admiring the sight of you sprawled out on his bed. His chest heaves with every breath and your eyes track his hands when they reach for the belt wrapped around his waist. 

An involuntary whine slips past you as he unbuckles it. “Take your tights off, baby.”

There’s something so incredibly sexy at how naturally he’s taken control. At how earnestly he speaks to you, at how devotedly he stares down at you. 

You move quickly, hooking your fingers in the thin waistband of your sheer tights and tugging them off as gracefully as you can. You’re left almost bare. In just a little black thong and a matching balcony bra. 

Jack swallows at the sight of you and abandons his belt, wrapping his hands around your ankles and gently tugging you down the bed until your ass is flush with the edge. 

“Now, spread your legs.” 

He eases himself to his knees as smoothly as he can at the same time as you parting your thighs. His hands soothe up the soft skin of your calves, tracing the flesh of your inner thighs. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him with hooded eyes. And Jack thinks he’s about to pass out. 

There’s a prominent wet patch on the dark fabric of your panties, goosebumps pebbling on your skin as he hooks fingers into the underwear and slowly eases them down your legs. 

When he throws them to the ground and you drop your legs open again, Jack groans. 

He’s seen you before. But this is different. This time you’re willing and excited and desperate. This time you’re in his fucking bed, not behind a hospital curtain. 

And above all, this time, Jack allows himself to really look. To admire you. To touch. 

You moan when he parts your lips with his index and middle finger, when you feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your clit. 

“Prettiest fucking cunt.” He praises roughly, salivates when he watches how you pulse because of it. 

“You’re soaked, baby.” 

His lips tease with open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, causing them to quake. His stubble grazes deliciously against the tender skin, but it only fuels the fire. 

You whine again, hips bucking toward his face. Desperate for something, anything. 

Jack relents, eager to taste you. His cock is throbbing against the confinements of his pants and boxers, eager to be buried to the hilt. 

His thumb swipes at the wetness at your puckering entrance, all the way up to your clit. He keeps it there for a moment when you gasp, rubs lazy circles around the little nub until you’re whimpering and begging for more. 

He’s a generous man. Not one to deny a woman of anything. Especially not you. 

It’s without another thought that Jack moves closer to swipe his tongue in the same way he did with his thumb. Laps at your cunt, eyes rolling back at the taste of you and all restraint is lost. 

His hands grip at your waist to keep you still, gripping with enough force to mark but not to bruise. Your back arches at the feel of his mouth on you—skilled and messy, worshiping every inch. 

“Jack, oh, fuck!” 

His guttural moan sends vibrations through your nerves as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. His tongue flicks against it at the same time, burying his face between your thighs. 

His short stubble scratches deliciously at your sensitive skin, a welcome burn grazing at your entrance and inner thighs. It only makes you needier. 

He’s completely drunk on you. So much so that he doesn’t even notice the ache forming below his knee, the discomfort that’s usually enough to cripple him. 

Your back drops onto the bed, head digging into the sheets as your hands fly to his hair, gripping and pulling until your nails are scratching at his scalp. 

He pulls off to heave a breath, to release one hip and circle your entrance with a finger. 

“You taste so fucking good.” He slowly pushes between your walls, curling against the tightness. 

A sharp cry sounds from the back of your throat when he returns his mouth to its rightful place, when he curls his finger faster and rubs the flat of his tongue against your clit when he sucks between his lips. 

The thickness of his fingers is unfamiliar but most welcomed. And the praise of how you taste goes straight to your head. 

Has your toes curling and eyes rolling. That familiar burn at the bottom of your spine creeps up on you like a freight train. You have no time to warn Jack when you clamp down on his finger, when you shudder and spasm beneath his hold. 

You have no time to warn him because the breath is stolen from your lungs and you’re gushing as release paralyzes you. 

And Jack…he drinks you like a starving man. Abandons your clit and removes his finger to lap at your pulsing hole; swirling his tongue and slurping like he can’t fucking get enough. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath when he’s struggling to stand again, your vision is nothing but a kaleidoscope gaze. All you can think is to scold yourself for waiting as long as you fucking have for that to happen. 

And when you blink through the distortion, you catch your orgasm coating Jack’s chin and mouth. The sexiness of it is short lived when you realize how his mouth is slightly curved into a grimace and he’s favoring his weight on his good leg. 

But he tries to soldier through it. To drop his trousers to his ankles, to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. 

It’s more effort than you care to admit to sit up. Your body spent but still aching for more. You rest your palms on the outsides of his muscular thighs, let your nose brush against his navel, pressing open mouthed kisses to the burning skin. 

“Take it off.” Your words are drunken and muffled but Jack hears them. Understands them. 

“I’m fine.” His voice is raw when he speaks, dripping with lust so much it almost masks his discomfort. 

“You’re not. Take it off, baby. I don’t care.” You insist, still peppering hot kisses across his waist, dragging your tongue across the path. 

Jack sighs shakily, relenting. And when he bends down with one hand on the bed and the other reaching to unclasp his prosthetic, you crawl backward on the bed until your head is resting on his pillows again. 

You spread your legs for him, let your hand snake down between your thighs to touch yourself while you wait. You’re dripping onto his sheets, unapologetic and when Jack looks up with his prosthetic off, he whimpers at that sight. 

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He’s almost drooling at the sight, still using one hand to balance and the other hooks into the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down. 

Your eyes bulge. He’s fucking big. Long and fat and veiny. Slapping against his navel when it’s free, red and neglected. You feel your chest tighten, feel yourself drip between your thighs. 

“Holy shit.” You pant. 

He crawls into the bed and between your thighs with a bashful smirk; his cheeks dusted pink and eyes twinkling with something like excitement and nerves. 

It’s then that he really notices the small scar just above your pubic bone. The evidence of the life you carried and birthed. It only intensifies his feelings toward how. Reminds him of how much you trust him. 

You swallow, unable to take your eyes off his cock. But you’re not dumb on it yet, still able to consider him in these final few moments. 

“Do you want me to—“

“No. Fuck no.” He knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Does he want you to do the work, does he want to lie down so it’s easier on his leg. 

The answer is a resounding not a fucking chance in hell. 

“Baby, I am more than happy for you to ride me whenever you want. But not—fuck—not tonight.” He’s panting out his words, like he’s already on the verge of release and he’s not even inside you yet. 

His hands block you in on either side of your head, thighs slotting between yours and when he lowers his hips, his cock brushes against your soaked folds. 

There’s a sobering moment that hits him the second he feels you. He doesn’t have any condoms and he doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject of asking if you do without breaking the moment. 

But it’s like you read his mind, or maybe you can just read the hesitancy on his face. “It’s okay. I’m clean. I haven’t—I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”

Jack looses a breath at your admittance. Lets his head drop so his forehead rests against yours. Your words send a strike to his cock, the reminder of your IUD, the thought of feeling you bare. “Me too.” 

You swallow, breaths mingling and your hand leaves your pussy to wrap around his cock, pumping slowly and Jack shudders. 

“So, we take it slow. No expectations, right?” 

Jack practically melts at your tone and your words, at how easy everything is with you. How right it all feels. 

“Yeah, baby. No expectations.” 

You nod again, as much as you can, and guide the tip of his swollen cock to your fluttering entrance. A shudder runs through you both, anticipation crawling at your spines. 

Jack’s hips move slowly, easing into you in a way that makes you relax enough to take him. Inch by inch, whimper by whimper, until his hips are flush against yours and you’re both panting. 

“Give me— fuck, give me a second. Jesus fucking Christ—baby, you’re…you’re so fucking tight.”

“Big,” you gasp through a heavy breath, nails scratching down the wide expanse of Jack’s muscled back. You can’t form a coherent word, far too overwhelmed. 

“I know.” He coos, holding his weight above you on one hand by your head when the other reaches between your chests to slowly fold your bra down, exposing your breasts. 

The whimper that slips out of him is almost enough to make you cum. Your supple breasts spill out, nipples perk and he flicks a thumb over one, pinches gently when you whine for more. 

“You’re doing so well for me, baby. So good.” 

You mewl at the praise again, something you’ve never once experienced in bed. But now that you have, you know you could never go without it again. 

Jack moves his hips gingerly, pulling out a few inches before slowly sheathing himself back in. You’re far too tight around him to remain composed; cunt soaked and sucking him in like it’s where he belongs. 

“Keep going, feels so good. So big.” You whine. 

“Yeah?” Jack asks breathlessly, rolling his hips with a tedious rhythm, like he’s experimenting what works best for you. 

You’re too caught up in the pressure and stretch of him to realize just how much strength it takes for him to hold his weight on one hand, fuck you like he loves you, and pinch your nipples like you’re nothing but his good girl. 

All with one leg. All with barely contained restraint. 

Your hips begin to roll against his, bucking up to meet his thrusts and he gets the hint that you need more. 

But you’re tight, pulsing, sucking him deeper with every thrust. Until you’re both panting and Jack’s bed is creaking. Until moans are slipping from your lips instead of breaths. Until Jack’s whimpering and moaning and whining into the crook of your neck. 

He abandons his assault on your nipple, rises to his hands at either side of your head to watch your face, to flicker his gaze between your thighs to watch you stretch around his thick girth. 

His cock is slick with your arousal, a creamy ring of white at the base of him. 

“Fuck, baby.” His voice is slightly higher pitched now. Whining in a way that has you bucking up against his in urgency. 

That burning returns in the base of your spine, tingles zapping up and down your navel as your orgasms balloons. 

“Jack! Oh fuck, baby—I’m…I’m gonna cum… oh fuck…”

“Yeah? You gonna come on my cock? Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

It doesn’t crash into you this time, doesn’t sneak up on you and paralyze you like the last one. No, this time it sets your body alight; bursts from you from within. 

You shudder and spasm, sob and moan and whine and claw at Jack’s back. He feels you tighten impossibly, feels your cunt attempt to gush around him. 

It drags his own release from him, and he hates how quickly and harshly he pulls out of you so he doesn’t spill inside. His cock drops heavily on your cunt, ribbons of creamy release spurting across your lower stomach as you shudder through the remnants of your orgasm. 

Despite how fucked out you are, you still hear the whimper of a moan that falls from Jack’s, the praise that follows when he cums across your abdomen. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath, blinking away the white spots that mask your vision. But you feel the bed dip as Jack collapses beside you on his back, the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he pants breathlessly. 

You turn your head to him in a lazy motion, an arm thrown over his eyes while the other reaches out for his hand to hold your thigh. His cock lays heavy on his leg; still glistening in your excitement and still incredibly big as he softens. 

“Remind me again why we waited so long to do that.” You laugh through a heavy breath, and it makes Jack chuckle heartily. 

With as much energy as you can muster, you try to sit up to clean yourself but Jack moves faster. Grips your thigh harder and turns to you beneath the arm over his eyes. 

“Don’t you dare move.” His voice is gravelly, slightly broken. “I’ll clean you up, just give me a second.”

But you don’t listen. Jack watches with disdain as you sit up and round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom just beside his bedroom door. 

It’s pure inadequacy that he feels. Like he’s unable to do something as simple as clean you up and take care of you after sex. A bare minimum act that you don’t let him complete. 

He spirals in the two short minutes you’re gone, and when you come back clean and naked with a wash cloth in your hands, it only intensifies the feeling tenfold. 

“I could’ve done that, sweetheart.” He tells you when you had him the cloth and sit on your heels on the bed beside him. 

“I know.” 

You don’t elaborate on the fact that he’s always taking care of you. Coming over to fix the sink or the dryer, helping you build a new bookcase or unclogging the toilet after Phoebe stuffed a whole roll of toilet paper down it. 

You don’t want to make a thing out of it. 

“Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?” You ask instead. 

Jack blinks when he takes the wash cloth from you, pointing silently to the second drawer of the dresser in the corner of the room. 

You make quick work on shaky legs of standing and pinching a gray t-shirt from the draw. It swallows you whole, the hem reaching just below your ass and the arms almost reaching your elbows. 

Jack’s chest seizes when you turn to him, an uncontrollable wave of adoration and slight possessiveness strokes through him. The latter is something he’s not exactly proud of. 

But you’re in his apartment, in his room, wearing his shirt, blissed out from his cock…

It takes him a moment or two to regulate his emotions. The internal battle of pinning you beneath him again to coax another orgasm out of your body and just coddling you close to his chest all night. 

So he’s a little thrown off when you remain standing at the foot of the bed and ask, “Where do you keep your lotion?” 

“My lotion?” He blinks. 

“For your leg.” 

His eyes betray him as they flicker toward the bathroom and you’re sauntering off before he can even stop you. 

When you return with the bottle in hand and sit on your heels again beside him on the bed, he doesn’t stop you when you squeeze a dollop into your palms. Doesn’t comment when you warm it between your hands before gently massaging it across his tender skin. 

He watches, reverently. In complete adoration and disbelief that you could ever be real. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

But it is real. 

And when you curl up into his side beneath the covers like you’ve only ever belonged there, in this moment, Jack finds himself battling with three words that threaten to spill from his lips. 

Too caught up in the moment and intensity of the night as you and Jack drift off to sleep, both of you miss the fact that neither of you are wearing your rings around your neck. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

OKAY IM SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG BUT I DID WARN YOU IN THE LAST CHAPTER!! lots to unpack in this one; tom's behavior, kirsty being a poor little sweetheart, jack being hot as fuck and of course, the smut!!!! from here on out, things take a big change and there is lots to happen and get through, so chapters will likely be this length or longer!

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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At eight years old, she has lots of opinions. It had started that morning when she woke up and decided she did not want to brush her teeth (which you of course had to convince her to do), she’d been upset to find that Jack was working and could not ride bikes with her (as they liked to do on Saturday mornings he had off work), and then suddenly decided that she absolutely would not be getting her Flu vaccine you had already scheduled her for at your local pharmacy today.

It isn’t often you give in to your daughter's outlandish whims, but you also know that aversions to needles is something that can become worse the older a person gets. You dealt with parents fainting over their child getting a small shot in the arm enough to know that you did not want your daughter to one day fear needles that much. So that’s why you made her a deal.

Get your vaccine from mom at work and maybe you can see Jack.

She’d been all for it, of course. From the day you’d introduced her and Jack seven years ago, she and him had been attached at the hip. It’s why you know that bribing her with the thought of his attention is a sure fire way to get her on board. 

“Can we go see Jack now?” she asks the minute you step on the chaotic emergency floor. Even though she didn’t see her biological father often, and had known Jack since she was a baby, she still liked calling him Jack. You and Jack never correct her because you know that kids can have a hard time relinquishing titles like that.

“Have to get your shot first,” you tell her, weaving through doctors and nurses striding by in a frenzied hurry. You’re mostly trying to get off this floor before she sees something traumatizing.

You pass a young woman screaming at the top of her lungs in the psych hold area and you cringe, angling your daughter’s curious gaze away.

Entering through this floor had not been your first idea. Pedes was a few floors up, and not nearly as chaotic as the emergency floor. It also tended to not have nearly as much blood or gore. It had just about the same level of loudness, though—especially when babies are concerned.

“Is that my favorite pedes doctor coming in on her day off again?” 

You flinch and turn your head just as you and your daughter have just about made it to the elevators. Since Jack’s been working more day shifts recently (to get better aligned with you and your daughter’s schedules, bless him), a whole new cast of characters has been taking up residence in his stories.

This one you recognize immediately, though. 

“Dana,” you say with a short laugh, reaching out to give her a quick sidearm hug, the other still holding your daughter’s hand captive in your own.

She returns it softly, grinning at you with that warm, toothy smile.

“Hey hon.” She releases you after a quick pat on the back, eyes glittering. She looks down at your daughter and bends on her knees. “And here’s the one we’ve all heard so much about from Jack.”

You adjust your hand to rest between your daughter’s shoulder blades, gently nudging her forward. She’s dressed in a bedazzled rainbow dash t-shirt (the best My Little Pony, in her opinion) and a tulle skirt, and several butterfly clips in her hair. She’s been picking out her own outfits recently, but luckily they were still pretty cute.

She looks back at you nervously, but offers Dana a smile when she turns her head back. She gives the older woman a small wave.

“We didn’t want to have to spend the day at work,” you say to her, “but someone is a little hesitant to get her flu shot, so I thought I’d just bring her in and do it here.”

Dana shoots you a knowing look. “Well, let me know if I can help you guys at all.”—she turns to your daughter then, a smile on her painted lips—“Maybe if it all goes well, you can come see me for some stickers afterward?”

Your daughter grins, looking back at you. “Can we go do it now?”

You laugh at her sudden enthusiasm, turning to Dana. “You should come join us on the pediatric floor.”

“No thank you,” she says, shaking her head, “if I had to hear babies crying all day I’d lose my mind. Those days are over for me.”

“You have the touch!” you tell her over your shoulder as you weave into the elevator with your daughter in tow. 

“I have bribes.” Dana’s laugh follows you as the doors begin to slide shut. “Not the same thing.”

You continue to smile even as the doors slide shut and the familiar weightless feeling takes hold as the elevator moves. Your daughter slides her hand from yours and you quickly check your phone for any notifications. The last text you received was at 7am this morning—Jack sneaking out but not without telling you he loves you over text and that he’d made breakfast.

You bite your lip as you relive the butterflies that erupted in your stomach from the simple phrase. 

That is what is so rare, so special about Jack. He loves you unconditionally. Your last boyfriend, your daughter’s father, had practically skipped town when he found out you were pregnant. As far as you were concerned, he was just a sperm donor.

Luckily, you had met Jack about six months into your pregnancy. Somehow in that brief period when you spoke infrequently in between night shift consultations, you being single had come up in conversation and he made his move. 

Two years later, he was the one doing puzzles with your daughter and drawing with crayons at the kitchen table. Later, he was the one teaching her how to ride a bicycle and tie her shoes. When you and Jack got married four years ago, your daughter had beamed ear-to-ear during the entire reception—and had run up to give her new step-dad a huge hug that resulted in many resounding “awws” in the audience.

Your daughter knew no other male parental figure except Jack, not really. Your ex visited on holidays, often with some kind of lazy $20 Target gift card and a Hallmark card. There’s some kind of the mysticism that comes when you’re a kid that’s visited by an absent parent once in a blue moon that keeps them haunting the back of your mind like an apparition, always.

She doesn’t know him like you do, and she only sees him twice a year, so she doesn’t have a fully-realized image of what he is or what kind of person he could be. She gives him graces that she wouldn’t afford anyone else in her life that are constants because of that mysticism and childhood naïveté. You don’t blame her—can’t. You do blame your ex, but there’s really not anything you can do about that either—except demand child support and remind him with texts of her birthday coming up every year.

You reach over to squeeze her shoulder affectionately and she looks up at you, giving a small smile.

“It will be over in no time, I promise.” You let go of her shoulder just as the elevator dings and the doors slide open to the, thankfully, much quieter pediatrics floor.

In the distance, you hear a baby crying that is quickly soothed by their mother’s voice. You glance down at your daughter as she steps into the floor behind you and your heart pangs.

Her eyes are wide, taking in every person that walks by with scrutiny, and she tries to hide the slight tremble to her hands. 

You bend your knee, putting on your trained pediatrics smile. Her eyes dart to yours, a plea on her lips. “It will be over so quickly. I promise. And then we will see Mrs. Dana and she will give us stickers and we can go see Jack and give him a hug.”

She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable, still, but she nods and follows you as you lead her to the circle of desks near the center of the room. It’s a very similar setup to the emergency floor, except the rooms are less windowed for privacy and the walls are painted in a soothing nature scene for the kids to enjoy.

You find one of the pediatrics nurses, a friend of yours, and you ask him for some assistance. You set your daughter down in one of the stools at the front.

“Okay, this is mom’s friend Henry, and he’s going to help us with your flu shot. Is that okay?”

Your daughter looks over at the mid-twenty year old man standing across from her, hands clenched into little fists in her lap. She nods, then starts pulling at one of the strings in her rainbow skirt.

You look over at Henry, who begins prepping the shot. Your daughter stares at you with a tremulous chin, eyes beading with tears.

As Henry begins to wipe her upper arm with a sterile pad, she flinches and turns away, hiding her upper body from sight.

“I want Jack,” she says softly, “can Jack do it? I promise I will if he comes.”

You sigh and turn to Henry, who shrugs. You look down at your phone and raise a brow when it vibrates in your hand, as if beckoned.

Jack<3: how did little one’s shot go today? i’m on lunch

“Stay here with Henry for a minute, okay, honey? I'm going to go make a phone call.” Your daughter nods, but gives Henry a skeptical side eye as he continues to stand in front of her.

You back far enough away that your daughter can’t hear and press on Jack’s contact info to call him.

It only has to ring once before you hear his voice on the other side.

“You okay? Need me to head out?” 

Your stomach flutters at the concern in his voice, even though you think it might be a little sadistic to feel that. Maybe it’s just that every day, in little moments, you’re reminded how much you and your daughter mean to him.

“If I were to tell you I’m in pediatrics right now, with little Miss-Afraid-of-Needles near-hyperventilating at just the thought of getting her flu shot, what would you do?”

“I thought you guys had an appointment for that?” You can hear shuffling on the other end and the sound of someone asking him a question, which he replies in a muffled voice you can’t make out. 

“Well, I made a mistake,” you tell him, “I let her decide where we go to get the shot. I also promised she would see you after and that Dana would give her stickers. And she’s still upset about it all.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, you know that?” 

You snort a laugh through your nose. “Like you’re any better? Don’t think I didn’t see the smiley face you made her out of chocolate chips on her pancakes this morning.”

“It’s our Saturday tradition, honey. You know that.”

“I know, I know,” you laugh again, “just don’t try to lecture me about being too soft on her when I can literally hear you running to catch the elevator right now.”

He chuckles, then quietens.

“—I think the elevator’s about to arrive. I’ll see you in a minute?”

You nod, then you realize he can’t see you. “I love you. Thank you for making the time.”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he replies. “For you? Always.”

The call cuts just as you hear the elevator doors ding on the other side of the call. You turn around to look at your daughter, only to find her putting stickers all over poor Nurse Henry’s arm. You grin at her enthusiasm, striding over.

“You getting Nurse Henry looking pretty over here?”

Your daughter clams up as if she’s expecting you to be angry at her sudden 180 in emotion. You know kids, though, and you know that her fear was real and that just because she’s been distracted doesn’t mean she was faking it before. You squat down to her level, gently stroking her hair.

“Jack’s coming up now to give you your shot.”

Your daughter beams, but after a moment shrivels in on herself, her lip trembling. 

You give her a kiss on the cheek. You pull back, forcing her to look at your eyes with a hand on her chin. “It will be okay. I promise.”

As if on cue, the elevator doors open and Jack comes striding in. He looks around for just a few seconds before his eyes land on where you stand across the room. He beams and quickly strides over.

Henry steps back as Jack takes his spot.

“Hey, bug,” he says to her. He pokes her arm and she lets out a soft laugh, turning away. “I hear you’re a little scared of your shot?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It hurts. And I can’t sleep on my arm at night when I get them.”

“Well,” Jack says, snapping on a pair of gloves from nearby, “sometimes life is about doing things that might make us hurt for a day or two so we don’t get really hurt later.”

“But I’ve never had the flu before,” she says, furrowing her brows.

“Do you remember what I told you about our bodies? That we have fighters inside of us that are usually really good at keeping viruses like the flu from making us sick?” She nods, so he continues. “Well, this shot”—he picks up the needle to show her—“has a code in it that those little fighters can learn, so that when you do get the flu, you might not get sick at all, because now they know what they’re fighting.”

Your daughter nods very seriously. “So my fighters are like Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash learning more about Nightmare Moon so they can stop her from taking over the world next time she shows up?”

You notice from the corner of your eye Henry biting his lip to smother his laughter. Meanwhile, you’re actually pretty impressed by her comparison to her favorite show. You also think in the same train of thought that maybe she needed less screen time.

“Yep, exactly,” Jack agrees enthusiastically. “And this shot is like the Elements of Harmony coming to change Nightmare Moon back into Princess Luna.”

Now you’re the one holding back your laughter. You look over at Jack, impressed by his knowledge. He shoots you a sly wink as if to say ‘I know more than I’m letting on.’

Your daughter squares her shoulders and nods. “Okay,” she says, “do it. I’m ready.”

Jack smiles and grabs the sterile swab to rewipe her upper arm. She flinches at the cold liquid and you walk over to stand in front of her.

“Just look at me,” you tell her softly, “it will be over before you know it.”

She follows your direction obediently as Jack lines up the shot with her arm. As the needle enters, your daughter winces and tenses, but keeps her eyes on you all the while. Jack pushes the liquid in then removes the needle. He puts on a colorful bandaid to the wound.

“All done,” you say with a grin, “you did so good.”

She bashfully drops her eyes. “It barely even hurt.”

Jack stands, removing the gloves with a small, affectionate smile pulling at his lips.

She stands up from her stool. You think she’s going to move toward you when she surprises you by turning to hug Jack around his waist. Jack tilts his head toward her, surprised.

“Thanks, dad,” she says into his back. “You’re the best.”

She continues to bury her head into his scrubs, and Jack pats her head as he meets your shocked gaze. You think your mouth must be hanging open, but you can’t help it.

She pulls away and looks up at him. She frowns. “Why are you crying, dad?”

Jack wraps her in a gentle side hug, wiping away the small tears that had leaked out. “Nothing, bug. Just happy.”

Your daughter lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She begins to move away from the two of you quickly. “Okay, well stop crying and come pick out stickers with me.”

You snort at her drill-sergeant order and look over at Jack, who continues to grin and shake his head. You reach over to loop an arm around his waist, planting a kiss to his cheek.

“You earned it,” you whisper, “only a dad knows that many My Little Pony references.”

Jack lets out a laugh, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a full kiss.

The moment is broken when your daughter lets out a loud groan from across the room. “Come onnnn, gosh you guys are so gross!”

You laugh and pull away. You sweep your hand toward your daughter with a sarcastic grin. “C'mon, Jack. Fatherhood awaits.”

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.

Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.

Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.

The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.

You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.

The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.

“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.

“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.

You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.

You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.

“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”

A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.

The machine beeped.

Approved.

You froze.

Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.

“Bag?” the cashier asked.

“No,” Jack said.

You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you.

Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.

“What?” he said.

You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my lunch.”

“Looked like it.”

“You paid for it.”

“Sharp today.”

You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”

That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.

“Eat the sandwich,” he said.

“I was going to.”

“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”

You opened your mouth.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

You closed it again.

Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.

“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”

Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”

“I don’t faint,” Santos said.

“You got lightheaded during central line training.”

“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”

Jack looked at her.

Santos looked back.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.

“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”

Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”

Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”

Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”

Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”

Your face was still hot.

The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.

Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.

“I can pay you back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“That’s not how money works.”

“It is when I decide I don’t care.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You should’ve let it go.

You really should’ve.

But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.

“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”

Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.

Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”

He walked away before you could answer.

You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.

Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.

“Oh, that was not nothing.”

“It was lunch,” you said.

Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”

You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.

Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”

Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”

“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”

You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.

It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.

But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.

He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.

Jack was worse.

Jack was practical.

He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.

Robby noticed before you did.

Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.

It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.

“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.

You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”

Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.

“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”

“He bought me lunch once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe pasta.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”

That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.

Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.

Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.

“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”

You swallowed. “I know that too.”

Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”

You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.

Across the department, Jack glanced up.

For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

That was becoming the problem.

Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.

You wished he’d be less good at it.

You wished you liked it less.

The car thing happened on a Thursday.

You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.

Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.

Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.

The expensive one.

A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.

You shut the engine off immediately.

“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”

The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.

You tried again.

The sound came back worse.

A knock hit your window.

You screamed.

Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.

You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”

“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.

“That’s not a fine sound.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“It shouldn’t do that ever.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”

“You’re not driving it until then.”

A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

Your stomach dipped.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Something else.

Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“Pop the hood.”

There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.

You popped the hood.

The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.

It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.

He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.

“Do not drive this,” he said.

You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Jack.”

He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”

You did not.

You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.

“I can call someone,” you said.

“Who?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.

You looked away first.

Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you fixing everything.”

“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”

You didn’t move.

Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”

That was how he won.

Not with softness. Not with a speech.

Heat.

You grabbed your bag and got out.

Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.

He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”

“Your leg?”

“I said yeah.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His jaw worked.

Then, quieter, “Long day.”

That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.

At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”

You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”

“I’ll call someone.”

“No.”

“You don’t know who yet.”

“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”

The light turned green.

Jack drove.

You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”

“Jack.”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you know a guy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.

“No?”

“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.

“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.

The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.

Not brave.

Not independent.

Just exhausting.

He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.

You didn’t reach for the door handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”

“No.”

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop noticing.”

“No.”

Your eyes opened.

Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.

That made it worse.

You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”

The joke landed differently in the dark.

You felt it. So did he.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.

“You should go inside,” he said.

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.

You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.

“Night, Jack.”

His hand tightened once around the phone.

“Lock your door.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes lifted.

There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.

“Don’t start,” he said.

You got out before your face could betray you.

The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.

Jack didn't tell you this.

The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.

Handled.

Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.

You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.

Squared it away.

You were going to kill him.

Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.

You had to wait.

That made you angrier.

By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.

Jack stopped.

Robby, behind him, stopped too.

Dana looked up from the desk.

Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.

Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”

“Oh, no, definitely here.”

Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.

“Coward,” Dana muttered.

“Experienced,” Robby corrected.

Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”

“You paid the mechanic.”

“Yeah.”

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”

“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”

“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.

“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”

Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”

Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”

Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”

You barely heard them.

Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.

“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it done.”

You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

“Doing what?”

The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.

“You know what,” you said.

For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.

Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.

“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.

Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.

He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.

“Friday,” he said under his breath.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Pick up your car Friday.”

Then he was gone.

Santos waited exactly three seconds.

“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”

Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”

Santos deflated. “Damn it.”

You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.

By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.

Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.

Your old ones were unsafe.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.

The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.

At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.

PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.

You hadn’t planned to go.

Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”

You’d said yes before checking your closet.

That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack:

Car still running?

You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.

You:

yes, dad

Jack:

Don’t.

You smiled despite yourself.

You:

thank you, by the way for the shoes too even though you’re insane

Jack:

You going tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.

You:

maybe

Jack:

That means yes.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:

You:

it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident

The reply took longer than usual.

Jack:

Show me.

You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.

You:

the dress?

Jack:

What else would I mean?

Your face went hot.

You:

don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Jack:

You have tomorrow off?

You stared.

Then stared harder.

You:

why

Jack:

Answer the question.

There were several smart things you could’ve said.

You said none of them.

You:

yes

Jack:

I’ll pick you up at 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You:

jack

Jack:

10:30 if you’re going to argue.

You:

you don’t even know what i was going to say

Jack:

I’m learning patterns.

You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.

The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.

Of course he did.

He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.

“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.

“You haven’t gone in yet.”

“That’s why I still have hope.”

He gave you a look.

You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was too easy.”

“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”

You stared at him.

He headed for the shop.

“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.

“It’s exactly a loophole.”

Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.

You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.

He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.

That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.

The saleswoman brought options.

You rejected the first three.

Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.

“No,” he said through the door.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw the sleeve.”

“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”

“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”

You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.

Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.

His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.

“No,” he repeated.

The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”

You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”

The fifth dress was the problem.

You knew it before you opened the curtain.

The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.

Confidence, maybe.

Or danger.

“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.

“You’re bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that way too easily.”

“I’m old.”

You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.

This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.

That was the bad idea.

You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.

His jaw shifted.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain.

“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.

Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.

“No,” he said.

Your face fell before you could stop it.

Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”

The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.

“It fits.”

It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.

You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.

“It’s probably expensive.”

“Probably.”

“Jack.”

“You like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.

“I can do what I want.”

“You sound like a nightmare.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.

The thought went through you too sharply.

You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”

Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”

There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.

Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”

Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.

So you made it worse on purpose.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.

“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”

You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.

The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.

Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.

Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.

“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”

“That’s never a good opener.”

“You look hot.”

“Santos.”

“What? I said don’t make it weird.”

Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”

Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”

You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one. It’s being right.”

You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“Nothing.”

Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”

“There’s not a thing.”

“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.

Dana smirked and walked away.

Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.

It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.

Robby said something to him at the entrance.

Jack answered without smiling.

Then his eyes found you.

Everything else blurred.

Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.

He walked over slowly.

“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.

“Hi.”

You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”

“I was going to say that.”

“You can still say it.”

“No.”

“Too generous?”

“Too easy.”

His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

You stared. “What is that?”

“Receipt.”

“For the dress?”

“For the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”

“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”

You looked down.

Paid.

Your throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.

“I still owe you.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”

You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.

Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.

“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”

“That makes it worse.”

“I agree.”

Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”

Jack gave him a look.

Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”

Jack didn’t move immediately.

His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

Your pulse kicked.

“I’m working.”

“After.”

Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.

You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.

For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.

Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.

You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.

And Jack kept finding you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.

At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”

He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”

“I was.”

“Bad idea.”

“Because violence is wrong?”

“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”

You laughed into your glass.

Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.

You saw him catch it.

That was the dangerous part.

Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.

You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.

“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”

Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”

The man’s eyes shifted to you.

You felt it like cold water.

“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”

Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.

“This is—” Jack began.

The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”

His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.

Your fingers tightened around the place cards.

Jack went still.

The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”

“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”

The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.

“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.

Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”

The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.

The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”

“I’m not interested in what you meant.”

Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”

The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.

“No offense intended.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught.

People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.

You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.

You set the place cards down.

“I need some air,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”

But you were already moving.

You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.

You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.

You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.

Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”

You turned on him. “Made it worse.”

“They made it worse.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”

His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.

“They don’t know what you are.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And what am I?”

The question came out too vulnerable to take back.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.

He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.

You hated that you wanted him to say it.

You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.

Instead, he said, “Not that.”

A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Great.”

Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.

You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

“You bought the dress,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You fixed my car.”

“Yes.”

“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”

Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

“What do you think people are going to call that?”

“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you call it.”

The words took the air out of the terrace.

You looked at him.

Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.

Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.

All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.

Now Jack was standing there asking.

Tell me what you call it.

Your mouth felt dry.

“I call it confusing,” you said.

His expression shifted.

You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.

You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”

His voice dropped. “Like what?”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”

The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.

Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”

The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.

His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.

“But I’ve thought about it.”

The terrace went silent.

Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.

“What was I going to say?”

His eyes lifted.

“That we shouldn’t.”

The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.

You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.

Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”

His eyes sharpened.

You took one more step.

“But it’s not what I want.”

For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.

Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.

“Say that again,” he said.

The words nearly undid you.

You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.

“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No?”

“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”

The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic at first.

That would’ve been easier.

It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

That was what broke it.

Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.

You grabbed his jacket.

He made a low sound, almost a warning.

You pulled him closer anyway.

The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.

His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.

“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”

Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

His eyes held yours.

“My car.”

The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.

Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.

Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.

Jack ignored all of them.

You loved and hated him for it.

The elevator ride down was worse.

Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.

In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.

Jack unlocked the car.

You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.

He saw the hesitation immediately.

Of course he did.

“You can change your mind,” he said.

The words loosened something in you.

Not because you wanted to.

Because he meant it.

You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”

His face shifted.

“Do I what?”

“Know what I want.”

The garage seemed to hold its breath.

Jack opened the back door.

“Get in,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just low enough to go through you like a match.

You got in.

The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.

Then the opposite door opened.

He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.

“You still think this is about money?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“What’s it about?”

You could’ve said care.

You could’ve said want.

You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.

Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”

Jack’s eyes flashed.

Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.

"Jack—"

"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"

You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."

He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”

Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.

"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."

You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.

"Jack—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.

"Get on top of me."

It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.

He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"

He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."

You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."

He didn't.

His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"

He pushed inside you.

The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"

He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.

Then you moved.

Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."

You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.

"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"

"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.

"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."

You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."

He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."

You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.

"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."

"Jack—I'm close—"

"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"

"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."

He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.

Then he laughed.

A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.

"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"

"Stupid," you supplied.

"Reckless."

"A really bad idea."

His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.

"We should probably—" you started.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.

"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.

"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."

He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.

You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.

He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”

That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”

“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”

“He sounds unbearable.”

“He is.”

The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”

Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.

“Jack,” you said softly.

He waited.

You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”

For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.

“You get breakfast.”

“That’s it?”

“And your car.”

“Already got that.”

“And the shoes.”

“Also already got those.”

“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”

The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.

But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.

He was looking at you like something worth keeping.