Jack kept his eyes over your shoulder watching the TV screen, happy to just keep you in close proximity while you mapped up all of his noticeable features. He could feel the way you lightly stroked over every small piece of him that caught your eye, letting you follow the lines that streaked on the corner of his eyes and the ones on his neck, doing everything in his power not to jerk or twitch away when you hit a ticklish spot. His attention on the TV falters when your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching his scalp in a way that had his eyes closing and rolling into the back of his head.

You haven’t bothered to tell him to get a haircut, and he didn’t plan on doing so anytime soon, not with the way you always touched the graying strands when he was near you, or how you yanked on the curls when you were overwhelmed with the pleasure he’d give you.

You coil a digit around your favorite curl, the one closest to his forehead that has the slightest hint of copper when the color has long disappeared from the rest of his head. Jack watches you wind the strand around your finger, releasing it a couple of seconds later as it recoils on itself and springs back in place, lips curling up at the action.

His gaze softens when you finally look at him, the sides of his face crinkling with the lopsided grin he gives you, mellow and familiar as he’s always been.

“Having fun?” he asks with a squeeze of your hips.

“Using your hair like a slinky has always been fun for me,” you replied, curling another strand as you spoke. “If you ever cut your hair, we will have a very serious problem. You hear me?” The playful threat doesn’t land, but Jack’s smile widens. You’ve already seen the pictures of his buzzcut when he was in the military years ago, and your reaction was sign enough to never get that hairstyle again.

“Yes ma'am,” he dryly chuckles at the roll of your eyes, staring at the side of your face before glancing at your lips. You felt another squeeze on your waist, peeking at him once more.

“Give me a kiss,” he says without shame, to which you tease him in response.

“Why? So you can ask me for more? You’re getting greedy, Dr. Abbot.” A fingernail scrapes over the stubble on his cheek, thumbing over his chin and the edge of his bottom lip.

“Can you blame me?” He shrugs nonchalantly, big hands reaching down to cup your ass, kneading one cheek in his palm. “Thought you got used to my obsession with you.”

“Oh, so that’s what it is? Thought you loved me or something.”

“That too, smartass.” His eyes glimmer with mischief, running a hand up your back to coax you closer. “C’mon baby. Put me out of my misery and give your old man a kiss.”

You did just that, slotting your lips over his and bestowing the kiss he so desperately craved. Keeping his head at an angle, you slip your tongue into his mouth, curling around his as you scratch the nape of his neck. A rumble groaned in his chest, gripping you harder through the material of your sleep shorts. Your hips had a mind of their own, gyrating over his pelvis and shifting over his thighs, huffing out a breath from the added friction.

Pulling away sooner than he liked, he pouts at the sudden distance, jutting his chin to teasingly bite at your bottom lip.

“Something tells me you’re not going to be satisfied with just one kiss.”

His chuckle darkens with his eyes, the hazel dimming to a low simmer, the heat grows in his body as desire boiled below his fingertips.

“One is never enough, sweetheart, you know that.” His touch teases along the end of your t-shirt, sneaking underneath to skim your lower stomach and drift to your side. “You mind giving me a little more?”

Now it was your turn to smirk, letting Jack lift the shirt above your head, revealing your bare frame to his hungry eyes, breasts on full display and all his for the taking.

“Only if you kiss these first,” you suggest, pointing at your chest. You quickly swallowed a gasp when Jack planted the lightest of kisses on your left breast, right where your heart began to pound in your ribcage; his stubble rasps over your skin, sending a shiver rolling down your spine. 

“Gladly.”

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It’s not dramatic. Not a grand declaration. It sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you, like it slipped out without much thought.

You slowly push yourself up, resting on your elbows, looking at him. “What?”

He blinks like he didn’t realize he said it. “I mean it.”

“Jack…”

“I’m not saying we need to run off tonight or book a chapel in Vegas or something,” he says gently, following your posture. “I just… I’ve thought about it. About us.”

You don't respond. His words settling into your chest like the Titanic—sinking. Drowning. You’re naked but feel bare, vulnerable in every sense of the word. You lay back down, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it over your chest.

Jack watches your silence. He doesn’t know what it means, but it sure damn feels like a rejection. Marriage was not something you talked about yet—and now he’s cursing himself for bringing it up like this, at the worst possible time, in the worst possible way.

You’ve turned your back to him, pretending to sleep. But he knows you’re still awake by the way your body shifts, the way your breaths stutter every now and then.

So he plays your game, pretends to sleep, pretends he doesn’t want to hold you the way he always does before bed.

Jack wakes up a few hours after that. He feels your side of the bed is cold and his mind assumes the worst: You left. He feels a twinge in his chest and tries to swallow it away, but then he smells coffee. He gets up, reaches for his crutches, and limps into the kitchen—where he finds you standing against the counter, wearing his shirt, holding a mug.

Relief washes over him. You didn’t leave after all.

You glance up and offer a small smile, already pouring him a cup. “You want coffee?”

Jack walks over to you. He puts his crutches down and reaches out for you. If it were any other day, he’d crush you in a hug with no hesitation, but now he fears he might scare you away.

You feel his touch on your shoulder and look back, putting his mug down and embracing him, letting him lean his weight on you.

“I’m sorry.” You say, as if knowing his thoughts.

“I thought you left.” He whispers.

You break away from the hug and search for his eyes. “I’d never leave you, Jack. I just… I needed a second. To think.”

He nods in understanding. “You wanna talk?”

You nod back, giving his coffee mug and then sitting on the counter. You take a deep breath. “You know I was married before, right?”

Jack nods.

“It wasn’t good. I’ve said that before. But... the part I never really admitted is that it wasn’t just him. I wasn’t a great wife, either. I didn’t have dinner waiting every night, I barely made it home most days. I lived at the hospital. And I—I don’t want kids.”

You look up, expecting to see some flicker of concern, hesitation—something.

But Jack just watches you calmly.

“I know,” Jack says, stepping closer. Close enough that he’s between your knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Your throat tightens. “You know?”

“You told me once,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Early on. We were talking about long shifts, and you said you couldn’t imagine adding a baby on top of that. I remembered.”

You blink, stunned. You hadn’t even remembered saying that.

“And for what it’s worth...” Jack says, “With my age and everything I’ve seen… no, I don’t want kids. The world has enough people in it. Having a child… couldn't guarantee it will make anything better.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “So you’re okay with not having the white-picket-fence life? Even if it was with someone you loved?”

“I am with someone I love,” he says. “And no—I’ll take a shitty apartment and the chaos of hospital life if it means I get to come home to you.”

You laugh, and it sounds a little like relief.

Jack leans in again, arms wrapping around you. His voice is quiet in your ear. “I meant it. I want to marry you. Maybe not now, we can plan for it, have any kind of wedding you want. Or not want. You can call me old-fashioned, but I really want to be able to call you my wife.”

You sniffle, trying not to cry.

“No pressure though.” He adds, and you laugh again.

You lean into his chest, the drowning feeling finally going away. “Ask me again,” you whisper. “Someday. When we’re both ready.”