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summary: Jack Abbot is many things; a loving husband, a phenomenal doctor, a decorated war veteran, an adrenaline junkie, a lower-leg amputee, and (possibly) a mind reader. But he is not a father. In 4 years of marriage you haven't been able to surprise him even once. But maybe, for his 50th birthday, you can kill two birds with one stone.
warnings: age gap (r is mid 30s, jack is 50), established relationship, afab reader, reader is an attending, brief reference to past power imbalance, minor undescribed medical procedures, IUD insertion and removal mention, gifting someone a used medical device (its sweet and not weird I promise), mention of pap smears, misuse of viagra, slight anxiety, keeping secrets, mediocre communication, BREEDING KINK DUH, trying to get pregnant, mentions of plan b, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms for everyone, doggy style, missionary, biting, reader is a little bit of a brat, cum play, so much love, fast and hard and then slow and loving, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything
an: we are playing fast and loose with fertility and medicine here guys
I usually do not like writing multiple rounds of sex in one fic because tbh I find sex scenes a little hard to write and I worry that they get repetitive but I really pushed through for this one
Being married to Jack Abbot was a dream come true.
He was kind, empathetic, passionate, patient, fantastic in bed, and (this is just a theory) psychic.
Or you might just be easy to read. Either way, he almost always seemed to know what you needed or wanted at any given moment.
God forbid you wanted to surprise him with anything, either. He could sniff out any sort of deception, even if it was well intentioned, like some sort of emotional or mental bloodhound.
Jack was also always prepared for almost everything. He had supplies and a game plan for almost every situation and scenario that could possibly come up. Mass casualty incident? Camo duffel in the coat closet by the front door. You had a hard day? Bubble bath kit under his sink in the bathroom.
Combine all of that together and you’d never been able to surprise him. Ever.
Things were changing ever so slowly, though. Now, the two of you had been together for 7 years now, married for 4, so the playing field was starting to level out. You found yourself able to sift through his facial expressions and body language, deciphering some of the thoughts that crossed his mind. Some of it was the familiarity of your everyday routine, any deviation clueing you into something festering on his mind. Some of it was just knowing your husband so intimately in a way that could only come with time.
And even though you were as close to an expert as one could be in Jack Abbot, you still missed some of the more subtle things.
But there was nothing subtle about this. You’d have to have been blind to miss the longing in his eyes anytime the two of you were anywhere close to a baby. It was impossible not to notice how his usually stoic and analytical hazel eyes softened at the sight of their tiny waving hands, the corners of his lips curving up when they cooed, his gaze instinctively snapping towards a crying infant while his shoulders tensed.
Those signs had given you a rather obvious hint, but the final nail in the coffin had been when your sister and her wife had visited from Philly a few months ago. They had some sort of business to take care of in Pittsburgh, so you’d offered to watch their 6 month old son. Jack had been out running errands when he’d been dropped off. When he walked through the door, grocery bags in hand, you’d watched him freeze out of the corner of your eye. There you were, in your shared kitchen, balancing the baby on your hip, talking to the child about nothing in particular while you stirred a pot on the stove.
Jack had unfrozen quickly, but you’d noticed. You noticed everything for the rest of the day until your sister came to collect her child. How Jack swallowed hard anytime you held the baby, how he nearly melted when you cooed and played peek-a-boo, how his eyes stayed locked for just a moment too long on the teeny tiny pair of shoes in his hands before he passed them off to your sister.
Jack Abbot wanted a baby.
And you wanted to finally be able to catch your husband off guard.
And now his 50th birthday was coming up, and you had a great gift planned. And if everything went according to your carefully crafted plan, you’d be able to give him an even better gift next year.
Step 1: remove the biggest obstacle.
Being a doctor married to a doctor made the biggest part of your plan both easier and harder.
You started on Monday. His birthday fell on Friday, and the two of you very conveniently had the following 4 days off. But not before working opposite shifts every day the rest of the week.
That was part luck, part planning on your end. You’d gladly agreed to cover Al Hashimi’s shifts while the ED was down a day shift attending since she was going to a conference. Jack had not been thrilled, but your sacrifice meant the two of you could enjoy an extra-long weekend staycation. He’d grumbled about it for a solid 3 days before finally settling down.
It also gave you time to make a trip upstairs to gynecology while your husband was fast asleep at home and none the wiser.
All it took was a quick lie to Robby about a routine pap smear and a favor called in from a friend upstairs and you were seated with your legs hiked up in stirrups.
“You know, I really did not ever need to see your vagina,” Joan, your gynecologist friend, was grumbling as she completed the procedure.
“You’re the only one I could ask who wouldn’t spill the beans,” your eyes stayed glued on the ceiling. “Everyone else is either a resident and not willing to bend the rules, or older and more loyal to him.”
“This is a hospital,” her expression was unimpressed. “There are no sides, no one is more loyal to him.”
“Yes the fuck they are,” you lowered your legs as she gave you the all clear. “Why do you think I told Robby I was getting a pap smear?”
“Becuase telling your husband's best friend, who is your boss by the way, that you were going to get your contraception removed so that said husband can fuck you six ways to sunday for his birthday is inappropriate workplace conversation,” she turned her back to you, depositing the device in a specimen jar before beginning to clean every thing up.
“That is true,” you conceded, “and Robby’s a snitch.”
“I still can’t believe you’re actually going to give him your IUD for his birthday,” Joan shook her head. “Isn’t that a little gross?”
“I’m obviously going to clean it!” You tugged your black scrubs up, wincing a little at the dull ache in your lower stomach. “Plus, it’ll be romantic. And shouldn’t you be more sex-positive? You’re a fucking gynocologist.”
“Romantic,” her voice was deadpan. “And I am plenty sex-positive. Especially unprotected sex. Creates more patients for me. Kinda like a dentist who recommends nothing but sugar.”
You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling as you watched her move back to the counter. “Glad to see you are faithfully committed to your oath.”
“Here,” she handed you a little cup with two white pills, choosing to ignore you. “Tylenol. You don’t get anything stronger since you insisted on doing this mid shift.”
“Thanks,” you swallowed them dry. “For the pills and for doing this for me. I can’t have him figuring this out before. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I know I always wanted a used medical device for my biggest milestone birthdays,” she grumbled to herself as she wrote down her notes on a sheet of paper. “I’ll wait to put this in your chart until after your insemination.”
“Now you’re making it gross,” your face scrunched up. “Most normal people refer to that as ‘trying for a baby’ you know.”
“Yeah sure. Now, get out of my department and go back to your zoo,” she waved her hand dismissively, fighting a smile the whole time.
Step 2: stay strong.
Now with the most important part of your plan complete, you simply had to make it through the next week without Jack catching on. Even with your separate schedules, that was easier said than done.
Monday night at shift change you were desperately trying to hide the cramps wracking your abdomen as you walked the night shift through handovers alongside Robby.
Jack noticed immediately.
“You ok, baby?” He’d pulled you aside the second the handover was completed, his hand resting on your hip as he guided the two of you into a semi secluded corner.
“Yeah I’m ok,” you couldn’t fight the grimace as another wave washed over you. You really shouldn’t have skipped that second dose of acetaminophen during the 4pm rush. “Just cramping.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Jack frowned, his eyes sweeping over you more intently. His focus flicked between your lower stomach and your face.
“You’re not supposed to start your period for another 3 weeks.”
“It’s still a little odd that you track them so closely,” you tried to brush him off, shrugging.
“I’m a doctor and you’re my wife,” Jack cracked a grin as your eyes narrowed. “You’re my wife who is also a doctor. An amazing one.”
You gave him a kiss for that, quick and chaste and the most PDA you’d dare express in the ED.
“My IUD is due for replacement in a few months,” you couldn’t beat back a rising smile, fueled by both his care and the knowledge of what you were planning. “It’s probably starting to go and make me irregular.”
“Get that checked out, ok?” His hands cupped your face.
“I will, Jack, I promise.”
“Good we-” he swallowed hard, smile faltering ever so slightly. “We don’t want you to be… unprotected.”
The regret in his voice and the twinge of hope in his eyes as he said unprotected only reinforced what you already knew. He really wanted this.
God, you couldn’t wait to tell him. You weren’t sure if you’d ever been more excited to give a gift before.
Warmth flooded through you at the thought of how he’d react. Would there be happy tears? Maybe he’d simply bend you over the nearest surface, eager to get started. He’d probably double and triple check that you were sure. Jack always did that, no matter how many times you reassured him that you wanted him, you needed him. Like he still couldn’t believe you were his just as much as he was yours.
Thankfully, his mind reading seemed to fail for a moment. Likely because of the cramp that gripped you midway through your rumination, hiding your true expression behind a grimace.
“I’m ok, Jack,” with one more kiss, you were untangling yourself from him. “I’m going to go sleep for twelve hours. I love you.”
“Alright,” he followed you as you gathered your things and headed towards the ambulance bay. “Text me when you get home. If you forget again, I’m not making that pasta you like for a month.”
“Empty threats,” you pecked his cheek on your way past him. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
“I love you,” the love written so plainly on his face as you walked away from him and out those doors made you almost want to run back and tell him everything.
Maybe that was why you were semi-convinced he was psychic. It was probably less about an alleged supernatural ability and more about your face being easy to read and your lips unable to keep a secret, combined with the fact that you had resigned yourself to your husband being all-knowing.
In your defense, you’d seen Jack level patients and colleagues and even yourself with that look. Head titled, eyes narrowed, eyebrows lifted, that signature confidence combined with a small sigh of disapproval when he knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. It made everyone spill their guts eventually. No one held out very long.
But he hadn’t used that look on you since you’d been his resident years ago. You were all too aware that the bastard had long since learned that all he had to do was give you a soft smile and tell you he loved you and you melted immediately.
And normally, you didn’t have anything to keep from him. Normally, it was mildly irritating if he managed to figure out
But you had to stay strong.
Step 3: final preparations.
Surprisingly, you did actually manage to hold out. All the way until Friday.
Jack had the overnight shift from Thursday to Friday, but you were done and clear. A full body shower and shave was followed by a few episodes of the trashiest reality TV you could find until it was officially your bed time. You texted him a simple “Happy birthday baby” at 12:01 am before grabbing what little sleep you could before he inevitably came home just as the sun was rising.
At just past 7:30 am, your husband was crawling into the sheets, sliding up behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist as the heat of his bare chest warmed you from the inside out.
You were drifting in that blissfully in that half aware state between sleep and wakefulness as he pressed light kisses along the side of your neck available to him. A soft hum left your lips as you arched back into him, body already aching for him.
But you couldn’t give in.
Not yet, at least. As much as it pained you to deny him the sleepy morning sex you’d grown to crave, especially on his birthday, you couldn’t let him fuck you until you’d given him your present. And you couldn’t give him your present until you had made him dinner and slipped on that beautiful white matching set you’d bought.
So you had to stall. Redirect. Get him to actually get a decent amount of rest for once in his life, so you could ride him off into the sunset.
“Happy birthday, handsome,” your hand reached back to run your fingers through his loose curls.
“Very happy birthday to me, indeed,” his grip on your waist tightened as his front pressed even more firmly against your back. You could just barely feel the faint beginnings of hardness through the thin material of his boxers.
“Uh-uh,” you twisted in his grip. Shifting until you were face to face, you pressed a long, slow kiss to his lips. He sighed into your mouth, allowing you to take the lead as his tongue swiped against yours.
“You need to sleep. You’re exhausted.”
He grumbled as you pulled away, his half lidded eyes flipping between the exhaustion of a week of 12 hour nights shifts and pure desire as he looked at you wrapped in his arms.
Jack had once told you that this was when you looked the most beautiful. Sleepy, wearing just his t-shirt and a pair of underwear with your hair a mess, snuggled in the sheets of your shared bed. He had called the domesticity of it addictive, had said he couldn’t get enough of the quiet moments like this, tangled together with the outside world locked away. The two of you just existing in that warm, heady feeling of safety and security, wrapped up in each other for hours.
You’d always thought you understood. You’d agreed that the soft moments surrounded by his love in the home two of you had built were the best, but you were starting to think you never really got it until now. The idea of your family, of it growing beyond just the small, two person unit the two of you had become over these years, was electrifying.
God, you wanted that. You’d already given him your heart. You wanted to give him everything.
“I’m not too tired to make you feel good,” his hand slid from your hip down to dip beneath the hem of your underwear.
It took every ounce of self control to grab his wrist, stopping him.
“No,” you gave him one more soft kiss before you were pushing him back to lie flat. Throwing one of your legs over his, you curled into his side. He let out a sigh of disappointment as your head rested on his chest, but he was still curling his freckled arms around you to hold you close. “We are going to sleep now. And then, tonight, I am going to make you dinner. Then you get to open your present, and then you can fuck me. However you want, as many times as you want.”
“You’re so cruel,” you couldn’t see his face but you could hear the smile in his voice as he pressed a kiss to your hair. Already, you could tell he was starting to drift off. “But fine. As long as I get to have you for dessert.”
His voice, low and gravelly, vibrating through his chest had your panties growing increasingly uncomfortable. His sturdy thigh pressed between your legs certainly wasn’t helping, but you could do this. You were a grown woman, a doctor of emergency medicine. You had the willpower to make it 10 more hours without jumping your husband.
When you woke around 1pm, Jack was still dead to the world. His lips were parted, hair mussed, and his breaths deep and even. Despite the gray making his curls much more salt than pepper, he looked younger like this.
You gave yourself a moment to take him in before slipping out of the bed and his grasp.
It was time to make the last few preparations.
Your movements were as quiet as you could make them as you got dressed. With one last glance at his sleeping form, you slipped out the front door.
Grocery shopping went smoothly, the bakery passed off the small bourbon chocolate cake you’d ordered with little fuss, and the jeweler down the road didn’t even charge you for the little black velvet box. They had a million of them, she’d said, no big deal.
You were back home by 3:30pm. Jack was up and awake by then, making himself a cup of coffee when you strolled in, arms laden with grocery bags. For just a second, you let your eyes trail over him. He was facing away, giving you a beautiful view of the freckles dusting his muscled back. The sweatpants riding low on his hips, the right leg tied in a knot to stop the hem from dragging, hid the strength and shape of his ass and legs from you, but your imagination filled in the gaps.
“Done objectifying me yet?” Jack just barely looked over his shoulder as he continued to fiddle with the machine before him.
“Never,” you set the bags down, giving his ass a slap as you moved past.
He laughed, reaching for his crutches as he moved to follow you back out to the driveway.
“Let me help you with the bags.”
“Not a chance,” you blocked the doorway. “Go sit down and enjoy your day off.”
He looked like he was going to argue for a moment, but then he acquiesced. With one, chaste kiss to your lips, he moved back to the counter.
Jack was stubborn, though, so he started unloading the grocery bags, placing ingredients in their rightful places.
You watched him move through the space for just a moment before you returned to your car to grab the last few bags and the box with the cake. The jewelry box was tucked into the back pocket of your denim shorts, hidden by your oversized shirt as you deposited everything else onto the counter, next to the first batch of empty bags. Jack had disappeared from the kitchen, but he walked out of the bedroom just as you began to organize the ingredients you needed, his leg fastened on.
“What are you gonna make me?” Jack had settled back against the counter after you swatted his hands away from the cake box, trying to keep his fingers out of the frosting while he tried to steal a taste. He was lazily sipping his coffee, eyes watching as you fluttered about, retrieving some of the items that you needed.
“Steak,” you held up the meat wrapped in butcher paper as you pulled it from the bag. “Cabbage,” his nose wrinkled and your eyes rolled. For a brief moment, you really considered throwing the vegetable at him. “Relax, you big baby. Cabbage au gratin. Lots of cheese and that cream sauce you like.”
“Hmm, ok,” he was smirking over the rim of his mug. “What else?”
“What else? What, that’s not enough for you?”
He set the coffee down, closing the small distance between the two of you so his hands could rest on your hips, chest pressing into your back. You panicked for a moment as his lips met your clothed shoulder, hoping and praying that he didn’t notice the box in your pocket. It was still empty, but you didn’t want to give him any hints about your plan.
“I’m gonna need a lot of energy tonight, baby,” his hands slid underneath your shirt to rest against your bare stomach as he nosed at your hair, his breath brushing over your ear. “I’m pretty sure I was promised however I want, as many times as I want.”
You were so close to breaking. Your resolve was hanging on by a thread.
“And,” his hand slid farther up, cupping your breast through your bra. You could barely restrain a whine. “My dear wife decided to swap shifts. We haven’t had any… quality time in a week. I’ve got a lot of plans for you tonight, baby.”
“Jack,” your voice was weak.
“Not to mention,” his fingers squeezed your nipple through the mesh of your bra. “I wouldn’t be a very good husband if I didn’t help you get your sleep cycle back on track. Gotta get you used to working all night, baby.”
“You’ve gotta wait, Jackie,” you were arching back into him, offering no resistance as his broad hand slid to lay over the span of your stomach.
Fuck.
The feeling of that steady, callous hand laying against the smooth skin of your lower abdomen jolted you back to reality.
You needed to wait. It wouldn’t be fair or right to fuck him before you had a conversation, plus you’d put so much thought into planning the perfect night. You couldn’t let your incubus of a husband seduce you into ruining it now.
“Jack,” your voice was stronger now. “Patience.”
He huffed a laugh against the shell of your ear, his hands tightening against you just once before letting you go and stepping back. You could very clearly see the hard length of him straining through the fabric of his pants as you turned to face him, back braced against the counter. His hands came up to land beside your hips on the stone as he caged you in.
“I don’t know what you have planned, but I might die if I don’t get my hands on you soon,” his lips laid a kiss on your cheek before he was stepping back. “I’m gonna go shower before you torture me anymore.”
Step 4: the proposition.
Jack behaved himself all throughout dinner, his hand settling at a tasteful spot on your bare thigh, exposed by the dress you’d pulled on over the lacy white set he hadn’t seen yet. Entirely appropriate compliments coming from him as you laid the cabbage, the steak, and the salad and rolls he hadn’t let you tell him about earlier before the two of you on the table.
But dinner was done, leftovers packed away, the rest of the cake returned to its box while two half-eaten slices laid before the two of you.
While he was in the shower, you’d managed to retrieve your IUD (very thoroughly sanitized, thank you very much) and place it in the jewelry box. It fit perfectly. You’d tied the box closed with a short length of red ribbon you’d acquired from the Christmas supplies stored in the spare room.
That box had been sitting on the counter while you ate dinner and dessert, but now it sat between the two of you on the table. For the first time all week, your confidence in your plan was starting to falter.
Jack was a great man and an amazing husband. That was undeniable. He was great at so many different things. The one area he fell behind in, though, was communication.
He wasn’t necessarily bad at it, but he definitely wasn’t the best. It wasn’t that he couldn’t or didn’t communicate with you. No, it was more that he held certain things back. He didn’t let himself verbalize things when he thought he didn’t deserve them, or when he thought he was asking for too much.
He hadn’t asked you for a baby. Sure, the two of you had talked about it before getting married, as all couples should, but the conversation hadn’t resurfaced since then. That conversation had been the first time he had truly been completely open and laid bare before you. He had told you he wanted kids, more than anything, but he worried about being too old, too broken, too unavailable.
You’d assured him he was none of those things, that you wanted to start a family with him. You could see on his face that he only half believed you.
It hadn’t been a possibility right when you got married, with you just finishing your residency and settling into being an attending, along with the both of you wanting time to really settle into your relationship before broaching that topic again.
But it hadn’t been brought up again.
Suddenly, the box sitting between you felt like a bomb. What if you had overstepped? Sure, you had thought the look on his face when he saw you with a baby was longing, but what if it wasn’t? What if you were about to blow up your marriage and ruin his 50th birthday?
“Hey,” Jack’s hand came to cover yours, jerking you out of your spiral. “You ok?”
“Yeah,” your throat felt full as you looked up at him. “Just… just nervous to see if you like your present.”
He smiled at that. “I’m sure I’ll love it, baby.”
“I really hope you do.”
You could barely breathe as you watched his fingers undo the red bow keeping the box sealed. The few seconds it took for him to unwind the fabric felt like years, the soft sound of the ribbon sliding against the velvet felt like the loudest noise in the world.
The lid blocked your view of the interior of the box, but you knew exactly what it looked like. That thin plastic ‘T’ sticking up out of the slot where a ring would normally go. Stark white against the deep red interior of the little black box.
Jack’s brow scrunched up for a second as he gazed down at the object in his hands.
“Is this your-”
“Yes,” your voice was quiet when you cut him off, your eyes searching his face. He looked confused, eyes fixed on the IUD, before the expression melted into shock as he looked up at you.
“You-” he floundered over his words, gaze rapidly flicking back and forth between you and the box. “This- you took it- what-”
For a moment, you were concerned he was having a stroke. But then he took a deep breath, set the box down, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Your nerves crept back in, unwelcome and self deprecating as the worst case scenarios ran through your mind.
“I need you to tell me exactly what this means, baby,” his hand was grabbing yours again, squeezing tight. He still looked a little shocked, but you could see his eyes lighting up with what you desperately hoped was happiness.
“I-” your throat locked down, the words stuck as your eyes locked on his.
“Words, baby,” he slipped out of his seat, settling on his knees before you.
“Jack, your leg-”
“I don’t care, I’m fine,” his hands settled on your thighs, just above your knees. His fingers dug in as he looked up at you.
Hope. That’s what you were seeing written plain as day across his features. Hope and love and yearning.
“Baby, please,” he sounded desperate. “I need to know exactly what you meant when you gave me your IUD.”
“I -” your breath faltered for just a second as his hands squeezed tighter as the first syllable left your lips. “I want to have a baby, Jack. I want your baby.”
“Fuck,” his voice was raw and gutteral, like the curse ripped out of him involuntarily. “I want it. So badly, you have no idea.”
You couldn’t help your laugh. The sound was wet, emotion curling in your chest as the worry and anxiety fled. “Trust me, I know exactly how much you want it.”
The confusion crept back onto his face.
“You’re not subtle, Jack.”
“I’m so subtle. I’m an unreadable pillar of strength,” he was smiling, eyes still full of love and adoration.
“You were anything other than subtle with this.”
“Maybe because I want to come home to you and our child everyday,” his words silenced your laughter, tears threatening to spill as he kept speaking. “I want to watch them grow up, teach them how to ride a bike, be obnoxiously loud and embarrassing at sports games.”
Jack was getting to his feet now, pulling you up with him until his forehead was pressed to yours.
“I want to teach them how to drive, cry at their high school graduation, move them into college dorms,” his own voice was thick with emotion as tears dripped silently down your cheeks. His hands came up to cradle your cheeks, swiping the stray droplets away with his thumbs. Your hands gripped his forearms as you listened. “I want it all with you. I want to be horribly, disgustingly domestic and in love, show our kid what love looks like. I want them to be safe and happy and healthy and so, so loved.”
“Jack,” your voice was shaky as you clung to him.
“I want it. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want it with you. I want it all with you.”
His lips connected with yours. The kiss was tender and slow, every emotion leaking out as your lips and tongues moved against each other in your dining room. He tasted like the chocolate cake and something so distinctly Jack. It was addictive.
When the two of you parted to gasp for breath, his hands settled on your waist, yours coming up to tangle one in his hair, the other flat against his sturdy chest.
“You know,” you leaned in, tracing feather light kisses over the curve of his throat. “I promised you you could have whatever you want after dinner.”
His head dropped back and he let out a groan. His hands tightened on your waist.
“But do you know what I want?”
“What do you want, baby?” His voice was breathy. One of his hands drifted down to grab a handful of your ass, his leg slipping between yours to apply pressure where you needed him the most.
Your teeth caught the lobe of his ear between your teeth.
“I want you to take me to our bedroom,” your hand in his hair yanked ever so slightly. “I want you to take one of those little pills you keep for emergencies,” your fingers trailed down his chest slowly as his breathing picked up in pace. “And I want you to fuck me until you physically cannot any more.”
Step 5: success.
So maybe you weren’t as good at reading your husband as you thought.
You were so sure as soon as he got you into the bedroom and got an eyeful of the see through lace covering your body, he’d be inside of you immediately, especially with the promise of your uterus open for business.
But he held back, eyes tracing your form, sprawled out on the bed and still covered, barely, by your lingerie. He was moving through the room like he had all the time in the world.
You watched with bated breath as he slowly undid his belt and the button of his pants, leaving both still on. The buttons on his shirt were next, the fabric hanging open and untucked as he approached his nightstand. All you could see of his torso was a thin strip, could just barely spot the light dusting of still auburn hair disappearing in the waist band of his slacks.
His hand dug into the drawer for a second before he was producing the little orange bottle. He held it delicately between his fingers, eyes meeting yours.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Everything in Jack’s eyes seemed to be begging you to agree, to not dangle this in front of him and then so cruelly rip it away.
“I want this,” you sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed to rest your hands on his hips, his legs between yours as he towered over you. “I want you to put a baby in me, Jack.”
He groaned, his hands fumbling to get the cap off the bottle and one pill in his mouth.
He didn’t usually need those little blue pills, but between the anti depressants he regularly took and the stress of both your jobs, occasionally they came in handy. Today, however, the outline of his erection, right in front of your face, told you he definitely didn’t need it right now. But both of you knew that one round was not going to be even close to enough.
The temptation of that bulge in his pants was too much as you watched his throat bob while he swallowed the pill dry. Your hands drifted from his hips to the undone button of his slacks. Slowly, your fingers pulled the zipper down.
His hand caught yours before you could start sliding the fabric down his legs.
“Not now,” his fingers pressed into your pulse, your heartrate hammering as you looked up at him. “Take off your clothes and lie down.”
For a moment, you wanted to argue, wanted to insist that this was his birthday, you should be taking care of him. But the heat in his eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes traced over your body had another idea popping into your head, wondering exactly how far you could push him tonight.
Your hands were a little shaky as you unclasped your bra, if the white scrap of barely there lace could even be called that. It fell from your body as you stood from the bed, crowding into Jack.
He took half a step back to give you some space as he watched. Your hands tossed your hair back over your shoulders, taking the opportunity to trail your fingers down your collarbones, loosely cupping and caressing your own breasts. Your lips parted on a gasp as your fingers tweaked your nipples. With half lidded eyes, you arched into him, almost touching as you continued to play with your breasts.
When you decided he’d had enough, you let your hands move on, dragging down your abdomen only to stop just above the waistband of your panties. You laid your hands over the smooth, bumpless skin.
“Can’t wait for your baby to be right here,” you were laying it on thick. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth digging into your lower lip, breaths coming a little too deep to lift your breasts even more with every inhale.
Jack was getting impatient, you could tell. That fire burning in his eyes, his fingers flexing, all while you took your sweet time shimmying out of the underwear.
By the time it hit the floor, he looked ready to pounce, but he was still keeping himself in check. You figured he probably wanted to take things nice and slow, make them tender. At least at first. He usually was attentive and giving, treating you gently especially when emotions were running high. Not like you would break if he didn’t, more like you deserved to be loved softly.
But there was time for soft later. Right now, the tension and knowledge of what he was about to do to you felt explosive. You wanted him to take you hard. To take out the sexual frustration of a week or so of abstinence on your body. To pin you down and have his way with you. Afterwards there’d be time for sweet and tender. And there definitely would be more than just one round tonight given the pill he’d just taken.
You were right about how close he was to snapping. The final straw seemed to be when you reached down, picking your underwear up from the floor. He watched the movement, a warning look on his face, but you didn’t stop. Instead, you took his hand, setting the soaking wet miniscule lace in his palm.
“Happy birthday,” with that, you turned around, crawling onto the bed on all fours, swaying your hips as you went.
You didn’t get very far before his hands were grabbing you by the waist, dragging you back to the edge. Your lower legs hung off the bed as he pressed his hips against your ass. He was burning hot, even through his clothes. You could feel the heat and weight of him as you ground back, smearing the wetness leaking from you onto his pants.
“I wanted to be nice,” behind you, you heard rustling as his shirt finally dropped off his shoulders. The clinking of his belt followed, thudding as it hit the floor next. “I wanted to make love to my sweet little wife, but I don’t think that’s what you want, huh?”
“I want you to fuck me, Jack,” you heard him drag his pants and boxers down, the thick length of his cock springing free to brush agaisnt you. Your hips pushed back, almost involuntarily, craving him inside of you. “Make love to me later, knock me up now.”
“Fuck,” his fingers found your clit, stroking through your folds and finding you oh so ready for him. He was making small, tight circles around the bud, sending small shockwaves of pleasure through you.
“Stop wasting time,” your words were breathy, slowly losing their bite. “At this rate it’ll be another 30 years before I get pregnant.”
“Shut up,” you could feel him lining himself up. “Let me make you feel good.”
“I’ll feel good if you- oh fuck!”
Jack interrupted your whining by slamming in all the way. Usually, he was slow, guiding himself inside, taking the time to let you adjust. Not now, though, now he barely gave you a second to get used to the feeling before he was pulling out and pushing back in.
“Is this what you wanted?” His voice was strained, his hips working vigorously as he used his grip on your waist to drag you back onto him every time he thrust in.
The sound was obscene. Wet slapping accompanied by your whines and gasps as he reached deep inside of you, bumping all the way up against your cervix with each push in. His own panting was nearly drowned out, but the groan that escaped him when you clamped down tight as he shifted angles was loud.
“Right there, huh?” Jack tilted his hips, angling towards that spot while one of his hands pushed down on your upper back. Your arms gave way, head meeting the sheets as he continued to pound away.
“Fuck, Jack, right there!” Your cries were high pitched and needy as he kept up the pace. His pounding was rhythmic, barely faltering even when his fingers found your clit again, and you tightened around him even more. The circles he was drawing were fast, matching the speed and timing of his thrusts.
Jack had long since learned to play your body like a fiddle and he was pulling no punches tonight. His hand not on your clit shifted, sliding down to press the heel of his palm right above your pubic bone. The added pressure had you crying out, walls pulsing as an orgasm washed over you unexpectedly.
It came in waves, your back arching and pushing your hips into his even more fervently as the pleasure grew and radiated out from between your legs. It was sudden, overwhelming, and seemingly never ending as he kept fucking you through it, his pace unchanging, his hands never moving from where they lay.
“Fuck, baby,” he was panting, leaning halfway over you as you twitched. “God, fuck, I’m close.”
“C’mon, do it Jack,” you knew your voice was whiny and breathy, but you couldn’t care less as you begged him. “Please, do it. Cum inside me. I need it!”
This was far from the first time he’d fucked you raw. The two of you hadn’t used a condom since the early days of your relationship. After one broke and forced an incredibly awkward pharmacy run for Plan B, you’d gotten your IUD. Once it was effective, you had never had a barrier between you. Jack was well accustomed to coming inside of you.
But this was different. That protection was gone, sitting on the dining room table where he’d left it after dinner. And now you were begging him to cum inside you, not just because it felt good for both of you, but because you wanted to have his child. You wanted him leaking out of you, filling you up until you had no room left inside. You wanted the consequences of this action, the visible and physical manifestation of him left inside of you.
His hand on your stomach shot out, clutching the duvet beside your head as he leaned even farther over you. Jack’s rhythm grew erratic, faster than before as he folded over you. His fingers never stopped circling but they did hitch, that steady pressure faltering as he got closer.
“Fuck, oh fuck, you feel so good,” he was so close you could feel it. Feel him pulsing and twitching inside of you while his chest, damp with sweat pressed against your back.
“Please,” the word was tangled with a moan as it left your lips. The orgasm that had seemed never ending was rising again, impossibly fast. “Please, Jack, want your baby, please.”
“Oh shit, fuck, fuck! Oh, I’m cumming, oh fuck!”
You felt the heat inside you, that warmth radiating out as he buried himself deep, hips rutting in grinding little thrusts as he came. It was overwhelming. Your own orgasm, much weaker than the previous one, jerked through your body as you felt him fill you.
The two of you stayed quiet, no words exchanged while you rode out the pleasure coursing through both your veins. Jack stayed buried as deep as he could inside of you, his hand finally leaving your clit when you stopped pulsing around him, only for it to find the front of your thigh, keeping you tightly pressed against him.
“I love you,” he whispered against your shoulder blade while he caught his breath.
“I love you, too,” you couldn’t really reach back to touch him in this position. At least, not without the growing ache in your lower back worsening. “I’m getting sore, Jack.”
“If I tell you to lay down and get comfortable, will you actually listen this time?” The smirk on his face as you peaked over your shoulder made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. He slowly pushed himself up, lifting his weight off your body and pulling out.
“Yes, fine, I’ll listen,” you winced a little as his dick left your body, gasping a little when you realized he was still half hard.
“Shit, stop for a sec,” his hand palmed your ass cheek, stopping you from crawling forward to get comfortable. For a moment, you were confused. But then you felt it. His cum was dripping from you, spilling now that he’d finally pulled out. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”
The low groan in his voice had you clenching around nothing, pushing even more out of you.
“Gotta keep it all in there, baby,” his fingers came up, pushing it back inside of you. They curled downwards, brushing against the sensitive skin just behind your clit, your legs shaking as he repeated the motion. “Fuck you’re so wet. So full of me.”
“Jack, please,” you weren’t entirely sure what you were asking for, all you knew was that you needed him. Over your own panting breaths you could just make out the wet sound of his own hand dragging over his length.
“Ok, ok,” his fingers pulled out of you. “Get comfortable, I need you again.”
Your legs were weak and it took you a second to focus again as you made your way to the center of the bed, falling onto your back, your head resting among the pillows. Your eyes found him like a magnet, snapping into focus as he finally pulled his pants all the way down.
He was fully hard again, and you watched with blatant hunger as he sat on the edge of the bed, hastily unfastening his prosthetic before he was climbing over to you.
“Left your hips for me,” you followed his instruction, allowing him to slide a pillow below your ass to keep you propped up for him. “Good girl.”
He settled, kneeling, between your legs, length still glistening from just having been inside you. Jack dragged the head of his cock over your folds, taking in the way your body twisted and undulated, silently begging for him to be back inside you.
“Are you ready?”
How kind and totally unnecessary for him to check in on you. You were mere seconds away from flipping him over and riding him.
“Yes, please Jack,” your hands reached down for him, trying to guide him in yourself.
“Ah-ah,” he tangled your fingers in his, leaning over you to trap your hands above your head with one of his. “I fucked you how you wanted, now we do it how I want it.”
“Just get inside me, please! I want you so bad,” you had a sneaking suspicion he might have wanted to tease you for even longer, but your husband had never been able to resist you for very long. You could see how much he wanted it, and your begging seemed to have won out over his desire to tease.
“God, you’re still so tight,” Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck as he slid inside. “How the fuck are you always so tight?”
“Made for you!” Your voice came out high and squeaky as he began to move.
“Fuck yes you were,” his lips landed on the sensitive skin of your throat, sucking and kissing and no doubt leaving countless marks you’d be struggling to cover when you went back to work.
The pace he set this time was much slower than before, but somehow filthier. The slow, insistent grind of him withdrawing and pushing back in had your clit grinding against the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his cock. The sounds this time were quieter but no less salacious. The unmistakable sound of how wet you were filled the room every time he pushed in as deep as he could get, mixed with the whimpers and gasps of his name you let out as you clung to him. He was rather quiet the first time until he got close, but he must have been more sensitive now as his groans and curses vibrated against your neck.
Those noises only built in volume as the two of you fell into a cycle, pushing each other even higher.
Every time you clenched tightly around him as he hit just the right spot, his teeth would scrape the sensitive skin on your neck or shoulder. In return, your fingernails would dig in tighter against the muscles in his back and his hips would press as deep he could, brushing against the spot that made you clench tighter.
“You feel so good around me, baby,” his movements were beginning to stutter as the two of you got closer again. His hand tangled in your hair as he pulled his head away from your neck, keeping your eyes locked on his.
Jack looked wild. His pupils were blown wide, eyes full of tenderness even as his skin was flushed, his mouth open as he let loose sounds of pleasure.
“You’re all mine.”
You tried to nod against his grip in your hair, eyes slipping shut as he ground even harder into you. Everything was hazy. The pleasurable feeling of every movement sent zaps tingling up your spine.
“No, no keep your eyes open,” you gasped as he broke his semi-steady rhythm to thrust hard into you. Your eyes opened, locking onto his. “Good girl, that’s good.”
He was getting louder now, getting closer and consequently pushing you there as well.
“Say it, baby,” you were tightening around his length uncontrollably now, impossibly close. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I-I’m fuck!” You could barely get the first word out as his hand once again found its way between your bodies, rubbing against you as you squirmed. The pleasure was almost too much. “I’m your- fuck, fuck! I’m yours, Jack!”
“All mine,” his lips landed on yours while his fingers sped up. The kiss was sloppy, mostly tongues and teeth while you panted into each other's mouths. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum again, ohhh fuck.”
His hips snapped once, twice and then stilled as deep as he could get. Jack never stopped rubbing your clit, though, pushing you through to cum around him for the 3rd time so far as came inside you again.
You could barely feel the extra fluid. The space between your legs was already messy and your orgasm pushed every last thought out of your head as your body shook. Your legs tightened around his hips as your body arched up into him. One of his arms slid beneath your lower back, his hips burying his cock even deeper inside.
As your body trembled and the pleasure slowly faded, you realised he was speaking to you, the bussing in your ears finally fading enough for you to hear him.
“-love you so much, baby,” his head had dropped back down to the crook of your neck, but his lips hadn’t resumed their attack. The words were quiet. You knew he was talking to you, but the words almost seemed too personal. Like Jack’s filter had been fucked out of him, and the words spilling against your skin were his inner monologue. “Can’t believe you want to make me a dad. I swear, I’ll do my best. I’ll be so good. I can’t wait to hold her and love her-”
“Her?” You finally felt coherent enough to interrupt.
Jack jumped like he had forgotten you were there, even with his length still buried inside of you.
He hesitated for a moment, before lifting his head to look you in the eye. “I want a daughter,” his hand came to rest over your lower stomach. “One of the residents told me I seem like a girl-dad a year or so ago and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. And now, getting you pregnant… I hope it’s a girl.”
You were torn between laughing and crying. You remembered the off hand comment from one of the bolder first year students, along with the look of utter confusion on Jack’s face. He hadn’t understood the comment, simply telling them he didn’t have kids and to get back to work.
But the tenderness in his voice, the absolute love in his eyes as he looked down at you had a lump forming in your throat.
“You know it’s not that quick,” your hand came up to cradle his jaw covered in that silver stubble you loved so much. “It might take a while for me to get pregnant. And there's no way to guarantee it’ll be a girl.”
His head turned slightly to press a kiss to your palm. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m happy to keep trying.”
Your cheeks flushed at the insinuation, choosing to redirect. “And if it’s a boy?”
Jack lowered himself back over you, his nose brushing yours. “Then I’ll have a son. The only thing that matters is that the both of you are safe, happy, and healthy.”
“I love you,” the words were tight, barely getting out of your throat around the steadily growing lump of overwhelming emotion.
Summary: You finally have expectations when it comes to men.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song
A/N:
And you guys thought I couldn't write fluff
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Jack Abbot had not been on your list, which was perhaps the most irritating part of all.
Not because he wasn't attractive. He was. Anyone with functioning eyes could acknowledge that much. Not because he wasn't kind either. If anything, kindness seemed to exist in him as naturally as breathing. You saw it every day in the emergency department, in the way he remembered nurses' names, in the way he stayed twenty extra minutes to explain something to a worried family, even when his shift had technically ended. And it certainly wasn't because he lacked ambition or direction. The man was an attending physician at one of the busiest trauma hospitals in Pittsburgh. Every day, he walked into a department where lives could change in seconds and somehow managed to carry the responsibility without letting it harden him.
No, Jack wasn't the problem.
The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.
It had taken years to get there.
Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.
It was exhausting.
Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.
You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.
You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.
You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.
Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.
You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.
Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.
It gave you perspective.
After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.
Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.
There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.
Six months.
You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.
Not heartbreak.
Clarity.
Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.
You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.
Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.
Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.
Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.
And the data had led you here.
To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.
Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.
You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.
The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.
You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.
Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.
Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.
And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.
The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.
It was that he remembered things.
Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.
You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.
Jack had smiled.
"That's a huge accomplishment."
Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.
Three weeks passed.
Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.
Jack apparently didn't.
You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.
He slowed slightly.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"How'd the graduation go?"
You stopped walking.
Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.
"What?"
"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"
For a moment you simply stared at him.
Three weeks.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.
"You remembered that?"
Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"
The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.
The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.
You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.
At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.
Because maybe caring looked like this.
Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.
You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.
Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.
Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.
The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.
You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.
The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.
By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.
You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.
You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.
A granola bar.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Jack didn't even look up.
"You haven't eaten."
For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.
"What?"
"I saw you skip lunch."
His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.
"Eat."
Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
"You got me food?"
That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.
"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."
A beat passed.
"Which isn't sustainable."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.
You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.
"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"
"Someone has to."
"You say that like I'm a child."
"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."
You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.
"How did you even notice?"
He looked up again.
"Notice what?"
"That I hadn't eaten."
The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.
"You always eat lunch."
You blinked. "What?"
"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."
He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.
"Today you didn't."
Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.
To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.
Not because he wanted credit.
Not because he was trying to impress you.
Not because he expected anything in return.
Simply because he cared.
As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.
No grand gesture.
Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.
A simple act of care.
And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.
"You like him."
Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.
"Excuse me?"
She didn't even look up from her computer.
"You like him."
You stared at her.
"Who?"
That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.
"Abbot."
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
"Come again?"
"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."
A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.
"I don't have a crush on him."
"Sure."
"I don't."
"Okay."
"Santos."
"What?"
"I do not have a crush on Jack."
The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.
"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."
"I do not get weird."
"You do."
"I don't."
Santos raised an eyebrow.
You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.
"Don't you have patients?"
"Don't change the subject."
"I'm not changing the subject."
"You are."
You pointed at her dramatically.
"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"
"Partially."
At least she was honest.
Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.
"There."
"Oh, shut up."
"There!"
Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.
And yet you found yourself watching.
Not because he was handsome.
Although he was.
Not because he was charming.
Although he could be.
It was something far more annoying than that.
Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.
Not perfect.
Good.
There was a difference.
You'd seen him struggle too.
Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.
A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.
Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.
Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.
Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.
In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.
And somehow that made him even more competent.
That was the problem.
Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.
You respected him.
You respected the way he treated people.
You respected the way he worked.
You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.
And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.
Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.
Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.
"You done staring?"
You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"
You sighed. "What?"
Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.
"I get it."
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.
"He makes people feel safe."
The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.
And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.
The realization happened at a bar.
Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.
Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.
The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.
People were simply existing.
Laughing.
Drinking.
Living.
You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.
You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.
Actually happy.
You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.
You had already chosen yourself.
And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.
"Vodka cranberry."
Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.
You glanced over.
"What about it?"
He nodded toward your drink.
"You always order vodka cranberries."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"
"Maybe."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"I like knowing things."
"Yeah, I've noticed that."
The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.
"You seem happy."
The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.
You looked over at him. "So do you."
"No."
The small smile on his face faded slightly.
"I'm serious."
Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.
"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.
"Good."
The word came quietly. Sincerely.
"You deserve that. It suits you."
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.
He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.
And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.
You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.
Jack had never made you feel that way.
Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.
And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.
Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.
Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.
For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.
"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."
Jack laughed immediately.
"Past tense?"
You smiled. "Definitely."
"What changed?"
The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.
You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"
"Yeah."
You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."
Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.
"I used to fall in love with potential."
The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.
Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."
"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."
His smile widened. "Very terrible."
"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."
You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."
"It doesn't."
"It should."
Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."
The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.
"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."
The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.
"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.
The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.
"Consistency."
Jack nodded slightly.
"Kindness."
You thought for another second.
"Emotional intelligence."
Then, completely serious, you added,
"A guy with a real job."
The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.
"A real job?"
"I'm serious."
"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."
You pointed at him.
"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."
His shoulders shook with laughter.
"I stand corrected."
"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."
"What?"
"I'm not joking."
"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."
"It is, trust me."
By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.
When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.
Not intensely.
Not romantically.
Just honestly.
Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.
You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.
It felt intentional.
Steady.
Healthy.
The realization settled quietly into your chest.
Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.
Jack wasn't potential.
He wasn't a project.
He wasn't a possibility.
He was already there.
Already doing the work.
Already growing.
Already becoming.
And maybe that was what made room for something real.
Not two people searching for someone to complete them.
Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.
And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.
The first kiss happened months later.
Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.
You knew the sound of his laugh.
You knew how he took his coffee.
You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.
You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.
You knew how he listened.
And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.
The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.
As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.
You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.
When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.
Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.
The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.
"You just did, big guy."
His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.
And there it was.
That look.
The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.
For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.
Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.
Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"
Just like that.
No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.
Just honesty.
Direct. Simple. Certain.
The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.
You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.
For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.
None of it had been wasted.
Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.
Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.
Your smile widened before you could stop it.
"Yeah."
The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.
It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.
Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.
Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.
You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.
Then his hand lifted.
Gentle. Careful.
He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.
The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.
When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.
When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.
Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.
But the opposite had turned out to be true.
Having expectations hadn't prevented love.
It had protected you until the right person arrived.
Because these days, you had expectations.
And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.
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jack x reader || authors note: tiktok inspired me cuz today i saw that this girl was dating some forty two year old and he called her purse a pocketbook lol
—
there were little tiny moments, you know, the kind that made her stop and really think..
oh, he’s fifty.
like the time when they had just finished eating dinner at their favorite sushi restaurant.
as she stood, he said, "baby, don’t forget your pocketbook."
she blinked at that.
"my what?" she gawked.
"your pocketbook." he said nonchalantly. pushing his chair in
"you mean, my purse?"
he had the audacity to look at her like she was the strange one. "same thing." he scoffed.
she stared at him for a second before laughing.
"jack." she gasped.
"what?" he threw up his hands dramatically.
"who still says pocketbook?" she said, grabbing her purse before he grabbed her hand to pull her away from the table.
he gave her that look.
“no seriously!” she laughed.
"i don’t know, baby.” he playfully groaned. “people with manners?” he tried to defend as she moved her hands to wrap around his toned arm as they walked.
————
then, like clockwork he always refused to let her carry anything heavy— not because he thought she couldn't.
because, "i've got it."
"jack, it's literally two grocery bags.” she said as he took the bags out of her hands from where they stood next to car.
"and?" he called to her as he walked towards the front door.
“i can hold my own.” she pouted.
"c’mon baby, i like to do this f’you don’t be upset."
————
and don’t even get me started about how every single time they got in the car he’d rest his hand on the back of her seat while he reversed.
she bit her lip and smiled the first time she noticed it happen.
"you know your car has a backup camera." she chuckled.
"i know." he smiled, giving her the perfect view of his jawline as he glanced behind them.
"then why do you still do that?" she wanted to know.
he shrugged as he turned back towards the steering wheel.
she watched as he turned the volume up to the music as he said, "just a habit."
"it's kinda hot." she breathed, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinked up at him from where she sat.
"yeah?" he smirked.
“yeah.”
————
of course he still printed boarding passes.
"jack..."
she in disbelief. she watched him fish out his backpack again to make sure they were in there.
“you know they're on your phone."
"i know." he said, zipping up the backpack and stringing it over his shoulder as they continued walking towards the terminal
"okay.. so why did you print them?"
"what if my phone dies?" he questioned, interlacing his fingers with hers.
"baby, we have a portable charger.”
"still."
she just smiled, stopping him to give him a small peck.
he hummed happily but was confused as to why she thought it was so cute.
———————
and out of habit, he'd send her articles. and nope.. not tiktok’s or reels. he sent her actual news articles.
he honestly thought she’d find them interesting.
so, she would open them almost immediately whenever she’d get the text.
jack: Check this out.
finally, one day as she sat on the couch she just needed to know
"babe..”
"hm?" he looked up from his phone, pushing up his glasses that were resting on the bridge of his nose.
"it's twelve paragraphs."
"uh, yeah." he nodded before looking down at the phone. reading the same article that he had just sent to her.
"there isn't even a video."
"why would there be?" he said in confusion, shaking his head.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x mom!reader x toddler!daughter
Warning: fluff, domestic sweetness
Summary: Jack returns home to find his sleepy babygirl clinging to a very special teddy.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The morning sun was just starting to peek through the blinds. Jack quietly unlocked the front door, his entire body was aching and all he wanted was to crash.
But as he hung up his jacket, your soft voice pulled him toward your babygirl's bedroom.
No matter how exhausted he was, seeing his girls was the only cure for a rough shift.
You were already by the crib, a mug of coffee warm between your hands. You looked up as he slipped into the room, your eyes softening at the dark circles under his.
"Hey, handsome," you whispered, setting your mug down on the side table. "Survived the night?"
"Barely," Jack murmured back. He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Missed you, beautiful."
"Missed you too, Doctor." You tilted your head, kissing his cheek. "Say hi. She’s just waking up."
Jack smiled, pulling away to step over to the crib. Inside, your daughter was starting to stir. She blinked sleepily, her eyes rubbing against her fists until they landed right on Jack. Instantly, a tiny smile broke behind her pacifier.
"Daddy!" she screamed with a sleepy voice.
She immediately poked her hands up into the air, making her uppie arms.
Jack’s heart completely melted. He leaned over the railing, scooping her warm body up against his chest.
"Hi my beautiful girl," Jack whispered as he pressed a long kiss into her hair.
She let out a giggle, her hands immediately coming up to cup his face. Her fingers patted his cheeks, testing the rough morning stubble on his jaw. "S'atchy," she mumbled, but she didn't pull away. She leaned her forehead against his nose, rubbing it side to side in a sleepy greeting.
"Yeah, Daddy needs a shave, doesn't he?" Jack cooed, rocking her gently from side to side as she buried her face into his neck.
As he hoisted her a little higher, Jack noticed something else in the crib. A familiar fluffy brown teddy bear dressed in a miniature set of blue hospital scrubs with a very cute little stethoscope.
"Since when does she sleep with plushies?" Jack asked softly, turning to you with an arched eyebrow. "She usually kicks everything out the second she lays down."
You let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his shoulder. Hearing your voice, your daughter reached one hand to pat your face, ensuring both of her favorite people were within arm's reach.
"She only sleeps with that one," you explained. "And only on specific nights. When you're on a night shift and you can't put her to bed, she gets incredibly restless. She sits by the door waiting for you."
Jack’s chest tightened. The guilt of the long hours at the hospital was a constant weight.
"So, I started giving her the bear on those nights," you continued, reaching out to smooth a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. "I told her that whenever Daddy is at the hospital helping people, this guy is on duty to keep her safe until you get home. Now, she won't go to sleep without him when you're gone. I think it's her way of keeping you close until you come back."
Jack looked down at the scrubwearing bear on the mattress. He reached down with his free hand and picked up the plushie, holding it up so his daughter could see it.
"Who's this, sweet girl?" Jack asked her gently, shaking the bear's little paw. "Is this your helper?"
The toddler blinked sleepily at the bear, then looked right at Jack, her little thumb poking the bear as she nodded. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and pointed a tiny finger at the plushie.
"He's night dada," she mumbled softly, her voice muffled around her paci.
Jack froze. New emotions emerged at the realization that she considered the little bear her version of him when the sun went down.
"Night Dada, huh?" Jack pressed the plush bear gently into her arms, and she instantly hugged it tight against her chest, right alongside his own neck. "He takes good care of you when Daddy's at work?"
The toddler nodded and whispered. "Dad doctor."
He wrapped his free arm securely around you, needing the comfort of his family.
"Thank you," he whispered to you, leaning down to kiss your lips. "For being here for her when I can't."
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Summary: They don't call him Joe 'Keeps making jokes' Keery for nothing
The moment you stepped out of the car, you felt the noise hit you all at once.
It was louder than you expected. Cameras clicking, people shouting names, flashes lighting up the carpet so quickly that you barely had time to blink between them. You had been fine on the drive over, or at least you had convinced yourself you were fine, sitting beside Joe with your hand tucked into his and your knee bouncing beneath the hem of your outfit.
Now, standing in front of a wall of photographers with dozens of people calling for you both to look their way, you could feel your confidence slipping.
Joe noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
His hand found the small of your back before you could even say anything, warm and steady, grounding you without making it obvious. He leaned closer, his smile still fixed for the cameras, and murmured, “For the record, I also think this is weird. Grown adults yelling at us to turn left like we’re confused Sims.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Joe’s grin widened, pleased with himself. “There she is.”
You glanced up at him, trying to hide how grateful you were, but he already knew. He always knew. His hand stayed firm against your back as he guided you a step forward, careful not to rush you, careful not to let the crowd swallow you whole.
“Joe! Over here!”
“Y/N, this way!”
“Joe, can we get one together?”
Your shoulders tensed at the sound of your name being shouted from every direction. Joe must have felt it, because he shifted a little closer, his body angled slightly in front of yours, not enough to block you completely, but enough to make you feel sheltered.
He turned his head towards you again. “Do you reckon if I trip dramatically, they’ll stop taking photos of you and start asking if I need medical assistance?”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile too obviously. “Please don’t.”
“I’m just saying, I’m willing to commit to the bit.”
“You are not falling on a red carpet for me.”
“I would absolutely fall on a red carpet for you,” he said seriously, then paused. “Maybe not face first. I have limits.”
This time, you laughed properly, and the photographers noticed.
“Beautiful! Hold that!”
Joe looked smug. “See? I’m a professional.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he said, squeezing your waist gently.
The comment was quiet, meant only for you, but the way he looked at you was impossible to miss. Soft. Proud. Protective in a way that made your chest ache.
As you moved further down the carpet, an interviewer waved the two of you over. You felt your nerves return the second a microphone was pointed in your direction. Joe sensed that too. He always seemed to catch the smallest changes in you, the way your fingers curled into your palm or your smile became a little too fixed.
Before the interviewer could ask anything, Joe leaned towards the microphone and said, “Just so everyone knows, she’s carrying this entire evening. I’m mostly here for moral support and snacks.”
The interviewer laughed. “You two look amazing tonight.”
Joe looked at you instead of answering straight away. “Yeah, she does.”
Your face warmed, and you nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re meant to say thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said, still looking at you. “But I stand by what I said.”
The interviewer smiled, clearly picking up on the way Joe kept checking on you between questions. “You seem very calm together.”
Joe laughed under his breath. “That’s because one of us is actually cool, and the other one is me pretending I know what I’m doing.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling now. A real smile. The tightness in your chest had started to ease, replaced by the comfort of Joe standing beside you, making himself a shield without ever making you feel small.
When the interviewer asked you a question, Joe stayed quiet, but his thumb brushed gently against your side. A tiny reminder that he was there. That you did not have to rush. That you were doing fine.
You answered, your voice a little shaky at first, but stronger by the end. Joe watched you with that soft, proud expression again, the one that made it hard to remember anyone else was around.
When you finished, he leaned in and whispered, “That was very hot of you.”
“Joe,” you hissed, trying not to laugh with the microphone still nearby.
“What? I’m supporting you.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“Lovingly.”
The interviewer laughed again, and somewhere nearby, cameras flashed faster. You could already imagine the clips online later. Joe Keery making Y/N laugh on the red carpet. Joe Keery unable to stop looking at Y/N. Joe Keery being protective as Y/N gets nervous.
And maybe people were noticing.
Maybe they could see the way he kept his hand on your back, the way he gently moved you away from the louder photographers when they started calling too much, the way he answered quickly whenever someone tried to talk over you, giving you space to breathe.
But for once, you did not mind being noticed.
Because Joe made the whole thing feel less terrifying.
As you reached the end of the carpet, you let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. Joe looked down at you.
“You okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
His face softened. “You did so good.”
“You kept making jokes.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, slipping his hand into yours as you stepped away from the flashing lights, “you looked nervous.”
“I was nervous.”
“I know.” His voice went quieter. “That’s why I wasn’t going to let you stand there feeling alone.”
Your heart squeezed.
For a moment, the noise of the carpet faded behind you. There was only Joe, his fingers linked with yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his smile gentler now that no one was shouting for it.
“You’re very protective, you know,” you said.
He shrugged, trying to play it off, but the tips of his ears turned pink. “Only because you’re you.”
You smiled up at him. “That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense in my head.”
You laughed, and Joe’s expression softened all over again, like that had been the whole point. Like he would make a fool of himself in front of a hundred cameras if it meant getting you to breathe a little easier.
Then he leaned closer, his voice low and warm beside your ear.
“Come on. Let’s go inside before I actually have to fake an injury.”
it’s late when sukuna returns, shards of moonlight peeking through the blinds of your shared home like pieces of glass. you’d been up late waiting for him, same as every night.
you lift your head up from your palm when you hear the sound of shoes scuffling, tired expression letting up into a soft smile at the sight of your boyfriend. you get up immediately to make your way over.
you don’t notice it: the tension in his features or the almost-scowl on his face, the aura of irritation he’s carrying like a weight. you’re blinded by affection.
“hi, kuna,” you smile sweetly, tiptoeing to wrap your arms around his neck as you lean into him. he tenses up under your touch and you coo sympathetically, rubbing his back. “long day?”
“um, yeah,” sukuna grunts, not moving to reciprocate the embrace. he shifts slightly, irritation radiating off him in waves. “could you let go? ‘m gonna go take a shower.”
he sounds annoyed, you realise, but he’s probably just exhausted. of course you’re gonna try your best to help, and cuddles always helped, at least for you. you could do that.
“nuh-uh,” you reply instantly, smiling as you cling to sukuna tighter. your face drops onto his shoulder, nuzzling as you inhale his heady scent. “you can shower later, let’s cuddle first. i miss you.”
“later.” his voice rises.
you pout childishly. “no, now, you’re tired and i can hug you and —“
“i said, later.” sukuna finally snaps, tone poisonous and voice tight like coiled wire. he crosses his arms, his way of pushing you off without actually doing it. “you just never fuckin’ know when to quit, do you?”
you freeze.
he doesn’t yell, never does, but this is worse somehow. harder to swallow because you can feel the pure anger in it.
you don’t trust your voice enough to respond. slowly dropping your hands off him, you take a quiet, shaky step back. sukuna grunts in approval, rubbing his temples. “i’ve had a long day. can’t deal with you right now.”
that pierces through your heart like a bullet. suddenly, all you’re filled with is hurt and guilt and the slightest twinge of anger. you fight to keep a straight face as your eyes sting.
can’t deal with you right now.
what the hell was that supposed to mean?
sukuna had never once made you feel like a burden, ever. you knew what he was like before you started dating, you’d heard everything about how he fucked people over.
but he always treated you like you were the most precious thing on earth, like you were something to be handled with gentleness. you almost believed it, stupid girl.
now you got it. you understood exactly what everyone had been telling you. he finally got sick of you, eventually realised that you were too annoying. too bright, too nice, too much for him.
but maybe he didn’t have to be such an asshole about it, you think as you bite down on your lip to hold back tears.
“okay,” you exhale, struggling to keep your voice even. “i’m sorry. i, um- i ran you a bath.”
the tense silence is deafening. you swallow, voice growing quieter. “i’ll just go to bed then.”
sukuna doesn’t respond, glaring at something on the floor. you quickly turn around and make your way to the bedroom, the dam quietly breaking as soon as the door’s closed and you're out of his view.
you settle into bed, tucking in with your hands wrapped tightly around your body like a shield. the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut makes you flinch.
the clink of the shower turning on follows right after; he didn’t even use the bath you set up for him.
you hate feeling this way. like you did something wrong and you don’t know what, like he did something wrong and you don’t want to admit it.
quiet sniffles escape you as you close your eyes, feeling the cold tears drip down the bridge of your nose, down your temples. you will yourself to sleep, despite knowing it won’t come.
it’s a long time before you feel a dip in the bed, sukuna’s weight climbing in next to you. you’re in that weird headspace between wakefulness and sleep, but immediately tense awake at the jostling.
it takes a moment before he says anything. almost like he’s hesitating. you hear his heavy breaths.
“hey, baby,” he finally murmurs from behind you, hand reaching out, hovering before he gently puts it on your waist. checking if it’s okay.
you turn rigid, and sukuna retracts his hand like he’s been burned, frowning slightly.
“you’re upset,” he mutters. not a question.
he’s unsurprised when you don’t reply, but he hopes you’ll give him a sliver of a chance anyway. “could you at least turn around?” he grunts. “look at me?”
silence.
he sighs, softer now. he grumbles something under his breath before speaking up again. “please?”
it takes a minute before you begrudgingly shift, rolling over so you’re facing him instead of the wall. you glare up at him, sitting on the covers and looking down at you.
sukuna looks you over.
he thinks he feels something in him crack at the sight of your dried tear tracks, puffy red eyes.
he made you, his sweet, angelic girl, cry. you were just trying to take care of him. only trying to make him feel better, and he snapped at you, and now he feels like the biggest loser on earth. all because of what? a fucking bad day?
idiot, he thinks to himself as he reaches out, both hands cupping your cheeks. he wipes your tears away firmly, so gentle despite it all.
you huff, trying to pull back, but sukuna doesn’t budge. his hands stay on your jaw, soft as his thumbs brush your cheeks.
“let go,” you muster angrily, but it’s a weak attempt.
“no.”
“sukuna, let me go. you’re such an —“
“asshole, i know,” he exhales roughly. his thumbs pause in their ministrations, pressing down on your skin softly. “bitch, jerk, fucking dick. i know. and i’m sorry.”
one hand moves to card gently through your hair, and he feels you grow more pliant under his touch. “i shouldn’t have snapped at you,” sukuna continues. “i had a bad fucking day, people saying the stupidest shit and pissing me off in every way possible. but that wasn’t… i shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
you swallow.
“no, you shouldn’t have,” you mumble, all your anger dissipating into something akin to hurt. you tilt your head down to look at your fiddling fingers. “i thought i did something wrong. or maybe you just finally realised you were sick of me, and you hated me.”
“no, baby —“ sukuna responds, almost desperate as he tilts your chin up to look back up at him. he presses a rough kiss to the side of your mouth, hating to see his bright girl looking so dim. “— fuck, no. you did nothing wrong, yeah? i was an absolute idiot, taking out my anger on you, when you were just trying to be nice.”
you bite your tongue. “you really are,” you say quietly, gaze locked on him. “an absolute idiot.”
“i am, baby,” sukuna agrees, brushing a curl back from your face. “you didn’t deserve that.”
he’s looking at you with not just guilt, but that quiet affection now, the one reserved just for you.
slowly, he bends down but doesn’t yet close the gap. he’s waiting for you to do it, or maybe to pull away if you want to. you give in.
you wrap your arms around his neck, using it as leverage to pull yourself up to meet his lips. he holds you up easily.
the kiss is soft, reverent, sorry, like sukuna’s never kissed before. his passion is still obvious, but it’s gentler now. moulding into something sweeter just for you.
it’s a while before you pull away, his warm breath fanning over your skin as he rests his forehead against yours.
his hands are warm where they’ve slipped under your top, drawing quiet patterns on your hip. you melt into his touch, resting your head on his shoulder with your fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.
“so,” he murmurs, and you feel the vibrations of his voice. “does this mean you’ve forgiven me?”
“maybe,” you mumble, lips twitching. “if you buy me a slice of that strawberry shortcake tomorrow, i’ll consider it.”
“how many ever you want, baby,” sukuna presses a quick kiss to the crown of your head. “i’ll get you the whole damn bakery.”
thinking about royalty au!sukuna and royalty au!reader…
royal au!sukuna who is a cold and unfeeling prince, next in line to be king of his kingdom and has fought in countless of wars. each one coming out undefeated and sharper from the years of training and isolation.
royal au!sukuna who is forced to betroth royal au!reader in hopes of getting him a dutiful queen who will be able to play her role as his placeholder till the next comes.
royal au!reader who is a rebellious princess from another kingdom, who is forced to accepted the engagement, out of reasons of ‘settling down’ and becoming more ‘royal-like’ - fulfilling her birth rite duty to becoming someone’s wife and someone else’s mother.
royal au!reader who decides she will do everything in her means to live her life the way she wants and somehow try to make royal au!sukuna’s life a living nightmare.
royal au!sukuna who has to try to not poison, stab or choke royal au!reader to death at every inconvenience she pushes him into.
royal au!reader who has to try to juggle the massive mantle of being next in line to be queen of a kingdom she has never called home, while maintaining her own self-identity as reader and not just a princess or someone’s wife.
all while somehow royal au!sukuna seems to soften up around the edges over time at the presence of royal au!reader. as cliché as it sounds.
royal au!sukuna and royal au!reader who end up finding out little things that make them fall for each other find each other more tolerable over the course of their year long engagement.
royal au!reader who finds it hard to love.
and royal au!sukuna who finds it not just hard but an absolute pain to love… yet, wants to try if it’s a chance to be with royal au!reader.
Summary: Jack Abbot is going to propose to you. That part is easy. The harder part is honoring your very serious, definitely-binding request that your best friend be consulted on any future ring purchase or proposal plan. Which is how Jack ends up in a coffee shop with John Shen, four ring photos, one proposal plan, a folder labeled Proposal Committee: Preliminary Review, and a cinnamon latte that may or may not become evidence in a future homicide investigation. But when the ring finally arrives six weeks later, Jack realizes the plan was never really about the candles, the takeout, or the timing. It was always about knowing you.
Warnings: fluff, proposal, engagement, emotional intimacy, established relationship, Shen being Shen, best friend/work husband chaos, brief lingerie mention, Jack being deeply in love, crying, happy tears, mild language
Author's Note:
The clause saga continues, and this one is pure proposal chaos with a deeply emotional center. Jack is trying so hard to be normal. Shen is taking his advisory role with terrifying seriousness. The reader is, of course, two steps away from figuring everything out at any given moment. This is for everyone who wanted Jack to honor the best friend clause, survive the proposal committee, and still get his perfect kitchen proposal. I hope you love it.
Xoxo, Del
Previous Parts: The Work Husband Clause & The Best Friend Clause
Jack Abbot was going to propose to you. He had known that for a while now. Not in the vague, distant, maybe-someday way people talked about marriage when they were trying not to scare themselves with the size of what they wanted. Jack had passed that point weeks ago. Months, maybe. It was hard to track the exact moment when wanting forever with you had stopped feeling like a thought and started feeling like a fact. Maybe it had been the first time you fell asleep on his couch with one hand tucked under your cheek and one foot pressed against his thigh like you had decided he was furniture.
Maybe it had been the morning you stole the last sip of his coffee, kissed his jaw, and told him you loved him before walking out the door wearing two different socks. Maybe it had been the night you looked at him with a straight face and told him that your best friend needed to be consulted on any future ring purchase or proposal plan. Jack had laughed. Briefly. Naively. Like a man who did not yet understand that you and John Shen could turn a joke into binding infrastructure if given enough time, caffeine, and access to the Notes app. But Jack loved you. God help him, he loved you enough to take the request seriously.
Which was why he was sitting in the back corner of a coffee shop on his day off with a black coffee, a notebook, four ring photos, and a level of preparation that would have embarrassed him if he had not been so determined to get this right. He had chosen the table carefully. Back corner. Clear sightline to the door. Not too close to the register. Not too close to the bathrooms. Not in your usual section of the café, because apparently, he now had to account for your caffeine habits as if planning a covert operation. There were easier ways to buy a ring. Jack knew that.
Normal men probably went to jewelry stores. Normal men probably texted a sister or a friend, asked a few questions, picked something beautiful, and moved on with their lives. Normal men did not arrange a committee meeting with their girlfriend’s work husband, best friend, former contractual betrothed, and active proposal advisor. Jack looked down at the top page of his notebook. Advisory Only. He had underlined it twice. Then the front door opened, and John Shen walked in wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a jacket collar pulled high enough to suggest either espionage or a deeply suspicious errand. Jack stared at him.
In one hand, Shen carried a folder. He scanned the café once, spotted Jack, and crossed the room with the grim focus of a man approaching a hostage negotiation.
Jack waited until Shen reached the table. Then he said, “Absolutely not.”
Shen did not sit. “Meeting here was a tactical error.”
Jack looked at the sunglasses. Then the hat. Then the folder.
“Was the tactical error the coffee shop,” Jack asked, “or whatever this is?”
Shen removed the sunglasses and set them carefully beside Jack’s black coffee. “The coffee shop.”
Jack leaned back. “Why?”
Shen’s eyes moved once toward the counter. “She can sense when I’m getting coffee without her.”
Jack stared at him. Shen stared back.
“That is ridiculous,” Jack said.
Shen glanced toward the menu board. “I need coffee.”
Jack’s brow furrowed, “You just said meeting here was a tactical error.”
“Yes,” Shen replied. “The error has already occurred.”
Jack watched him walk to the counter. He was thirty seconds into the meeting, and Shen had already arrived in disguise, declared the location compromised, and left Jack alone with a folder labeled in neat black marker. Jack looked down.
Proposal Committee: Preliminary Review
God give me patience. He thought. At the counter, Shen ordered something Jack could not hear. The barista nodded. A minute later, Shen returned with a cinnamon latte. Jack looked at the drink. Then at Shen.
Shen sat down. “Seasonal offering.”
Jack picked up his black coffee. “Of course.”
Shen’s phone rang. Both men looked down. Your name lit up the screen. For one perfect, terrible second, neither of them moved.
Then Shen said, very quietly, “Oh no.”
Jack looked from the phone to Shen. “Answer it.”
“I can’t,” Shen said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Shen looked genuinely alarmed now, which was, frankly, more unsettling than the sunglasses. “She’ll kill me if she finds out I got coffee without her.”
Jack stared at him. Shen stared back. The phone kept ringing. Shen’s gaze dropped to it.
“Answer it,” Jack said. “Or she’ll get suspicious.”
Shen looked at him as if Jack had just suggested walking directly into traffic.
Jack pointed at the phone. “Dunkin.”
Shen exhaled once, then picked up the call with the stiff posture of a man accepting his fate.
“Hello,” Shen said.
Jack immediately closed his eyes. Shen’s voice was too calm. You were going to hear it.
“Hey,” you said, bright and easy on the other end. “Jack had to go to some hospital meeting, so I’m bored. Do you want to get coffee?”
Shen’s eyes went wide. Jack’s head snapped up. Shen looked across the table at Jack like this was somehow Jack’s fault. Jack mouthed, No. Shen blinked at him. Jack shook his head once, sharper this time. No.
“No,” Shen said.
Jack’s eyes widened. There was a pause on the other end.
“You can’t get coffee?” you asked.
Shen sat perfectly still. “Correct.”
Jack dragged one hand down his face. God give him strength.
You were quiet for half a second. Then, suspiciously, you said, “John.”
Jack pointed sharply at Shen and mouthed, Errands. Shen’s gaze flicked to him. Jack mouthed it again, more aggressively. Errands.
“I am running errands,” Shen said.
Jack gave him a tight nod.
“Oh,” you said. “Great. I wanted to stop at the mall. We could meet up there?”
Shen froze. Jack froze with him.
“The mall?” Shen asked.
“Yeah,” you said. “Victoria’s Secret is having a sale, and I wanted to pick something up to surprise Jack.”
Jack’s forehead dropped to the table. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just one quiet, controlled thunk against the wood. Why? He thought. Why did his girlfriend tell Shen these things? Why did Shen receive these things like standard operational updates? Why was this his life? Jack asked any higher power with relevant insight. At this point, he wasn’t picky. Across the table, Shen’s eyes widened.
“John?” you asked.
Jack stayed face-down beside the ring photos. Shen stared at him.
“John,” you said again. “What was that?”
Shen lifted one hand and knocked twice on the table beside Jack’s head. Jack did not move. Shen knocked again, faster this time. Jack turned his head just enough to glare at him with one eye. Shen pointed sharply at the phone. Jack mouthed, Fix it.
Shen straightened. “Nothing.”
There was a pause.
“That was not nothing,” you said.
Shen’s grip tightened around his phone. “ I’m at the grocery store.”
Jack slowly closed his visible eye.
You were quiet for half a second. Then you said, “John.”
“I have to go,” Shen said quickly.
“What?” You asked, confused.
“Groceries, checking out, ” Shen said. “Bye.”
“Okay, talk to you lat—”
Shen ended the call and lowered the phone to the table with extreme care. Neither of them spoke. Jack still had his forehead pressed to the table. Shen waited. Jack did not move. Finally, Shen lifted one finger and knocked once beside his head.
Jack’s voice came muffled against the wood. “Do not knock on me.”
“I knocked near you,” Shen said.
Jack lifted his head slowly. “Why does my girlfriend tell you these things?”
Shen adjusted the folder in front of him. “Because we are best friends.”
Jack stared at him.
Shen added, “Best friend clause active.”
Jack pointed at him. “Do not invoke the clause during a Victoria’s Secret incident.”
Shen nodded once. “Boundary noted.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. This was his life. This was how he was planning to propose to his girlfriend. Sitting in a coffee shop across from John Shen, surrounded by ring photos, proposal notes, and the knowledge that you were apparently out in the world, attempting to buy lingerie while Jack attempted to behave like a composed adult. Fan-fucking-tastic. He thought. Shen’s phone lit up. Both men looked down.
You: If I find out you went and got that new cinnamon latte without me, I will murder you.
A second text appeared.
You: Jack will help me hide the body.
Jack stared at the screen. Shen stared at the screen. Then, slowly, both of them looked at the drink Shen had ordered. The cinnamon latte. Untouched. Obvious. Damning.
Jack’s eyes lifted to Shen. “You got the cinnamon latte?”
Shen’s expression remained perfectly still. “It was a seasonal offering.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “She specifically named it.”
“I did not know she had surveillance capacity,” Shen replied, clearly distressed.
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. Shen turned the phone face down.
Jack leaned back in his chair. “She’s going to kill you.”
Shen adjusted the folder with great care. “You are named as an accomplice.”
“I am not helping her hide your body,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “The text suggests otherwise.”
Jack looked at him. “Dunkin.”
Shen looked down at the latte again. Then he slid it across the table toward Jack. Jack looked at the cinnamon latte. Then down at his own black coffee. Then back at Shen.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
“Drink it,” Shen said.
Jack’s eyes lifted slowly. “No.”
Shen’s eyes widened in panic, “We have to get rid of the evidence.”
“I have coffee,” Jack replied, lifting his coffee.
Shen pushed the latte closer, “This is different coffee.”
Jack pointed at the cup, “This is a murder latte.”
Shen looked mildly horrified. “It is not a murder latte.”
Jack shrugged, “My girlfriend just threatened homicide over it.”
“She threatened my homicide,” Shen said. “You were listed as logistical support.”
Jack stared at him.
Shen pushed the cup another inch closer. “Drink it.”
Jack pushed it back with two fingers. “Absolutely not.”
“Abbot.” Shen pleaded.
Jack sighed, “Dunkin.”
Shen glanced toward the front windows, then back to the latte. “If she finds us, the latte becomes material evidence.”
Jack looked at the latte. Then at Shen. Then at the proposal folder. God give me strength. He thought. Jack loved you. That was the thing. He loved you enough to consult John Shen before buying your ring. He loved you enough to honor the ridiculous best friend clause. He loved you enough to sit here while Shen treated a cinnamon latte like contraband in a federal investigation. He did not love anyone enough to drink the murder latte.
“I’m screwed, aren’t I?” he muttered.
Shen paused. Then he picked up his pen. “Emotionally or logistically?”
Jack looked at him. “Do not write that down.”
Shen wrote something down.
Jack pointed at him. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “Noted.”
Jack closed his eyes. For one second, he let himself imagine proposing to you in a world where none of this was happening. A quiet room. Your hand in his. The ring in his pocket. Your face when you realized what he was asking. No folders. No committee language. No seasonal beverages with criminal implications. Then Shen opened his folder. Jack heard the soft scrape of paper against paper. He opened one eye. There were tabs. Internally, he said, God give me strength. There were tabs.
Shen clicked his pen. “We are already behind schedule.”
Jack stared at him. “Behind whose schedule?”
Shen looked down at the folder. “The proposal committee’s.”
Jack sat forward and flattened both hands on the table. “There is no proposal committee,” he said.
Shen glanced at the ring photos. “Then why am I here?”
Jack held his stare. Shen held it back. The cinnamon latte sat between them like evidence.
Finally, Jack exhaled through his nose, “Advisory only,” he said.
Shen nodded once. “Limited strong advisory.”
“Do not start,” Jack warned.
Shen looked down at his folder. “Starting is item one.”
Jack stared at him. Shen slid a printed page across the table. At the top, in clean, merciless lettering, it read:
Proposal Committee: Preliminary Review
Jack looked at the page. Then at Shen. Then at the murder latte.
“I should have proposed in private and lied to everyone,” Jack said.
Shen picked up his pen. “She would have known.”
Jack hated that he believed him. Shen looked down at the page, then toward the front windows.
“We need to get down to this before she finds us,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “Do not make my girlfriend sound like an approaching weather event.”
“She is mobile, suspicious, and under-caffeinated,” Shen said.
Jack hated that Shen was right. You were out there somewhere. Mobile. Suspicious. Under-caffeinated. Potentially armed with a Victoria’s Secret bag and the ability to detect cinnamon-based betrayal through walls.
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “Fine,” he said. “We start with the ring.”
Shen nodded once. “Agreed.”
He opened the folder. Jack saw the tabs immediately. Ring Preferences. Proposal Constraints. Wooing Requirement. Embarrassment Avoidance. Post-Proposal Notification Protocol.
Jack pointed at the last one. “What the hell is post-proposal notification protocol?”
Shen glanced down. “I assume you will notify me after she says yes.”
Jack paused. “After,” he said.
Shen looked up. “I am not asking to be present.”
Jack relaxed by two percent.
Then Shen added, “Unless requested.”
Jack pointed at him. “You will not be requested.”
Shen nodded once. “That seems likely.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth again. “This is already too much.”
“You asked for advisory input,” Shen said.
Jack pointed at him, “I asked for limited advisory input.”
“Yes,” Shen replied. “We should begin with the ring.”
Jack looked down at his own notebook, then at the ring photos stacked beside his black coffee. Fine. That was why they were here. Not the latte. Not the tabs. Not the fact that Shen had arrived dressed like he was about to commit a minor felony. The ring. Jack pulled the photos closer. Shen’s gaze dropped to them, then shifted briefly to Jack’s notebook.
Jack covered the page with one hand. “No.”
Shen blinked. “I did not say anything.”
“You were about to,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “I was observing.”
“Observe the rings,” Jack said.
Shen nodded once. “Reasonable.”
Jack slid the first photo across the table. “Start there.”
Shen picked it up. For all the nonsense, for all the committee language and the cinnamon latte currently threatening to become a crime scene, something in the air shifted when Shen looked at the picture. Jack felt it immediately. This was why he was here. Not because he could not choose a ring. He could. He had. Mostly. But you had asked for Shen to be consulted, and Jack had listened. Because he loved you. Because Shen mattered to you. Because forever, apparently, came with advisory obligations.
Shen studied the first photo for half a second. “No,” he said.
Jack blinked. “No?”
“No,” Shen repeated.
Jack frowned, “You looked at it for half a second.”
“That was sufficient,” Shen said.
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Reason?”
Shen set the photo down. “It is trying too hard.”
Jack looked at the ring. Then at Shen. “It’s a ring.”
“It is a ring with anxiety,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him.
Shen folded his hands. “She would feel obligated to like it.”
Jack looked down at the photo again. Annoyingly, that made sense. He hated it when Shen made sense. Jack slid the first photo aside and picked up the second one.
“Fine,” he said. “Next.”
Shen accepted the second photo.
This time, he looked at it for three seconds. “No.”
Jack leaned back. “You’re going to have to start using more words.”
“She would like this for someone else,” Shen said.
Jack frowned. Then, against his will, he understood exactly what Shen meant. The ring was pretty. Elegant. Clean lines. Not too much. The kind of thing you would point out in a store window and say was beautiful. For someone else. Jack took the photo back without arguing.
He slid the third photo across the table. “This one.”
Shen picked it up. He did not reject it immediately. That was something. Jack kept his face still, but his fingers tightened once around his coffee. Shen studied the photo longer than the others. His eyes moved over the center stone, the setting, the band, the details Jack had looked at for far too long the night before.
Finally, Shen set it down. “Closer,” he said.
Jack’s chest tightened. “But?”
Shen tapped the edge of the photo with one finger. “Still not hers.”
Jack looked down at it. He had known that too. It was close. Closer than the others. Romantic without being loud. Pretty without trying to announce itself from across the room. But not quite right. Not quite you. Jack exhaled through his nose and moved it aside.
Shen watched him. “You already knew.”
Jack did not answer.
Shen’s expression did not change, but his voice shifted slightly. “You brought comparison options.”
Jack looked up. Shen looked back at him calmly.
Jack’s jaw moved once. “I brought options.”
“You brought one option,” Shen said. “And supporting evidence.”
Jack stared at him. Shen waited. Jack reached for the final photo. He did not slide it across right away. For a second, his thumb rested on the corner of the paper. He had found it last. After hours of looking. After too many tabs open on his laptop. After too many rings that were beautiful and wrong and almost and no. He had found this one and gone quiet in his kitchen with his phone in his hand because, suddenly, he could see it. Your hand in his. Your fingers brushing his jaw. The ring catching light when you reached for his coffee. Your face when you realized what he was asking. Jack slid the photo across the table.
Shen picked it up. This time, he said nothing. Jack did not rush him. The coffee shop moved around them, quiet and warm and ordinary. Someone laughed near the counter. Milk steamed behind the bar. The murder latte sat between them, untouched and irrelevant for the first time since Shen had ordered it.
Shen looked at the ring. Then he looked at Jack. “That one,” Shen said.
Jack’s chest loosened before he could stop it. “Good,” he said.
Shen held the photo out.
Jack took it back carefully, his thumb brushing over the edge. “That’s the one I liked best.”
Shen nodded once. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Shen said, “Then you did not need me.”
Jack looked down at the photo. The ring was not flashy. Not plain, either. It had detail where it mattered, small and intentional, something you would notice more the longer you looked at it. Like you. Like the life he wanted with you.
“I didn’t need you to choose it,” Jack said.
Shen waited.
Jack looked up. “I needed to ask.”
Shen went very still. It was subtle. Almost nothing. A pause in his hands. A slight shift in his eyes. The kind of reaction most people would miss. Jack did not.
Shen looked down at the photo again. “She will like that.”
Jack glanced at the ring. “The ring?”
“No,” Shen said. “That you asked.”
Jack’s throat went tight before he could stop it. He looked down at the picture again because that was easier than looking at Shen. Then Shen picked up his pen.
Jack’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Do not write down that I’m emotionally evolved.”
Shen paused.
Jack stared at him. “Were you going to?”
“No,” Shen said.
Jack did not believe him.
Shen looked back at the folder. “I was going to write that ring selection is complete.”
Jack leaned back. “Good.”
Shen turned another page in his folder. “Proposal plan.”
Jack looked up. “I have one.”
Shen paused with his pen over the page. “One?”
“One,” Jack said.
Shen studied him for a second. “You brought four ring options.”
“Three comparison options and one ring,” Jack corrected.
Shen’s mouth barely moved. “Progress.”
Jack ignored that and opened his notebook to the page he had written the night before. There were not three plans. There were no backup locations, alternate timelines, or a ranked list of restaurants based on privacy and lighting. There was one plan. Because every time Jack tried to imagine asking you anywhere else, it felt wrong. Too staged. Too public. Too much like he was trying to perform forever instead of ask for it. Shen leaned forward as Jack turned the notebook around.
Jack tapped the page once. “At home.”
Shen looked down. Jack watched his face carefully.
“Dinner,” Jack said. “Her favorite takeout. Not something too formal. Candles, but not too many. Flowers, but not some apology-looking arrangement.”
Shen’s eyes flicked up.
Jack looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Shen said.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “That was not nothing.”
Shen glanced back at the page. “You accounted for apology flowers.”
“She hates arrangements that look like someone is trying to apologize,” Jack said.
Shen nodded once. “Correct.”
Jack hated how good that felt.
He moved his finger down the page. “Music. A playlist, songs she actually likes. Songs from us.”
Shen kept reading. Jack’s thumb rested near the last line. He did not tap it right away.
Then Shen looked up. “Location?”
Jack exhaled through his nose. “Kitchen.”
Shen went still.
Jack bristled on instinct. “What?”
Shen’s gaze stayed on him. “Why?”
Jack looked down at the page because that was easier than explaining it while Shen watched him like that.
“Because she always ends up there,” Jack said.
Shen did not interrupt.
Jack’s voice went quieter despite himself. “She sits on the counter when I cook. Steals food off the cutting board. Drinks my coffee even when she has her own.”
Shen’s expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.
“If she’s upset, she stands by the sink and pretends she’s getting water until she can talk,” Jack said. “If she’s happy, she dances there. Sometimes badly.”
Shen blinked once.
Jack glanced up. “Do not write badly.”
Shen looked down at the folder. “I did not.”
Jack did not believe him. He kept going anyway.
“She thinks the kitchen is where nothing big happens,” Jack said. “Which is why everything does.”
Shen was quiet. The coffee shop noise moved around them. Milk steaming behind the counter. A chair scraping against the floor. Someone laughing near the door.
Jack looked down at the notebook. “I can’t really imagine doing it another way.”
Shen looked at the page for another second. Then he nodded once. “Good.”
Jack lifted his eyes. “Good?”
“This is perfect,” Shen said.
Jack went still. Shen did not soften the words. He did not make them bigger than they needed to be. He just looked at Jack across the table and said it like a fact.
“She will know what it means,” Shen said.
Jack’s throat tightened before he could stop it. He looked back down at the notebook. The word kitchen sat there in his own handwriting, underlined once. He had written it because it felt like you. Because when he pictured asking, really pictured it, he did not see a restaurant or a scenic overlook or some perfectly orchestrated setup with strangers nearby and flowers arranged by someone who did not know you. He saw you barefoot in his kitchen. He saw you laughing at something he said under his breath. He saw your hand on his chest. He saw himself reaching into his pocket because he could not wait one more second.
Shen tapped the page once. “The goal is not to make it look like a proposal.”
Jack looked up. “That is the point.”
“No,” Shen said. “The point is to make it look like you know her.”
Jack went quiet. There it was. The thing he had been circling for weeks. Not spectacle. Not performance. Not proof for anyone else. Just you. The way he knew you. The way he loved you. The way he wanted to ask in the middle of an ordinary place because nothing about loving you had ever felt ordinary to him.
Jack swallowed once. “Kitchen,” he said.
Shen nodded. “Kitchen.”
Jack pointed at him. “No committee language.”
Shen looked down at his notes. “I will avoid it during the proposal.”
Jack stared at him. “During the proposal?”
Shen paused. “Before and during the proposal.”
“Better,” Jack said.
Shen made a note.
Jack leaned forward. “What did you write?”
“Kitchen plan approved,” Shen said.
Jack looked at him.
Shen added, “No committee language.”
Jack sat back. “Good.”
Shen wrote one more thing.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “I am writing that the wooing requirement is satisfied.”
Jack closed his eyes. God give me strength. By the time Jack left the coffee shop, the ring was no longer a photo. It was purchased. Ordered in your size. Expected to arrive in six to eight weeks. Jack had stared at the confirmation email in his car for a full minute before putting his phone facedown in the cupholder and breathing like a man who had just done something irreversible. Which, technically, he had not. He had not asked yet. You had not answered yet. The ring was not even physically in his possession. But it was yours. That was the part that got him.
Somewhere, in some warehouse or workshop or carefully organized back room, there was a ring being prepared for your hand. Jack sat in the driver’s seat and let that fact settle into him. Then he drove home, hid every piece of evidence with the kind of precision usually reserved for narcotics and classified documents, and spent the next ten minutes making absolutely certain there was no chance you would find the folder, the notes, the receipt, the confirmation number, or the phrase ‘Wooing requirement satisfied’ written anywhere in his home. Only then did he let himself come looking for you.
Your shoes were by the door. One heel tipped sideways near the entryway. Jack looked at it and \ immediately thought of Shen’s story about the emotionally load-bearing heel. God help him, even your shoes had lore now.
“Baby?” Jack called.
“Bedroom,” you answered.
There was something in your voice. Jack stopped with one hand on the back of the couch. Not suspicious. Not exactly. But soft. Warm. Waiting. His pulse shifted before he could talk himself out of it. Jack walked down the hall, still carrying the leftover tension from the coffee shop in his shoulders. The ring. The confirmation email. Shen’s folder. The murder latte. Advisory capacity. Limited strong advisory. The exact shape of forever. He had been thinking all day. Planning all day. Trying to keep every secret tucked safely behind his teeth.
Then he reached the bedroom doorway. And every thought in his head went silent. You were sitting on the edge of the bed. For one impossible second, Jack did not understand what he was seeing. Then he did. The bag from the mall was folded on the chair beside you. The receipt was on the dresser. You were wearing something soft and pretty, something that held your body in a way that made Jack’s heart forget what it was supposed to do. Something you had picked for him. That was the part that stole the breath from his chest.
Not just the lace. Not just the delicate straps or the way the bedroom light touched your skin. You had stood in a store, thought of him, and chosen this. For him. Jack stopped in the doorway. All day, his mind had been full. Now there was nothing. No thoughts. No schedule. No committee. No higher power accepting inquiries. Just you.
Your smile started small. “Hi.”
Jack stared at you.
You tilted your head. “You okay?”
Fuck no. He thought. Absolutely not. I am not okay. Jack opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Your smile widened. “Jack?”
He blinked once. Then, very carefully, he said, “I need a second.”
You laughed softly. “A second?”
Jack nodded once, still staring. “Maybe several.”
Your expression softened, but the amusement stayed at the corner of your mouth. “Bad meeting?”
Jack let out a low, helpless laugh. Complicated did not begin to cover it. He had spent his afternoon with John Shen in a coffee shop, choosing the ring he was going to put on your finger and planning the night he was going to ask you to keep him forever. He had listened to Shen say the words ‘wooing requirement’ with a straight face. He had ordered a ring. He had hidden the evidence. He had come home prepared to act normal. And then there you were. Sitting on his bed in something you had bought with him in mind, looking at him like he was exactly where you wanted him.
“Complicated,” Jack said.
“With administration?” you asked.
His eyes lifted to yours. The lie sat there for half a second.
Then Jack walked toward you. “Something like that,” he said.
You watched him come closer, your smile shifting into something softer, warmer, almost shy now that he was close enough to touch. Jack liked that too much. He liked all of it too much.
You reached for the front of his jacket and hooked your fingers there, drawing him between your knees. “You look tense.”
“I was tense,” Jack said.
You raised a brow, “Was?”
His hands settled at your waist. You were warm beneath his palms. Real. Here. His. Not officially. Not yet. But soon. God, soon. Jack looked down at you, and the thought hit him so hard he almost had to close his eyes. He had spent the whole day trying to plan the moment he would ask you to marry him. And now you were in front of him, soft and warm and smiling, and the question felt almost ridiculous. Not because it mattered less. Because in every way that mattered, it was already true. You were his future. You were sitting in his bedroom wearing something meant to surprise him, and Jack could barely remember how to breathe.
Your fingers smoothed over the front of his jacket. “You’re thinking too much.”
Jack looked down at you. For the first time all day, that was not true.
“No,” he said, his hand sliding along your waist. “I’m really not.”
Your smile went quiet. Jack bent and kissed you. Slowly at first. Carefully. Like he had time. Like he had all the time in the world. Your hands moved up his chest, and Jack felt the last of the day leave him. The coffee shop. Shen’s folder. The tabs. The timeline. The ordered ring tucked somewhere safely out of reach. All of it went quiet. You made a soft sound against his mouth, and Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. There you are, he thought. Not the proposal. Not the plan. Not the future arriving in six to eight weeks. Just you. Right now. Jack pulled back only enough to look at you.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Hi.”
His mouth curved. “Hi,” he said.
You touched his jaw. “You’re better now.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your side. “Yeah.”
You smiled, pleased with yourself. “Good.”
Jack looked at you sitting there, soft and beautiful and entirely unaware that somewhere in the world, a ring was being made for your hand. He pressed another kiss to your mouth. Then one to your cheek. Then one to the corner of your jaw, just because he could.
Your fingers slid into his hair. “Jack.”
His eyes closed for half a second. He loved the way you said his name. He loved that you had no idea what was coming. He loved that even if you did, Shen would probably claim you had known because of abnormal detection patterns, and Jack would probably have to hear about it for the rest of his life. He smiled against your skin.
You leaned back slightly. “What?”
Jack lifted his head. “Nothing.”
Your eyes narrowed with familiar suspicion. “That was not nothing.”
“No,” Jack said, his hands warm at your waist. “It was good.”
You studied him for another second. Then your suspicion softened into something sweeter.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack bent and kissed you again before you could ask anything else. Because he could keep the secret. He could. For six to eight weeks, he could keep this tucked safely inside his chest. He could wait for the ring. He could plan the kitchen. He could survive Shen’s advisory committee. Probably. But standing there with you, looking at him like that, Jack knew the truth. The ring was coming. The question was coming. The rest of his life was coming. And for once, he was not thinking too much. He was only thinking yes. Six weeks and four days later, the ring arrived.
Jack knew because he had checked the tracking more often than was medically reasonable. He had checked it before work, again between patients, once in the parking lot, and one final time while standing outside his front door with his keys in his hand and his heart somewhere dangerously close to his throat. Delivered. A single word on the screen. Small. Ordinary. Absolutely devastating. For one second, Jack just stood there.
He had known it was coming. Obviously, he had known. He had ordered it. Paid for it. Read the confirmation email until the words started to blur. Spent six weeks pretending he was not thinking about the ring every time you reached for his hand. But knowing it was coming was different from knowing it was here. The ring was no longer a photo. No longer a plan. No longer a coffee shop conversation with John Shen, a murder latte, and the phrase ‘Wooing requirement satisfied’ haunting him from a folder with tabs. The ring was real. The ring was here. The ring was yours.
Jack found the small delivery box exactly where the notification said it would be, tucked near the side door, hidden enough that you would not have noticed it first if you had come home before him. Jack stared at it for half a second too long. Then he picked it up, unlocked the front door, went straight to the bedroom, and hid every trace of the packaging with the focus of a man handling evidence.
Box broken down. Shipping label removed. Receipt tucked away. Jewelry box transferred to the inside pocket of the jacket he had already laid out for the night. Confirmation email archived. Deleted from the visible inbox. Recently deleted cleared. Then checked again. God give me strength. He was proposing marriage, not committing wire fraud. Still, with you, caution felt appropriate. Only when the evidence was gone, and the ring box was safely hidden, did Jack let himself breathe.
Then he went back to the kitchen and started setting up. He had done exactly what he said he would do. Favorite takeout ordered. Candles, but not too many. Flowers, but not the kind that looked like someone was apologizing. Music playing softly from the speaker by the cookbooks. Not proposal songs. Not anything obvious enough to make your eyes narrow the second you walked in. Songs you liked. Songs from the two of you. A real date night at home. Private. Warm. Specific. The kitchen plan. Shen had called it perfect. Jack had tried not to care about that. He cared.
The front door opened before the food arrived. “I’m home,” you called.
Jack’s hand stilled near the wineglasses. For one impossible second, he forgot what he was supposed to be doing. Then you appeared in the doorway, still in your coat, your bag on your shoulder, your eyes moving over the kitchen with immediate suspicion and a slow, pleased smile.
“Oh,” you said, softer now. “You meant date night.”
Jack looked at you. “I said date night.”
“You say a lot of things,” you said, stepping farther into the kitchen.
His mouth curved. “Do I?”
You set your bag down on one of the chairs. “You also say them in your serious voice, and then I have to decide if you mean dinner or a medical emergency.”
“This is not a medical emergency,” Jack said.
Your eyes moved over the counter. The candles. The flowers. The wine.
Then your gaze came back to him, warmer than before. “Good.”
Jack held your eyes for one second too long.
You noticed. Your head tilted slightly. “You okay?”
Jack turned toward the drawer before you could see too much on his face. “I’m good.”
“You sound weird.” You replied.
Jack looked at you, “I’m getting silverware.”
Your brow furrowed, “That does not usually affect your voice.”
Jack opened the drawer. “Maybe I care about presentation.”
You laughed and crossed the kitchen toward him. “You do not care about presentation.”
“I care about presentation for you,” Jack said.
That quieted you. Jack felt it happen before he looked at you. When he did, your expression had gone soft in that way that made his chest feel too full for the space inside it. Jack’s hand tightened around the silverware. God. Six weeks and four days. He had waited six weeks and four days. He could wait through dinner. He could. That was the plan. You moved closer, rose onto your toes, and kissed the corner of his mouth. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. No. No, he probably could not. The doorbell rang before he could make a catastrophic decision in the middle of the kitchen.
You pulled back, smiling. “Saved by takeout.”
Jack looked at you. “Temporarily.”
Your eyebrows lifted. Jack took the opportunity to turn away before you could ask him what that meant.
“I’m going to change,” you said, already stepping back. “Give me five minutes.”
Jack nodded once. “Take your time.”
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “That sounded suspiciously patient.”
“I am capable of patience,” Jack said.
You smiled as you backed toward the hall. “Sure.”
Then you disappeared into the bedroom. Jack stood still until he heard the door close. Then he exhaled. Jack tipped the delivery driver too much, locked the door, and carried the bags into the kitchen with both hands. This was it. Favorite takeout. Candles, but not too many. Flowers that did not look like an apology. Music low by the sink. The ring in his jacket pocket. Six weeks and four days of waiting, and now he was arranging containers of noodles and rice like his entire future depended on whether the dumplings went near the vegetables. God give me strength. He set out plates. He opened containers. He poured wine.
The bedroom door opened down the hall. Jack turned. You came back into the kitchen barefoot. That was what did it. Not the candles. Not the wine. Not the music. Not the ring sitting heavy in his jacket pocket. You. Barefoot in his kitchen, smiling. You had changed into jeans and a sweater, your hair tucked behind one ear, your sleeves pushed to your elbows like you were ready to steal food off the counter before he finished setting it out. You looked comfortable. Happy. Home. Jack stopped with a takeout container in his hand. He was not making it through dinner.
You came closer, eyes dropping to the open containers on the counter. “Oh my God, you got my favorite.”
Jack set the container down. “Obviously.”
“And extra sauce?” You asked hopefully.
He nodded. “Obviously.”
Your smile went bright. “I love you.”
Jack looked at you. He knew you meant the food. Mostly. Probably. It did not matter.
“I love you too,” he said.
Your expression softened again, but then the music shifted, and your smile came back. You reached for the wineglass he had poured for you, took a sip, and climbed onto the counter like you had done a hundred times. Jack watched you settle there, one knee bent slightly, your bare feet kicking lightly against the cabinet beneath you. You bounced your shoulders a little to the song playing from the speaker. Just once. Barely anything. Enough to ruin him completely.
“This smells amazing,” you said.
Jack stared at you.
You took another sip of wine and looked over at him. “What?”
Nothing. Everything. The ring was in his jacket pocket. The kitchen was warm. You were sitting in front of him, barefoot and happy, moving to the music like the whole world had narrowed to this one room and this one night and the woman he could not imagine living without. Jack let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“I was going to do this after dinner,” he said.
Your feet stopped moving. The wineglass lowered slowly from your mouth. “Do what?”
Jack looked at you for one more second.
Then he shook his head, helpless against it. “I can’t wait.”
Your lips parted. Jack turned, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and felt the box fit into his palm like it had been waiting there forever. When he turned back, you were completely still.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He stepped closer. “I had a plan,” he said.
Your eyes dropped to his hand. Then back to his face. “You did?”
Jack smiled faintly. “A whole one.”
You made a small, shaky sound that might have been a laugh if your eyes had not already started to shine. Jack moved between your knees, close enough now that he could see your breath catch.
“I was going to let you eat first,” he said.
You blinked quickly.
“I was going to be patient,” Jack continued.
Your mouth trembled.
“I was going to wait for the exact right moment.” He looked around the kitchen, then back at you.
Then his voice softened. “But this is the exact right moment.”
Jack opened the box. For half a second, the world went very, very quiet. Your hand flew to your mouth.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Jack froze. Then he laughed. It broke out of him before he could stop it, startled and breathless and happier than he had any right to be when he had not even gotten the question out.
“Baby,” Jack said, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “At least let me ask.”
You were already crying. “Okay.”
Jack took a breath. You nodded at him, helpless and eager and already reaching for him even though he still had the box in his hand. Jack’s chest went tight. He loved you so much it was almost inconvenient.
“I love you,” he said.
Your face crumpled.
Jack’s voice stayed low. “I love this. I love coming home to you. I love finding you in our kitchen, stealing my food, drinking my coffee, dancing badly when you think I’m not watching.”
You laughed through the tears. “Badly?”
“Beautifully badly,” Jack said.
You pressed one hand over your heart. Jack looked at you sitting there in the kitchen, your wine forgotten beside you, your eyes wet, your whole face open and shining like you already knew every answer he could ever ask of you. His throat tightened.
“I love the life I have with you,” he said. “I love every quiet part of it. And I want all the rest of it, too.”
You made a small sound.
Jack held your gaze. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” you said again.
Then you launched yourself off the counter. Jack caught you with one arm around your waist, the ring box still clutched safely in his other hand, as you wrapped yourself around him. Your mouth found his, messy and smiling and wet with tears. Jack kissed you back, laughing against you, holding you so tightly your feet barely touched the floor.
“Yes,” you said against his mouth.
Jack’s arm tightened around you. “I heard you.”
“Yes.” You said again.
Jack exhaled a happy laugh, “I heard you the first time.”
You kissed him harder. Jack let himself have it for another second. Two. Three.
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. “Baby.”
You chased his mouth. “What?”
He laughed softly and lifted the box between you. “Let me put it on you.”
You looked down at the ring like you had forgotten there was a step after saying yes.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Jack took your left hand. Your fingers were trembling. So were his. He slid the ring onto your finger slowly, carefully, watching it settle exactly where it belonged. It fit. Of course, it fit. Shen would be unbearable about that later. But Jack could not care about Shen right now. Not when you were staring down at your hand, crying and laughing at the same time, turning your fingers slightly so the kitchen light caught the ring.
“Oh my God,” you said again.
Jack looked at it. Then at you. Then back at the ring. His chest went tight and full and almost painful.
“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice rough.
You looked up at him. Jack shook his head a little, like he still could not believe he was seeing it outside his own imagination.
Your mouth trembled. “The ring?” you asked.
Jack smiled, helpless and sure. “You.”
You looked down at the ring again. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. You only held your hand between you, fingers trembling slightly, turning it one way and then the other so the stone caught the kitchen light. Jack watched your face. Not the ring. Not really. The ring was perfect. He knew that. He had known it when he saw the photo, when Shen confirmed it, when he opened the box in the quiet of your bedroom after it arrived. But this was different. This was your face while you wore it.
This was you crying in your kitchen, wine forgotten on the counter, takeout going cold behind him, your bare feet still tucked close to his on the floor. This was everything.
You lifted your eyes to his. “We’re engaged.”
Jack’s smile came slow and helpless. “Yeah.”
You let out a laugh that broke halfway into another sob. “We’re engaged.”
Jack’s hands found your waist. “Yeah, baby.”
You looked down again, then back up at him, like you needed to make sure both things were still true. The ring. Him. The life suddenly opening in front of you.
“You asked me to marry you,” you said.
Jack brushed his thumb over your side. “I did.”
“In the kitchen.” You continued.
His mouth curved. “I did.”
You beamed. “With my favorite takeout.”
“Romantic,” Jack said.
You laughed wetly and pressed your forehead to his chest. Jack wrapped both arms around you, holding you there, his chin dipping toward the top of your head. He closed his eyes for half a second. There it was. Quiet. Finally. No tracking updates. No hidden receipts. No Shen folder. No committee language. No murder latte. Just you in his arms, your ringed hand curled against his shirt, saying yes over and over again without saying a word. Jack breathed you in. Then you went very still. He felt it immediately.
Jack opened his eyes. “What?”
You lifted your head. “John.”
Jack closed his eyes again. “No.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “Yes.”
“No,” Jack said, more firmly.
“He needs to know.” You insisted.
Jack groaned, “He can know in the morning.”
Your eyes widened like he had suggested something deeply unethical. “Jack.”
“We have been engaged for less than five minutes,” Jack said.
“And he has post-proposal notification rights.” You replied.
Jack’s eyes opened. He stared at you. You stared back, beautiful and tearful and absolutely serious.
“I knew that tab was going to ruin my life,” Jack said.
You were already reaching for your phone on the counter. “This is not ruining your life.”
“It is interrupting my life.” Jack amended.
You shrugged, “It is part of your life now.”
Jack pointed at you. “That sounded like Shen.”
You smiled through your tears. “Best friend clause.”
Jack grimaced, “Do not invoke the clause during our engagement.”
You lifted the phone. “Too late.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth as you tapped Shen’s contact and started a FaceTime call.
“Can we have one private moment before committee notification?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him with watery, sparkling eyes. “We did.”
“That was thirty seconds,” Jack replied.
You nodded seriously, “It was a very meaningful thirty seconds.”
Jack stared at you. You smiled. God give me strength. He thought. The call connected on the second ring. Shen’s face appeared on the screen. He was in scrubs, standing somewhere that looked suspiciously like a hallway at PTMC, his expression flat and expectant in a way that told Jack he had absolutely been waiting for this.
“Accepted?” Shen asked.
You made a strangled sound. “John.”
Shen blinked once. “That was not an answer.”
You laughed and cried at the same time, turning the phone so your face and Jack’s shoulder were both in frame. “Yes.”
Shen’s expression did not change much. But Jack saw it. The slight softening around his eyes. The small release in his jaw. The way his gaze flicked from your wet face to Jack and then back to you, as if confirming that you were happy before allowing himself to react.
“Good,” Shen said.
You laughed again. “Good?”
Shen nodded once. “Expected, but good.”
Jack leaned closer to the phone. “Expected?”
Shen looked at him. “Yes.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “You couldn’t give me that level of confidence six weeks ago?”
“You did not ask for reassurance,” Shen said.
“I asked for advisory input,” Jack replied.
Shen shrugged, “Different category.”
Jack pointed at the phone. “Dunkin.”
You wiped under your eye with your free hand. “Look.”
You held your left hand up to the camera. For the first time since he answered, Shen went completely still. His eyes dropped to the ring. You turned your fingers a little so he could see it properly. Shen studied it for two seconds.
Then he nodded once. “Correct.”
You let out a watery laugh. “Correct?”
Jack closed his eyes. “Of course, that’s what he says.”
Shen looked at you through the screen. “It is the correct ring.”
Your mouth trembled.
Shen’s voice softened by the smallest degree. “It’s perfect.”
That did it.
Your face crumpled again. “Oh, John,” you whispered.
Jack’s annoyance disappeared before it could fully form. Because Shen was quiet on the screen. And you were looking at him like the little piece of history between you had just folded itself into this new thing, this future Jack had asked for, this life that somehow had room for all of it.
Shen cleared his throat once. “Are you happy?”
You nodded quickly. “So happy.”
“Good,” Shen said.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist.
Shen’s gaze shifted to him. “Well done.”
Jack went still. You looked up at him.
Jack looked at Shen through the screen. “Thank you.”
Shen nodded once. “The kitchen was the correct choice.”
You froze. Jack froze. The kitchen went silent except for the music still playing low by the sink. Slowly, you turned your head toward Jack. Jack looked down at you. Your eyes narrowed.
“John knew,” you said.
Jack closed his eyes. “Here we go.”
“John knew?” you repeated.
Shen looked between you two on the phone. “I was consulted.”
Your mouth fell open. “You were consulted?”
Jack opened his eyes. “Advisory only.”
Shen added, “Limited strong advisory.”
Jack pointed at the phone. “Do not help.”
You stared at Jack, then at the phone, then back at Jack. “You asked John to help plan my proposal?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “You told me to.”
Your expression changed. The shock softened first. Then the realization. Then something so tender crossed your face that Jack forgot how irritated he was supposed to be.
“You listened,” you said.
Jack’s voice went quieter. “Of course I listened.”
Your eyes filled again. Shen looked down briefly, giving you privacy in the only way he knew how.
Jack touched your cheek. “You said he needed to be consulted.”
You laughed through another tear. “I was mostly joking.”
Jack’s thumb brushed under your eye. “I wasn’t.”
You stared at him. For one second, Shen did not exist. The phone did not exist. The food did not exist. Only Jack’s hand on your face and the ring on your finger and the knowledge that he had taken every ridiculous, silly, sacred piece of you seriously.
Then Shen said, “The wooing requirement was satisfied.”
Jack’s eyes closed. “Dunkin.”
You gasped softly. “A girl needs to be wooed.”
Shen nodded once. “Correct.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling. Any higher power currently accepting inquiries, this was still a good time.
You looked at Jack, glowing now. “You satisfied the wooing requirement.”
Jack’s eyes dropped back to you. “I proposed to you in my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen,” you corrected softly.
Jack stopped.
Your smile trembled. “Our kitchen,” you said again.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Something in his chest gave way. He looked at you for a long second, then bent and kissed you, because there were only so many words a man could survive in one night. You kissed him back, smiling against his mouth.
On the phone, Shen cleared his throat. “Post-proposal notification protocol is complete.”
Jack pulled back just enough to glare at the screen. “Goodbye, Dunkin.”
Shen looked at you. “Congratulations.”
Your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Shen paused.
Then he said, “You were never going to die alone.”
The kitchen went quiet. Your breath caught. Jack felt it. He remembered the story from the bar. You on the floor with pizza. One heel still on. Shen sitting across from you with the worst comfort imaginable and somehow exactly enough of it. Your eyes filled all over again, but this time your smile was different. Older. Softer. Grateful.
“I know,” you said.
Shen nodded once. “Good.”
Jack could not even be annoyed at that. Not this time.
You held up your hand again. “I’m getting married.”
Shen’s mouth barely moved, but it was almost a smile. “Yes.”
“To Jack.” You added.
Shen looked at Jack through the phone. “Also correct.”
Jack shook his head. “That’s your blessing?”
Shen paused, “That was my factual acknowledgment.”
You laughed.
Jack reached for the phone. “And that’s enough.”
“Wait,” you said, pulling it away.
Jack looked at you. “Baby.”
You turned back to Shen. “I love you.”
Shen went still. Jack’s hand paused at your waist. On the screen, Shen blinked once.
Then he said, quietly, “I love you too.”
Your mouth trembled. Jack kissed your temple.
Then Shen looked at Jack. “Take care of her.”
Jack’s expression shifted. He did not make a joke. He did not bristle.
He only nodded once, steady and sure. “Always.”
Shen studied him for a second. Then he nodded back. “Committee adjourned.”
Jack closed his eyes. “There it is.”
You burst out laughing. Shen’s mouth twitched.
Jack finally took the phone from your hand. “Goodnight, Dunkin.”
“Goodnight, Abbot,” Shen said.
Jack ended the call.
You looked up at him immediately. “That was rude.”
“We are engaged,” Jack said, setting your phone facedown on the counter. “He’ll survive.”
You smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck. “We’re engaged.”
Jack’s hands settled at your waist. “Yeah.”
You looked down at your ring again. The kitchen light caught it. Jack watched your face soften.
Then you looked back up at him. “Our kitchen?”
His throat tightened. “Our kitchen,” he said.
You smiled. Jack kissed you again, slow and certain, his hands warm at your waist, the takeout cold on the counter, the flowers catching candlelight beside the sink, the music still playing softly around you. No committee. No notes. No hidden evidence. No higher power needed. Just you. Your ring. His kitchen. Your kitchen. And the rest of his life saying yes.
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