description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
wc: 4k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension, tw: reader second guessing, public-?ish-? Sex???, abbot down bad
series masterlist
I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
A/N: hehe idk if u guys will be mad but reader may be grappling w the gravity of boinking her attending soon
This was just downright criminal.
If HR walked into Jack Abbot’s house right this very moment, they’d have all the evidence needed to convict both of you—for what crime, you weren’t exactly sure anymore—and send you both out on your asses.
All they’d need was one quick glance at the current scene.
You sprawled across the couch beneath a throw blanket, attention half on the movie playing quietly across the mounted television. Jack lay stretched out on his stomach between your legs, fully taking advantage of the position by using your stomach—and very intentionally your chest—as a pillow.
Like this was a normal, random Saturday off of work.
Like this was something you’d been doing for years instead of approximately forty-eight-ish hours.
Your fingers drifted lazily through his curls, scratching lightly against his scalp while his arms rested around your waist. Every so often, he’d shift just enough to get more comfortable, and every single time, you were forced to pretend not to notice the way he settled further into you with a quiet sound of contentment.
And maybe the worst part?
You liked it. Worse than liked it.
You were becoming alarmingly attached to it.
Jack shifted slightly again, nose brushing absentmindedly against your shirt as he adjusted his head more fully onto your stomach.
“You’re kind of crushing me,” you informed him lightly.
“Mhm.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“You can breathe enough to talk.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, fingers continuing through his hair anyway. His curls were softer like this after a shower, slightly damp still at the roots. Every once in a while your nails scratched lightly against his scalp and his breathing would deepen almost immediately.
Which was honestly an outrageous—and intoxicating—amount of power for one person to have.
“You realize,” you said slowly, eyes still on the television, “if anyone from PTMC saw this, we’d actually never hear the end of it.”
Jack made a low noise against your stomach that almost sounded like amusement.
“Robby would pass away instantly.”
“He already thinks we’re suspicious.”
“We are suspicious.”
“That’s not helping.”
Finally, he tilted his head just enough to glance up at you from where he was sprawled across your body. Fever still lingered faintly in the pinkness of his cheeks, though he looked far more healthy now than he had yesterday. You tried not to attribute that to your TLC, but it was too coincidental not to point out.
“You seem pretty relaxed for someone worried about HR.”
You narrowed your eyes down at him. “You are literally using my boobs as a Tempur-Pedic.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“Jack.”
“What?” His mouth twitched. “You brought it up.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you before you lightly shoved at his shoulder. He barely moved.
“Unbelievable.”
“Still letting me crush you.” he murmured, eyes drifting shut again as he settled more heavily against you.
Your hand slowed briefly in his hair.
There it was again—that quiet thing underneath the teasing. The truth of it.
You looked down at him for a second too long, taking in the rare sight of Jack Abbot completely relaxed against you. No more walls were up. Just playful banter while your attending’s temple was pressed against the firmness of your underboob.
It felt like something dangerous in your chest.
So instead of acknowledging any of that, you lightly tugged his curls.
“You drooled on me earlier.”
One eye cracked open immediately. “Slander.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Can’t prove it.”
You smiled despite yourself, resuming the slow scratch of your fingers through his hair as his eyes drifted closed once more.
But the moment was quickly interrupted by the faint buzzing of your phone, buried somewhere beneath either a couch cushion or one of the throw pillows Jack inexplicably owned.
His brows furrowed immediately against your stomach. “Who is it?”
You twisted slightly, digging around blindly beneath the blanket and nearly smacking him in the face with a pillow in the process while he made zero effort to move out of the way.
“Hold on—”
The screen finally lit in your hand and your head immediately tipped back against the couch with a groan.
“It’s Trinity.”
“No.”
You snorted at the sheer immediacy of his response. “I’ve been dodging her calls for like two days now, Jack. She’s gonna think you murdered me.”
“Yeah, and start calling the police.” You swiped to answer before he could protest further. “Trin, hey—”
Jack lifted his head just enough to send you an unimpressed scowl as you ignored him completely.
“Roomie,” Trinity’s voice exploded through the speaker immediately. “You’re alive.”
“Barely.”
“Bullshit. You sound suspiciously comfortable.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means every time I’ve texted you this week you’ve answered like a woman being held hostage but in a weirdly content way.”
Jack’s shoulders started shaking slightly beneath your hand.
“What can I say, I’ve been busy.” You immediately cringed with how you could practically smell how she’d decipher that.
“Busy, huh?” You knew the sound of her smirk. “Busy in what positions?”
“Trinity,” you whisper-hissed, heat exploding across your face.
But it was already too late.
Below you, Jack Abbot had gone suspiciously still for half a second before slowly pushing himself upright, one hand bracing against your thigh as he sat up between your legs.
And for someone who was practically on his deathbed last night, he was somehow still entirely capable of weaponizing smugness.
His hair was a mess from laying on you, curls pushed every direction as he looked up with that infuriating glint in his eyes.
“What positions?” he echoed hoarsely, voice roughened from sickness. “Where to start?”
Your jaw dropped as you covered the mic. “You are sick.”
On the phone, Trinity made a sound so loud you nearly threw it across the room.
“Oh my god.”
“Trin, I swear to God—”
“Huckleberry!” You heard her call before her mouth dropped back to the phone. “You slept with him.”
“Hey! No one said that!”
Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “You didn’t?”
You whipped toward him so fast he actually laughed.
The sound dissolved into a cough almost immediately, forcing him to lean briefly into his fist before recovering with an exhausted sigh.
“You are unbelievable,” you muttered.
“You like me unbelievable.”
Trinity was fully losing her mind now somewhere through the speaker.
“I need details immediately.”
“You’re getting none.”
“Coward.”
“Boundary.”
Jack looked deeply entertained now, leaning back more comfortably against your legs like this was the best television he’d watched all week.
“Fine,” Trinity cut in quickly, but after a beat of silence asked, “So…how long would you say this has been a thing?”
“You’re fucked if you think I’m giving you anything—”
“You know,” he rasped toward the phone, “I tried telling her not to answer.”
“You are contributing to the problem!”
“Hey, he created the problem,” Trinity argued. “By apparently seducing his resident into climbing him like a tree during quarantine.”
You made a strangled noise while Jack outright laughed this time.
Again—followed by coughing.
“Actually,” he corrected mildly once he recovered, “she climbed me without asking.”
“Jack.”
“Oh my God,” Trinity shrieked. “He’s funny!?”
“Of course I’m funny—what is this?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Jesus Christ.”
“Was he at least better than the firefighter who—”
“Okay!” you cut her off loudly, cheeks burning. “We’re done here—”
But Jack had already grabbed the phone from your hands. “Bye, Santos,” He interrupted smoothly.
Your head whipped toward him in suspicion while Trinity immediately started yelling through the phone.
“No—”
You hung up before she could finish, tossing the phone dramatically onto the opposite couch cushion with a groan.
“Why’d you say it like that,” you accused slowly.
“Say what?”
“Santos,” You mocked his deep voice.
Jack looked entirely unbothered, settling back against your chest like nothing had happened. “That is her last name.”
“You used it in a dismissive tone.”
“So?”
“You were jealous.”
That finally got a reaction.
He tilted his head back just enough to level you with a look. “Why would I be jealous of Trinity?”
You gave him a deadpan stare.
“Not of Trinity, you shit.”
“Oh.” Understanding crossed his face a second too late. “Of some lousy firefighter? Please.”
You barked out a startled laugh. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You literally interrupted her mid-sentence.”
“She was about to annoy me.”
“She was asking about another guy.”
“That too.”
Your grin widened triumphantly as he sighed like he regretted saying it out loud already. “This is really interesting behavior from a man who spent years hating me.”
“Hey,” Jack scoffed, shifting just enough to look up at you. “I’m a man of science. I just want to know how I measure up to a firefighter. You know, as a decorated veteran, senior attending physician—”
“Oh, what else?” You grinned despite yourself.
“Homeowner.”
You snorted.
“Mentor.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Excellent hair.”
“That one’s subjective.”
“It’s really not.”
You laughed, shaking your head as he settled smugly back against you.
“And for the record, I never hated you.” He continued.
“You were mean to me for, like, three consecutive years.”
“I was professionally challenging.”
“You once told me my sutures looked ‘visually upsetting.’”
“They did.”
You gasped in offense while he smirked against your stomach.
“See?” you pointed accusingly. “Mean.”
“I’m dating you now. I can’t completely lose my edge.”
Your fingers stalled briefly in his hair. The words landed strangely in your chest, each letter swirling around in your mind as your brain began to paint different pathways of how this all could inevitably blow up in your face.
Dating.
Not sleeping together. Not whatever this quarantine thing was. Not dancing around each other until HR inevitably hunted you both for sport.
Jack must’ve noticed the split-second pause, because his head lifted immediately.
“What?” he asked carefully.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, suddenly very interested in the television again. “Nothing.”
“Sounds like something.”
You looked down at him finally, trying—and failing—to keep the sudden self-consciousness off your face.
“Are you?”
One of his brows lifted slightly. “Am I what?”
“…Dating me.”
Jack stared at you for a second before a slow smile pulled at his mouth.
“Thought I’d try the label on,” he said lightly. “Why? You don’t like it?”
“No,” you answered quickly, almost too quickly. “No, I just…” You trailed off, chewing briefly on your lip. “I don’t know how it feels yet.”
For the first time in what felt like days, the teasing eased from his expression completely. Something softer took its place, like he was realizing the weight of what he just placed on top of you both.
“Okay,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Take your time.”
The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten a little. Because there was no pressure in it. No hint of smugness or his usual teasing tone.
Just Jack, looking up at you like he really meant it.
The silence that followed stretched a beat too long—aware and awkward in a way neither of you usually let things become.
Then, suddenly—
“So,” Jack said casually, settling his cheek back against your stomach, “is it because of the firefighter?”
You snorted so hard you nearly choked.
“Why are you genuinely threatened by a man from two years ago?”
“I’m not threatened.”
“You’re literally bringing him up unprovoked.”
“I just figured, if Trinity knows about him, he must’ve been hot shit.”
“The reason she knows is because he couldn’t make me finish to save his life,”
You could practically feel the grin forming against the skin of your stomach.
“Couldn’t make you finish, you say?”
Later in the day, as Jack’s fever had finally begun to surrender, you adopted his task of making dinner.
Not that he’d accepted the demotion gracefully.
He insisted on helping, claiming he was “perfectly functional” despite the fact that last night he ran a fever high enough to qualify as a small furnace. The compromise landed somewhere in the middle: you manned the stove while he handled prep work as a quiet playlist drifted from the Amazon Echo.
The whole thing felt strangely familiar.
Not the cooking itself, but the way you moved around each other.
Without discussion, you slid aside when he needed something from the cabinet behind you. You passed ingredients back and forth without looking, somehow already knowing what the other needed.
The same choreography you’d shared in trauma bays.
Only now there were no monitors screaming in the background. There wasn’t any blood or urgency. No where to be.
Just at the kitchen counter.
You found yourself watching him when he wasn’t looking, knife moving steadily through vegetables as music hummed through the kitchen.
Was this how it had always been? Under the arguments and sharp comments?
Beneath the constant push and pull, had this dance always existed between you?
You thought back to the countless shifts you’d spent orbiting each other. The way he always knew where you were in a crowded trauma room, like tracking you grounded him. The way you anticipated his next move before he’d made it, because even if you wouldn’t admit it, you had learned him years ago.
And the way everyone else seemed to notice your tension long before either of you acknowledged it.
Did they see this coming?
Were you both simply the last people to realize something everyone else had already figured out?
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because if it was so inevitable…why had hearing him say ‘dating’ felt almost frightening?
The word itself wasn’t the problem. It was what came after. Dating implied a future.
And future required reality.
And reality was waiting patiently outside the walls of this house.
Fourteen days—that was all this quarantine was ever supposed to be. Fourteen days before the emergency department reclaimed you both.
Before Jack became Dr. Abbot again.
Before you returned to being his resident.
Before HR.
Before questions neither of you had answers to yet.
When this all started, that countdown had felt like salvation.
Now it felt more like a period.
You tried not to think about it for too long, because doing so threatened to shatter the beautiful illusion you’d both built here.
And that illusion was slowly starting to peel away as the outside world crept in.
Like now, when Jack’s phone lit up with a call from, of course, Robby.
Jack glanced at the screen and immediately looked annoyed.
“I don’t want to answer it,” he gruffed.
“You have to. It’ll look suspicious if you don’t.”
“I dodge his calls all the time.”
“If I had to answer Santos, you have to answer Robby.”
That appeared to give him pause.
His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was begrudgingly acknowledging the fairness of the argument.
“I still don’t like it.”
“Answer the phone, Abbot.”
He sighed dramatically before finally swiping to accept the call.
“Hey, brother.”
“Hey,” Robby’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Just checking on you. How’s the fever?”
“Nonexistent.”
You rolled your eyes silently at the never-ending ego while stirring the vegetables sautéing in the pan.
The fever had absolutely existed. You were there, after all.
“Good,” Robby replied. “Because I can’t have all my night shift offense dying of a virus.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You I can replace, but not my best R4.”
Jack glanced toward you, immediately catching your amused expression.
You smiled sweetly.
His eyes narrowed.
“Anyway,” Robby continued, oblivious. “You guys surviving over there?”
“Unfortunately.”
Oh, that’s how he was going to play this?
No.
He didn’t get to sit there all calm and collected with his best friend while Trinity had practically conducted a full-scale interrogation earlier.
Meanwhile, Jack was somehow getting away with a casual check-in.
If you were going down, he was coming with you.
“Unfortunately?” Robby laughed.
Jack opened his mouth, undoubtedly preparing some sarcastic response, when you chose that exact moment to slide beside where he was now standing against the counter.
His words stalled—only for a second—but you noticed.
Interesting.
“Yep,” he continued, voice slightly tighter than before. “We’re surviving.”
Your lips twitched.
Because while Robby was busy talking about staffing shortages and patient volume, you were busy observing an entirely different phenomenon.
Namely, how much concentration it apparently required for Jack Abbot to hold a normal conversation.
His attention flickered briefly toward you.
A warning.
You ignored it.
“—and Santos accidentally discharged the wrong patient paperwork,” Robby was saying.
“Mm.”
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
“Absolutely.”
“No, you didn’t.”
You let your hand rest on Jack's hip. Light. Innocent, even.
His jaw tightened.
"I heard you," Jack said, his tone carefully measured. "Santos screwed up discharge papers."
"Right. So anyway, I had to—"
Your fingers traced a slow path downward, following the line of his quad muscle through the fabric of his pants.
Jack's hand shot down, catching your wrist.
He didn't push you away.
He just held you there.
A standoff.
And historically, standoffs between you led to intense eye contact, gritted teeth, and heavy breathing.
Yeah, okay, maybe you’d had sexual tension for a lot longer than you wanted to admit.
"—completely ridiculous, right?" Robby finished.
"Yeah," Jack said. "Ridiculous."
There was a pause on the other end. "You okay, man? You sound weird."
"Fine."
You smiled sweetly at him, then deliberately slipped your hand free from his grip and placed it on his chest instead. Much more appropriate. Practically PG.
His eyes narrowed.
Good.
You let your palm slide down the front of his shirt, feeling the firm planes of muscle beneath the cotton. Slowly. Appreciatively. Your fingers traced the ridges of his hard abdomen, following each defined ridge downward.
"So listen," Robby was saying, "I wanted to ask you about—"
Your hand reached his belt.
Jack's breath hitched.
Just barely.
But you heard it.
"About what?" Jack's voice came out rougher than intended.
"About that conference next month. You planning to go? Heard Gloria saying she wants the attendings to go for some… ‘not mandatory but gently suggested training’,"
Your fingers worked his belt buckle open with ease.
Jack's free hand gripped the armrest of his chair.
"Haven't decided," he managed.
"Could be fun. It's in Miami, Shen said. We might actually, dare I say it, have some fun for once instead of—"
The zipper came down with a soft sound that seemed deafening in the quiet room.
Jack's eyes locked on yours.
A warning. A plea. You weren't entirely sure which.
Maybe both?
"Miami sounds…cool," he said, his voice strained.
You rose a brow mockingly as you sank onto your knees in front of him.
His pupils dilated.
"Right?" Robby continued, enthusiastic now. "And Dana’s been on my case about taking a actual vacation, so I figured—"
You palmed him through his boxers, feeling him already half-hard.
His hips jerked involuntarily.
"—we could make a long weekend out of it. Self-care and all that bullshit Mel talks about. What do you think?"
"I think—" Jack's words cut off as you freed him from his boxers, wrapping your hand around his length. "I think that could work."
"Yeah? Awesome. I'll send you the details."
You stroked him slowly, watching his cock harden fully in your grip. His knuckles were white where they gripped the counter.
"Great," Jack bit out.
"You sure you're okay? You sound—"
You leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, base to tip.
Jack's entire body went rigid.
"—distracted or something."
"Just tired," Jack forced out. "Didn’t sleep well."
"Right, yeah. I trust that it was helpful having an ER doctor around to help you battle COVID."
If Robby sounded suspecting, neither of you noticed. You took him into your mouth, just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the sensitive crown.
Jack's hand flew to your hair.
Not pushing. Not pulling.
Just anchoring himself.
"So anyway," Robby continued, "I was thinking we could—"
You sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.
"Fuck," Jack breathed.
"What?"
"Nothing. Stubbed my toe."
You had to suppress a laugh, which created an interesting vibration that made Jack's grip in your hair tighten considerably.
"Graceful as always," Robby teased.
"Shut up."
You established a rhythm, bobbing your head slowly, deliberately. Your hand worked what you couldn't fit, twisting slightly on each upstroke.
Jack's breathing was becoming increasingly uneven.
"Anyway," Robby went on, completely oblivious, "Had to break up this fight between Santos and Whitaker the other day, think they’re going completely mental not having their mediator at home—”
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, and Jack's hips bucked up involuntarily.
"—protein powder theft. You following?"
"Yeah," Jack rasped. "Following."
His voice was wrecked.
There was no way Robby couldn't hear it.
"Dude, seriously, are you—"
You pulled back and sucked hard on just the tip, your tongue working the sensitive spot just beneath the head.
Jack's thigh muscles were trembling under your free hand.
"I'm fine," he gritted out. "Just... headache."
"You want me to let you go?"
"No."
The word came out too quickly, too desperate.
You smirked around him and took him deep again, setting a faster pace now.
"Okay, well, I won't keep you much longer," Robby said. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you haven't killed each other yet."
Jack's laugh was strained, almost painful. "Not yet."
"That's the spirit. Trinity says—what?" His voice became distant as he lowered the phone. “I’m not asking him about that stupid bet. Take that off the whiteboard like I asked a week ago. Trinity says hi.”
You did that thing with your tongue that you'd learned drove him crazy, and Jack's hand tightened almost painfully in your hair.
"Tell her—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Tell her hi back."
"Will do. Alright, man, I'll text you those conference details."
"Sounds good."
You could feel him getting close. His cock was pulsing in your mouth, his breathing ragged despite his best efforts to control it.
"Talk soon?"
"Yeah. Soon."
"Feel better. Later, man."
"Later."
The second Jack ended the call, his phone clattered onto the counter and both his hands were in your hair.
"You," he growled, looking down at you with dark eyes, "are absolutely fucking evil."
You pulled off him just long enough to smile innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."
Then you took him back into your mouth, deep and fast, and his head fell back with a groan that he no longer had to suppress.
"Christ," he breathed, his hips rocking up to meet your mouth. "You're going to be the death of me."
You hummed in agreement, the vibration making him curse again.
His control was completely gone now, one hand guiding your movements while the other gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"So fucking good," he muttered, his voice rough and unrestrained. "Your mouth—fuck—"
You could feel him right on the edge, his thighs tensing, his breathing harsh and uneven.
"I'm—" he warned, his grip tightening in your hair. "I'm gonna—"
You didn't pull away.
Instead, you took him deeper, sucking harder, and he came with a broken groan, his whole body shuddering as he spilled down your throat.
You worked him through it, swallowing everything, not letting up until he was gasping and oversensitive, his hand in your hair going from demanding to almost gentle.
Finally, you pulled off him with an obscene pop, looking up at him with satisfaction.
He looked completely wrecked.
Hair disheveled from running his hands through it. Chest heaving. Eyes still dark and unfocused.
Beautiful.
"You," he said again, his voice hoarse, "are in so much trouble."
You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, grinning. "Worth it."
He huffed a breathless laugh, then reached down and pulled you up into him, kissing you hard and deep, tasting himself on your tongue.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes had that dangerous glint you'd come to recognize.
"Robby's going to call back," he murmured against your lips. "He always does when he forgets to mention something."
"So?"
His hand slid up your thigh, fingers teasing at the hem of your shorts. "So when he does, it's your turn."
Your breath caught.
"Fair's fair," Jack said, his smile sharp and promising. "And trust me, sweetheart—I'm much better at multitasking than you gave me credit for."
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⭒ Jack Abbot ⭒ Part 02 ⭒ Part 03 ⭒ Part 04 ⭒ Part 05 ⭒ Part 06 ⭒ Part 07 ⭒ Part 08 ⭒ Part 09 ⭒ Part 10 ⭒ Part 11
WAIT FOR ME! | @sun-snatcher
You saved Abbot’s life once before. Now he fights to repay the debt.
i got a bad desire | @inknopewetrust
sex had never been a problem for jack—until now.
Birdie | @/inknopewetrust
jack once found a camcorder from his past in a box in the garage. over time, the records of these videos capture the small moments, not the large ones.
dancing in the dark | @/inknopewetrust
jack learned to deal with all of his problems alone. when he finds someone to help shoulder his burdens, he falls deeply, unconditionally head over heels for you—and he loves coming home.
Jack meets your daughter | @belleeebelleee
You’re in your mid 20s and have daughter. When you’ve been dating Jack Abbot for 6 months, you think its time for him to meet your daughter for the first time. They immediately love each other and by the end of the night he’s sitting at her play table with a princess tiara in his curls and a massive smile on his face.
Imagine | @/belleeebelleee
You find out that Jack keeps a photo of you in his wallet
Imagine | @/belleeebelleee
Jack Abbot receives a call while he’s on night shift.
Rescue Me | @/belleeebelleee
You’re on a date. It is not going well. You message Mateo to come rescue you from under the table. Or at least you think you do, because not even 15 minutes later, Jack Abbot is pushing into the restaurant, walking over to you, taking your hand and walking you out with him, without saying a word.
“I’m going to need you to marry me.” | @/belleeebelleee
We Can’t Be Friends | @imaginesofwonder
A routine ER shift takes a sharp turn when Jack makes one thing clear—you were never just friends.
Property Of | @/imaginesofwonder
A routine ER shift takes a sharp turn when a Jane Doe arrives wearing Jack’s dog tags.
Say It Again | @/imaginesofwonder
What should’ve been a simple grocery run spirals when Jack is judged at a glance, and you make it clear exactly who they’re talking to.
Say Yes, Idiot | @/imaginesofwonder
Jack struggles to ask Robby to be his child’s godfather, but his heavy words lead Robby to the wrong conclusion
Happily Married | @/imaginesofwonder
You’re a new ED doctor who wears a fake wedding ring to keep patients from flirting, but your observant colleague Jack notices and wants more.
Your Husband Is Who? | @/imaginesofwonder
A routine IT call in the ED turns into an unexpected reveal when Santos realizes the quiet IT specialist she’s been talking to is married to the doctor she works with.
Summa Cum Laude, Actually. | @abbotafterhours
Some people take one look at you and your pink stethoscope and make up their minds. That's okay. You've been proving people wrong since Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Futile Devices | @/abbotafterhours
he was four miles away when it happened. charting. completely unaware. and when they brought you in, pale and terrified and coming apart at the seams, he understood for the first time what it meant to be on the wrong side of the emergency.
3 + 1 | @/abbotafterhours
the three times you worry about jack's wedding ring , and the one time he reassures you you have nothing to worry about
Jack and his fave EMT | @/abbotafterhours
The Arrangement | @/abbotafterhours
jack need's a hobby, you need to eat more. jack needs you, you need jack. love ensues!
Soft Moments | @ofstarsandvibranium
You and Jack live very busy lives as you both work night shift in the hospital. But here are some sweet, intimate moments you guys share in your hectic lives.
We Got History | @/ofstarsandvibranium
Of course, when you cover a shift for Princess, you not only work with your fiancé, but also come across your ex. The shift couldn’t be anymore interesting.
The Waiting Game, Pt. 2, Pt. 3 | @batslovebite
Uprooting your life for your brother feels like a never ending trial until you met Jack
Stubborn | @/batslovebite
Your husband gets worried when he gets a call that you’re in his ED
Old Man | @writingwithrach
when jack forgets the food you made for him, you show up at the hospital and bring it to him.
Miss Abbot | @shadeofpeach
The new residents see the lack of a ring as an invitation, unaware that twelve years of marriage has made him completely immune to their charms.
Hidden bruises | @/shadeofpeach
Working the night shift at The Pitt is hard enough without carrying the weight of a violent secret. Jack Abbot has been watching his best resident slowly fade for months until a desperate attempt to leave her abuser turns into a fight for her life.
Honey cravings | @/shadeofpeach
Being thirty four weeks pregnant and working a shift isn’t exactly the taking it easy your doctor ordered. Between heavy charts and a snack delivery, Jack makes it clear that he’s the most overprotective father-to-be.
Anti-bacterial hand gel | @/shadeofpeach
working in the ER means getting used to the clinical scent of antiseptic. Dr. Jack Abbot is a man of protocols, which is why he finds your collection of antibacterial hand gel to be a glittery distraction, until a terrified toddler refuses to cooperate.
Two reasons to come home | @/shadeofpeach
After an argument about Jack’s dangerous new hobby with the SWAT team, he walks out, leaving things shattered. Hours later, Jack realizes that the adrenaline he’s been chasing is nothing compared to the new reason to come back home after his shifts.
Please | @abbotly
Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Compromise | @/abbotly
Your attending is worried your mouth is putting you in unnecessary danger with testy patients, which you find ironic coming from a man who gets shot at as a side gig.
pretty please?, pt. 2 | @mactavishwritings
you were a pediatric resident at PMTC, connecting with your patients through the soft pinks of your scrubs and your gentle nature. you often were called to consult down in the ER on pedes cases. you just so happen to catch the eye of a certain night shift attending who couldn’t help the pull he felt to the pretty r3.
THE ABBOT EFFECT | @mariposium
your boyfriend has a way about him that draws women in like bees to honey. it’s never bothered you before, but after a bad shift and an ill-timed bet, you are quickly reaching the limit of what you can handle.
SUGAR TALKING | @seewhoyouwanttosee
Jack Abbot needs to put his lovin’ where his mouth is. You’re getting tired of his sugar talking.
Car crash | @weird-is-life
You get into a car accident with Jack's car. You worry about the car, and he worries about your health
My saviour, part 2, part 3 | @/weird-is-life
When a creep at a bar won't take a no for an answer, you fall into Jack's lap and get him to play your boyfriend
Wedding band | @/weird-is-life
Your relationship with Jack is new so when Dennis tells you that Jack used to wear a ring, you immediately jump to the wrong conclusion and block Jack
Ice-cream and fries | @/weird-is-life
A pregnant you makes a surprising appearance in the ER. Too impatient to wait for Jack in the car.
Shy shell | @/weird-is-life
It becomes Jack's mission to get you out of your shy shell around him, and somehow it works
Star-crossed | @peaky-void
Dr Abbot who lives on adrenaline and still wears his late wife’s ring leaves his girlfriend feeling perpetually second, and as grief, emotional distance, and medical trauma collide, their relationship unravels into devastating loss.
Smoke Inhalation | @therarityoflife
The ‘Pittlings’, as Jack likes to refer to them as, are unaware that he is in a relationship. He likes to keep his life outside of the hospital private. After responding to a call out to a structural fire, you and your crew are bringing four patients to PTMC for treatment. Jack is on a rare day shift, and is in the hospital when you arrive. The Pittlings very quickly learn about your relationship when your captain rats you out for giving your breathing mask to a teenager and insists you get checked over for smoke inhalation.
𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 | @springtyme
Watching Jack slip so effortlessly into rhythm with someone else makes you question what you thought about the two of you.
first time parents | @luvxkdrama
OLD MAN CHARM | @fromsil
having a big fat crush on your attending wasn’t the best thing, but how could you not when he looked that good?
Park!resident!f!reader | @in-ky
in which your brother finds out who your secret boyfriend is
Teaching Moments | @the-shedevil-writes
In which Ogilvie has moved to the night shift, and you’re the resident assigned to teach him. But when things start to get more and more frustrating, you rely on your husband/attending, Jack Abbot.
Babies, Med Students, and Angry Attendings | @moondustfairies
Yours and Jack's baby girl wasn't feeling too well and when you tried to find Jack in the ED, some condescending doctors thought it would be a good idea to send you away, Jack reacts exactly as you thought he would.
Backup | @starling-in-the-sky
It’s the Pitt’s worst kept secret that you’re Dr. Abbot’s favorite nurse. When a close call with a patient leaves you hurt and vulnerable, he steps in to make sure you’re all right.
Good for Morale | @/starling-in-the-sky
You’re Jack’s sunshine on a cloudy day. But there’s no way you could return his feelings… right?
1 + 1 | @secrettragedytrash
You’ve been with Jack for almost a year, and haven’t yet told him about just how bad your mental health can get. After the worst possible work day, he finds and comforts you in a moment of vulnerability. Without any other choice, you come clean about everything you’re going through.
stubborn, stubborn | @jadeittic
You, an attending at the PTMC, are one of the few who can handle being in the same room with Brendon Park without leaving with an anxiety attack. Even others wonder if you and the infamous Shark had something going on, because why is he not terrifying when she’s in the room?
Pretend It’s Nothing | @/jadeittic
two stubborn doctors. one a reckless hockey goalie, the other an adrenaline junkie with a hobby of SWAT training hides their concern behind sarcasm, until a dangerous forces them to confront the feelings they’ve been bleeding for all along
Soft Spot | @/jadeittic
after an exhausting shift, jack comes home to a chaotic, love-filled morning with you and his june-bug full off stickt breakfast, june’s mischeif, and the comfort that makes everything he does worth it.
So Stupid In Love | @antisirkbitch
A fresh new grad nurse falls hard for Jack Abbot, the older night-shift attending she absolutely should not want. What starts as secret flirting in the chaos of the ER turns into something a lot more dangerous when neither of them can seem to stay away.
Arms Length | @girlpls1102
Jack Abbott was never supposed to be more than a secret—late nights, locked doors, and feelings that weren’t allowed to exist. But when Y/n realizes she’s falling for a man who refuses to admit he wants her, she finally walks away… only for life to rip the ground out from under her in the most painful way possible. With grief taking over her world and Jack realizing too late what he almost lost, both of them are forced to face the truth: some love stories don’t start with a confession… they start with heartbreak.
Not Small Anymore | @/girlpls1102
After years of being told you'd never amount to anything, you prove everyone—especially your mother—wrong by becoming an ER nurse and building a life on your own terms. Night shifts, independence, and a healthy, loving relationship with your boyfriend Jack Abbott give you the stability you never had growing up.But when your estranged mother suddenly reappears—first at your workplace and then during your sister’s labor—old wounds resurface. This time, though, you don’t stay quiet.With Jack by your side and your sister finally free from the same toxicity, you find the strength to stand up for yourself once and for all. A story about healing, boundaries, love, and learning that you were never small—you were just made to feel that way.
dr. baby in the house | @richeeduvie
Jack’s little daughter finds his stethoscope and decides she’s going to be him to take care of him
Feeding Leggy | @/richeeduvie
Jack’s chubby little daughter, who’s half of you (the woman to ruin him), decides she has every right to share her snacks with his prosthetic.
THERE SHE GOES | @melwnst
Jack notices that you keep slipping away in baby Jane doe’s room while you’re supposed to work. Unfortunately for you, you’re predictable. He knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s thinking it too.
DOCTOR DEAR DOCTOR, | @/melwnst
Everything around you crumbles when Jack walks into the ER as an almost patient. You see the blood on his back— he realizes you’re not being dramatic, you’re just scared.
my regards | @foxnfreaks
you were not a jealous person. that is until it comes to your very hot boyfriend being ogled at by a new nurse at the pitt.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
titus danforth x f!reader
Word Count: 10.8K
Rating: E
Summary: You get invited to an unexpected wedding.
Warnings: (SMUT MDNI 18+), professor reader, idiots in love, mentions of death (not super descriptive), obscene wealth, alcohol, feelings, mutual pinging, yearning, sexual tension, jealousy, (both reader and titus), sorta mean/pissed off titus, pet names, some fingering, oral sex (69ing so f & m receiving), lite spanking, dirty talk, praise, unprotected p in v, possessive sex?, hallmark ending (HEA <3), don't want to spoil too much about the ending
A/N: No spoilers! Anything that happens in this is not in the 2nd movie. Creative liberties galore! GIF found HERE by @sammy-bryant. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you reblog with commentary i love you so much <3.
BREAKING NEWS
An anchor spoke with hushed urgency usually reserved for national crises:
"The entire Le Domas family, heirs to the Le Domas Dominion board‑game empire, have been discovered dead inside the ancestral estate of patriarch Tony Le Domas. And at the center of it all is one name—Grace MacCaullay, the bride who married into the dynasty just hours before the massacre. Authorities are calling this a murder‑suicide, one of the most shocking in recent memory. Grace MacCaullay, 28, was found dead on the estate grounds with a gunshot wound to the head, and a gun in her hand. She was still wearing her wedding dress."
They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:
"In‑laws."
The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."
The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:
Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.
You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.
You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:
"Murder‑suicide."
You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?
You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'
The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.
He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."
"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?
"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."
You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.
A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."
He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.
"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."
Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment maybe. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.
"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"
"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."
He was clearly gauging how much you knew.
"I know enough," you said.
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."
"Then why did she change her mind?"
He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.
"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."
"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"
"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."
"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"
"I would do anything to be with her."
Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."
You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"
"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."
"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"
Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."
You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.
"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.
"It will be a surprise. A good one."
"Ursula hates surprises."
"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."
You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.
"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.
"I'll consider it," you finally said.
Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."
He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.
"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.
"Did they win the seat?"
He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.
Grace MacCaullay.
The Le Domas family.
Massacre.
Murder suicide.
You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.
But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.
Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door. You had bought it 3 days ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.
What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.
You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:
Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.
You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.
He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.
"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.
"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently
The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.
"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know
The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.
"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.
He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (30 euros), and he tipped his hat.
"Merci, madame."
"Merci."
You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.
As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.
A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.
You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.
And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.
He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.
Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.
Where was Titus?
You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.
"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.
The garden was breathtaking.
The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.
You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents—they walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.
Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.
The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.
"Please stand for the bride."
Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.
She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.
"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.
But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.
It was the man walking beside her.
Titus.
He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.
Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.
Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.
Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression—something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.
The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:
You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.
The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.
You needed a drink.
The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.
Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.
She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.
Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.
"Ursula—"
"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"
"Explain yourself."
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."
She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."
"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."
For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."
Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"
"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."
Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.
"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.
"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”
She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."
"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"
"Are you afraid?" you whispered.
"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.
"Of what might happen tonight."
She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.
"How can you know that?"
"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.
"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."
"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."
"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.
You grinned. "I appreciate that."
Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.
"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.
"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."
For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.
The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last 10 minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.
You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.
Then she appeared.
She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.
"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."
"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.
Of course her name was Margot.
You watched her laugh—a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.
"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."
"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."
"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"
"I've noticed," Titus said.
Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.
You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.
"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?
What a cunt.
"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison.
Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.
"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”
Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.
Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.
"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.
You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."
"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"
He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.
You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.
"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"
He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.
"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."
This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"
"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"
"You're being cruel."
He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."
"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"
"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."
"How did you—" you started.
"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.
"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."
Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.
"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."
He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.
"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his—the hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."
"That's—you can't mean that."
"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.
"Then stop trying to think."
He stared at you, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.
You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh
"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.
"I don't recall asking what you deserve."
He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.
At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.
You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.
The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.
His room stole your breath.
It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.
Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.
"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.
"Show me," you begged, taking off your panties and heels.
He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Titus—"
"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.
"I missed you," you cried out.
"Me too, Angel."
He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.
"Please—I need—"
"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."
"I want to put my mouth on you."
And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.
"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."
You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud and fucking shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.
The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.
"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."
You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.
Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.
"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.
"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"
"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.
The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop—he lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.
He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "I want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when you come." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp.
Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.
The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Whose pussy is this?"
"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."
He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.
"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."
His control snapped.
He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex—salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.
"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”
The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.
"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.
"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."
He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.
You checked your watch and sighed.
"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."
Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."
You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.
"Titus?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"I love you too."
The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.
"Titus?"
"Yes?"
"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."
Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.
"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."
He’d done what?
Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”
Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.
"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.
"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.
"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."
But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for you?
"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."
He didn't say anything.
All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.
You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.
The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.
Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him—his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.
"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.
Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.
After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained—not just Ursula and Titus, but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.
Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.
"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.
He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.
"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."
"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.
Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.
It took 37 moves.
Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.
Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.
"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."
You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.
"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."
His exhale was relief incarnate.
FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.
The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.
"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.
"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."
His son's face crumpled in protest—a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.
"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."
Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing—the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.
The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.
"Don't," you said flatly.
"I haven't done anything."
"You're about to do something. I can see it on your face."
Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.
"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.
"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."
"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.
He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."
"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."
You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.
Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.
You had chosen him. You were his wife.
His.
And Titus would never forget that.
"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."
"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.
"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."
His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.
"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"
Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.
"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."
"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you teased.
"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.
You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night during a vacation in Mendoza. Your daughter was conceived (accidentally) from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name after a wine-filled dinner.
He reached out, placing a warm hand on your belly. Your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.
"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.
"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."
He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother."
From inside, there was another kick against his palm. She loved his voice.
"She says no promises," you translated dryly.
"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."
"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"
Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $1200 per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.
"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.
You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"
"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."
"Titus, you can't just—"
"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."
You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.
So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.
"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."
"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."
"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.
That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"
"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."
You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.
"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."
Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part
Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle.
BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.
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7.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: neighbor AU; will-they-won't-they tension; another famous rabbit nickname because it's me; self-doubt/self-consciousness; hand job; oral sex; PIV sex; masturbation; pretty much just fluffy and smutty!
Summary: When your hot water heater breaks Jack lets you grab a shower at his place. After you leave he finds himself enveloped by warm steam that smells like you. What's a man to do?
AN: I've wanted to do a neighbor AU with Jack for soooooo long and finally gave in! I'm calling it the Across the Hall AU (there will eventually be a fic titled Across the Hall 😂). I don't really love this but I'm doing my best to ignore that because I do love the AU so much and have a lot of other ideas for it, so I hope it's enjoyable enough to want more. We're not starting with them meeting because this is what inspired me the most and what my brain wanted to write for some reason and I needed to run with whatever it would give me right now lol. Thank you so much for all of your support and for reading and I hope it's okay and you enjoy! ♥️
The ding of the elevator draws your attention.
Jack must be getting home. Your apartments are the only ones on this floor, your doors directly across the hall from each other. As you go to lock your door you do your best to try not to think about where Jack has been and why he's getting home at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. You know from chatting last week that he got off this morning and is off the next few days.
Your entire body freezes when the realization hits you, preemptive jealousy and rejection flooding your system. What if he walks off the elevator with someone?
It's been over nine months of this… thing between you and Jack. You're neighbors, yes, but you're clearly so much more. And while it's clear that you're more than neighbors, it's unclear what you actually are, together and to each other.
The two of you flirt, sometimes subtly and with an intimate gentleness that almost makes your hearts ache, and sometimes intensely, both of you lit on fire by the other's words and body movements and facial expressions. There have been so many what you're both 99% sure were almost-kisses that you've lost count.
You have nicknames for each other. One day you'd called him Bugs, it had just slipped out without you even realizing. It took Jack about twenty seconds to put it together and figure out where it came from. You were going to apologize and assure him you'd never call him it again but he spoke first, responding to whatever you said and calling you Tweety.
Jack has invited you over and cooked you dinner and the two of you have eaten at his table sharing a bottle of wine or a six pack of whatever before you chill on his couch until you start to fall asleep, sometimes watching something on TV, but most of the time just facing each other and chatting. You've invited Jack over and the two of you have eaten takeout on your couch while showing each other your favorite movies and watching new ones together, trying to find movies that are so bad they're good and leave you both crying with laughter on your couch.
You’ve met his friends and the people who he’s closest with and who mean the most to him, some from the Pitt, some from his army unit, some from his SWAT unit. He’s met a couple of your more casual friends, knows that your closest and who mean the most to you don’t live in or particularly close to the city.
Jack has hugged you so tightly and for so long on some of your worst days, until enough pieces of you have been put back together that you feel like you can function again, made you your favorite or ordered it in if you could stomach it, made you something light if you couldn't so that you had some food in your system. He always seems to know just what to do and just what you need.
You've made Jack breakfast and eaten with him while he sat silently on your couch trying to process some of his worst shifts, ones that were hell or where there was more death than life or patients that particularly got to him, been with him however he needed on some of his worst days, never expect or ask him to talk or explain what's going on. You always seem to know just what to do and just what he needs.
He knows all the gossip from your job. You know all of the Pitt gossip that Jack knows, which is pretty much all of it because people just tell him things without him asking or even hinting that he'd like to know.
You tease each other in every sense. You've both been obviously jealous when there have been the occasional dates the other has gone on, have both acted out a little bit over said jealousy.
You text each other every day, some days more than others. It's not uncommon for you to go four or five days without seeing each other in person or hearing the other's voice, you're not spending every night at each other's house or constantly going over for dinners or just to hang or whatever. While there's less pressure to have a reason, much less a legitimate sounding one, to invite the other over, you both still frequently try to offer one, no matter how lame it ends up sounding.
You know each other's secrets, things neither of you have admitted to anyone else except maybe your therapists. You know each other's past, each other's present and each other's dreams for the future. You've become best friends in the most unique way despite how little time you actually spend together. You can't imagine life without each other.
Jack knows he's falling in love with you.
You know you're falling in love with Jack.
But Jack can't understand for a single second why you'd ever be interested in him, convinces himself that he’s making up all the evidence that you are.
And you can't understand for a single second why Jack would ever be interested in you, convince yourself you’re making up all the evidence that he is.
You're both scared. Neither of you want to lose the other.
So you just continue on in this perpetual state of limbo that's so far beyond better than nothing at the same time as it's absolutely fucking nowhere near enough.
You're fumbling with your key when you hear Jack step off the elevator. There's no footsteps behind or next to him. He's alone. A sense of relief you know you have no business having washes over you.
"Hey, Tweety." Jack watches you turn your key the opposite direction than he expects. His eyebrows raise slightly. "Heading out this late on a Thursday?"
As he makes his way closer and stops walking he realizes you have a duffel bag with you, though it doesn't look like there's a ton in it. That observation has his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't realize you were going somewhere and wouldn't be around the next few days. He does his best to keep his voice light, curious but not intrusive. "Ah," he drawls, nodding at your duffel. "Escaping somewhere this weekend?"
He won't lie, he'll be disappointed if you are. He was kind of hoping to invite you over this weekend just to hang out at his place and make you dinner.
"Not quite," you laugh softly. "My, um, my hot water heater broke. I was planning on just dealing since they're either fixing it or replacing it tomorrow, but I don't know." You shrug at him. "I just need to wash the day off me." You let out a breath and smile at him. "A coworker sent me a pass to her gym so I'm going to go use the shower there. What about you? 10 p.m. on a Thursday." You force a smirk and raise your eyebrows. "Hot date?"
Jack snorts. "Hardly. A group of us from work went out to a bar to decompress."
You hold your smirk and tilt your head at him despite the way you want to cry and your heart sinks at the potential for what you say next to be true. "Could still be someone special there you haven't told me about who made you want to go."
He rolls his eyes at you playfully, but he can feel the butterflies in his stomach and fluttering of his heart caused by you seeming to care and maybe even being jealous at just the thought that there could be someone else. "I can assure you there's nobody special at work. You know there's absolutely nobody at work I'm remotely interested in and that I don't shit where I eat," he smirks back at you. "Why don't you just use my shower? Save yourself the time of getting to the gym and back."
"Oh, I, I," you titter, lick your lips and force yourself to pull it together. "I couldn't impose like that. It's getting late and it'll take up your time and, and… you know. It's very sweet of you to offer though, truly."
"You using my shower is so fucking far away from being an imposition. And it is getting late, yeah. Which is all the more reason for you to do the much safer thing and use my shower that's just across the hall." He cocks his head at you and raises his eyebrows. "You know if you go to the gym I'm going to stay up until you text me that you're home safe."
You let out a breathy laugh. He's right. You know he will. And you know there's something so protective with almost a possessive edge to it that makes your heart race and warmth bloom in your lower abdomen. "You don't have to do that, Bugs."
"I know," he nods once, "but I will anyway." Jack's voice drops to a murmur, his eyes dark and piercing yours as he holds your gaze. "I won’t be able to help it."
You're not sure how or when it happened exactly, but there's something in the air and the look in Jack's eyes that makes you think it might finally happen, that the two of you might finally kiss and give into this thing between you. When Jack's eyes leave yours and drop down to look at your lips you swear the tension in the hallway becomes so great that it's physically harder to breathe from the weight of it. Suddenly all you can really think about is Jack dragging you into his place and having his way with you until he's sated and ready to take a shower with you and scrub the day and his cum and sweat off you.
Jack's eyes drag back up to yours just in time for him to watch yours drop down and look at his lips. When you bring your eyes back to his the look you give him is so doe eyed and wanting and almost fucking demure Jack can feel the blood start to rush to his cock as he thinks about how you'd wear that look with your mouth full of his cock.
"I know… You’re silly like that aren't you?" you breathe, take a small step toward him.
"Yeah." The word is almost all air as Jack mirrors you and takes a small step toward you. "Only for you, though." And then the tension shatters.
But not how either of you want it to. It's the loud thud of someone dropping something in the elevator on the floor below you that does it. Both you and Jack look away from each other, annoyed at the noise and regretting not having acted quicker on the moment you were clearly having. He clears his throat as you look at each other again. "I wasn't like that for the guy that lived there before you," he smirks. He takes the few steps to his door. "Come on."
You give him a small smile and shift on your feet. "You're sure?"
"100%." Jack winks at you and opens his door, holds his one arm up and out to invite you in.
You feel lightheaded at his wink. So lightheaded you have to bite your lip hard to ground yourself with the pain. You shake your head at him and laugh softly as you walk into his place. "Thank you."
"Of course," Jack hums as he steps in behind you and shuts and locks the door.
As he sets his keys down and gets his shoes off he realizes he's been saying my shower this whole time. But it can't really be his shower. He has to show you to his guest bathroom's shower. Right? It would be weird to take you to his shower in the en suite bathroom off his bedroom because then you'd have to walk through his bedroom and that feels weird and what if it was somehow pressuring? Or felt like he was trying to say something?
Obviously there's this thing between the two of you that you haven't defined or given into, this thing you both know is there and want but just haven't let happen because there's no way the other can truly feel the same. With the attraction, physical and sexual and emotional, between you a permanent undercurrent whenever the two of you are together now, the last thing Jack wants to do is make you feel like he's using that, or trying to, or being weird or creepy or like he's doing anything other than just trying to help you out. Because that's all he's doing, trying to help you out.
As you stand by Jack and get your shoes off and move them out of the way near a pair of Jack's while he does the same you're struck by how familiar and comfortable Jack's apartment has become. If you're honest with yourself you wish you never had to leave.
"I'm guessing you don't need anything other than towels?" he asks as you both walk further into his place. He loves seeing you in his space. If he's honest with himself he wishes you never had to leave.
"I don't even need towels. I packed some." You smile at him, a hint of a smirk to it. "I can use them, save you the laundry."
"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes at you playfully. "Or I can just give you proper towels so you don't have to use the thin pool towels I know you packed."
You scoff at him with mock offense and a wide smile. "I resent that."
"But noticeably didn't deny it." You can hear the smirk in his voice as he turns and starts walking down to his hall closet. "Where's the gym anyway?" Jack calls to you as he pulls out a couple towels of various sizes.
"Squirrel Hill South."
"Squirrel Hill South?!" Jack repeats with teasing incredulousness, huffing. He starts walking back toward you, holding your eye contact how he loves to do. "You were seriously going to trek to fucking Squirrel Hill South for a shower instead of just asking me?"
"Well, I don't know," you shrug, voice a little higher pitched with mock defensiveness. "I don't like to be a burden or impose and I didn't know if that was appropriate or would be awkward or weird or what!" you laugh. "I didn't want to put you in an awkward position."
"You could never be a burden or an imposition and it's not inappropriate or awkward or weird." Jack offers you the towels and you take them. He stays standing in front of you, raises his brows and gives you a small smile. "Would it feel that way if I asked you if I could use your shower?"
"Well, no. But, but that's-"
He shakes his head and interrupts you gently, sets his hands on your shoulders, fingers a little too far in toward your neck to be strictly platonic, his thumbs against your collarbones. There's an intimacy to it that makes you breathe a little harder. You have half a mind to drop the towels and your bag and grab his face, pull it down to yours as you step even closer to him. "No buts." He flicks his eyebrows up at you and nods in a silent yeah? "And no it's not different. Anytime you need, yeah? Anything. A shower, a bed, someone to listen, stitches, a distraction." He smirks deeply at you. "A cup of sugar or whatever it is they say."
You try to match his smirk but it's a little too soft and smiled. Jack's words warm you from your core. You want whatever this is between you so badly. Those are things you say to a close friend, sure, but they're things you say to your partner too. Your girlfriend or boyfriend. And the way Jack said it, his tone of voice and his facial expressions, there was something so boyfriend reassuring his girlfriend about it all that drives you insane and makes your heart flutter and makes you want and need him and makes you a little sad almost. Because he's not your boyfriend.
"The same goes for you with me at my place, you know?" You click your tongue and bob your head to the side. "Minus the stitches, of course."
"I know," Jack chuckles. He gives your shoulders a little squeeze and then releases them and takes a step away from you.
"Good." You don't know why you do it or where the move comes from or where the confidence to comes from but you reach out and squeeze his upper arm. "Thank you, Jack."
The way you say his name there isn't special. It isn't whispered or breathy or giggled or moaned or anything special. It's normal. Like you always say it. And it rips through him in the best way, like hearing you say his name always does. It makes him want to kiss you and hold you and never let you go, makes him want to take you to bed and hear you moan it over and over again underneath him as he makes you feel better than you've ever been made to feel before, makes him want to cry with how much care you always say it with, how much warmth. It makes him want to get on his knees in front of you and ask you to be his, to go on a date with him, give him one chance.
As though all the times you've shared takeout on your couch or he's cooked you dinner and you've eaten at his place weren't, in reality, dates, even if you didn't label them as such.
"Did something happen today?" You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, confused. "To make you need to wash the day off. You don't have to say, just I'm… here, like I said. To listen or distract or talk or whatever. Help how I can."
"Oh." You shake your head and shrug. "No, nothing happened. It was just a long day and sometimes showering helps me let it all go. I like my long, hot showers, you know," you laugh softly, your words a throw back to you telling Jack while you were both a little tipsy on his couch one night how much you love taking long, hot showers.
"Okay, good." Jack gives you one of those small, closed lip smiles that's all in his eyes and you melt.
"Thanks for checking." You give him a similar smile back and then start to walk toward the guest bathroom.
"Oh," Jack calls after you. "The fan in there doesn't work by the way, sorry. I've been meaning to get it fixed but never really had a reason so I just haven't."
"That's okay." You turn and look at him when you get to the door. "I like the extra steam."
"Perfect then. Take your time. They're good hot water heaters when they're not broken. Perfect for long, hot showers," Jack teases you with a smile.
You fake glare at him. "You better not have spoken them replacing mine with some shitty one into the universe."
Jack laughs and the sound makes you weak. You want to hear that sound always, every day, you want to be the one to pull it from him, the one to make him laugh and smile and be happy. "If they do, I promise I'll give you a key to my place so that you can come take your long, hot showers as frequently as your heart desires."
You swallow hard at the thought of Jack giving you a key to his place so that you could come shower. Your mind can't help but think about whether he'd ever join you eventually, whether that would be the start of something more, of you both just finally saying how you feel and exploring what's so obviously between you.
"Guess we'll have to see." You give him a lopsided smile and open the door.
"Guess so," he nods. "Enjoy."
"Thanks, Jack." You hold his gaze for a moment and then step inside the bathroom.
Jack knows he's going to think about the way you just said his name and the smile you gave him for the rest of his life.
Being in Jack's shower, even just his guest bathroom's shower, is a fucking trip.
You're pretty sure you spend the first five minutes just standing there thinking about it. Nothing actually specific. Just the fact of it, of where you are. It's almost like you're frozen in a way, mind present and thinking about how you're in Jack's fucking shower, but also so spaced out.
It's only once you unfreeze and come back to yourself that specific thoughts start to hit you as just below scalding water rains down on you. And all of those thoughts, of course, involve you in Jack's shower, but in Jack's shower, in the en suite off his bedroom. With Jack in the shower with you.
You know he has a nice built in bench in his shower, you guys talked about it once, how they let him build it in. You don't remember why or how it came up, but it doesn't matter.
You wonder if he'd let you kneel between his legs and suck him off. Your mouth feels so empty at the thought that you're pretty sure you pout to yourself a little. You think Jack might fight it a little at first, not want you to hurt or bruise your knees. But as you convinced him it's what you really want, what you need, you think he'd let you.
Maybe he'd let you take control and set the pace. Maybe sometimes he'd take control, hold your head with one hand, maybe both, and move you up and down just how he wants.
You're sure he's too seasoned of an emergency room doctor to be super into shower sex, has probably seen some gnarly injuries from it, but maybe your mouth on his cock would help convince him otherwise.
Maybe Jack would say your name lowly, voice even more gravelly than it usually is, dripping in need and lust and affection. Maybe he'd get you positioned perfectly standing between his legs and then tell you to turn around so that your back is facing him. Maybe he'd reach forward and run his fingers through you planning on rubbing your clit to get you nice and wet for him, huff a groaned laugh when he realizes you're already beyond ready for him. Maybe he'd guide you back further with his hand on your hips, get you in the right position and himself notched right at your entrance and then pull you down onto his cock before letting you fuck yourself on him.
Maybe… Maybe you need to get a fucking grip, you chastise yourself when you realize how deep into that day dream you are and how wet you know you must be with how prominent your heartbeat feels between your legs.
You force yourself to actually start showering. You know Jack said to take your time but you should still be considerate. It's late enough.
But as you shower the thoughts don't really stop. All you can think about when you finally turn the shower off and wrap one of Jack's towels around you are his hands all over your body and soft words of adoration and appreciation and maybe even love being whispered into your ear as he helps dry you off.
Once you disappear into the bathroom and he hears the shower start Jack realizes he's going to have to do everything possible to keep himself busy so that he doesn't just sit on his couch and think about showering with you. He makes himself act like it's just any other night, do what he would normally do and what he would've done if he'd gotten home tonight without seeing you. Or at least he makes himself try to act like it's just any other night.
Jack heads into his room and changes his shirt, grabs a pair of sweatpants and sits on the side of his bed and takes his prosthetic off, checks over his leg and cleans it and his prosthetic, pulls his sweats on and knots the one leg to keep it from getting caught under his crutches. From his room he goes to his kitchen to grab a drink and then crutches to his couch and sits in his usual seat, grabs the medical journal and opens it to the page he left off on and starts to read. Or at least he tries to read.
By the time you get out of the shower and walk out of his bathroom Jack's read a single paragraph about twenty times and has absorbed approximately none of it, his head far too full of thoughts of you. It's a miracle he hears you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you and that you don't just walk out to him staring at a page of the journal completely spaced out and lost in his own little world. And hard.
Very obviously hard in his gray sweatpants.
You smile at him almost a little bashfully as you get closer. "Thank you for that."
Jack sets the journal in his lap and returns your smile with an easy one of his own. "Anytime. Feel better?"
"Yeah," you nod, "I do. I really appreciate it. It was very nice not having to trek across the city."
"I'm sure it was," he chuckles.
There's a beat of comfortable silence between you. There's no awkwardness to it at all. Something about it is almost poignant and expectant. You and Jack find yourselves where you always seem to. Both of you desperately wanting the other to make a move to confirm this thing between you is real and reciprocal and wanted and needed, followed by neither of you making it, you unconvinced that Jack could feel for you how you do for him and Jack unconvinced that you could feel for him how he does for you.
"Well." You let out a long breath and then walk over to his front door, Jack sitting up a bit to keep a better view of you. "I'll let you get back to your night." You pause with your hand on the door handle and look over at Jack.
The words are on the tip of his tongue. You can stay if you want.
Words that would be an unspoken ‘please want to stay.’
But he can't get them out. Not quick enough at least.
"Thank you again, Bugs." The smile you give him this time is absolutely unquestionably bashful and Jack wants to make you his, needs to. "I really appreciate it. And you. I really appreciate you. I hope you know that."
"I mean it. Anytime." Jack's smile is a little flustered and there's something so adorable about it that you bite your bottom lip which just makes him more flustered and his cock throb. "And I know. You make sure I know. I hope you know I really appreciate you too."
"I know," you nod, "you make sure I know." You shift your duffel and give Jack one last smile for the evening. "Goodnight, Bugs. Make sure you lock up." You wink at him, teasing him playfully about the way he always reminds you. You mean it though, you care about him just as much as Jack does about you.
Jack is floored the wink doesn't stop his heart or make him come untouched.
"Goodnight, Tweety." He gives you one last teasing smile for the night as you walk out, already knowing what he's going to call to you as you do. "Make sure you lock up too!"
Jack can hear your soft giggles as you pull his front door shut behind you. He's still for a moment, his brain trying to process everything that's happened tonight.
Jack has absolutely no idea what compels him to do it, but something in his subconscious does. He tells himself he's going to get the towels you used to throw them in the washer. He tosses the medical journal aside and gets up and crutches to the guest bathroom.
When he opens the door he's greeted with warm steam that smells like you, like your body wash mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. Jack immediately realizes his subconscious knew that's what would happen. He's frozen by it for a second before he quickly crutches into the bathroom and shuts the door so that no more steam can escape.
As he stands there, Jack's cock throbs even harder, the racing beat of his heart quickly the only thing he can hear. The thought crosses his mind as he breathes in deeply through his nose.
No. Absolutely not. No. He can't. It's wrong.
Before he fully realizes what he's doing Jack crutches over and puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rests his crutches against the wall. It's not particularly comfortable but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be here long, he tells himself. Just another thirty seconds or so. He'll let himself sit in the steamy warmth that smells like you for just another thirty seconds or so.
Jack's hand brushes over his cock and his breath catches at the feeling. He didn't really mean to do that. He just didn't pay enough attention to where his hand was as he was bringing it up to run through his hair.
But it felt good. God, it felt so fucking good.
The way he brings his hand back down and starts to palm at his cock over his sweatpants is undeniably deliberate. This is wrong. He shouldn't. He can't.
Jack palms himself a little harder, bites his lip and groans. Does he seriously have this little self-control when it comes to you? So little that he can't just get up and go back to his couch or to bed and let his erection fade away?
Apparently he seriously has this little self-control when it comes to you because instead of getting up Jack shifts and pulls his sweatpants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock and then nearly tears his shirt off. He lets out a heavy breath as he takes in another deep breath of your scent through his nose and rubs the bead of precum that leaks from his slit into his head.
This is so, so wrong. Getting off to the scent of you. This is so fucking dirty and probably a little creepy and, god what would you think of him if you knew what he was doing?
The thoughts fade quickly as he lets his eyes flutter closed and starts stroking himself properly as he continues breathing you in. You're all he's been thinking when getting himself off for a good while now, but this, this is different. The warmth of the air around him and the way it smells like you and the way the scent clings to him because of the steam makes it so different, makes it feel more real.
Maybe you'd like it, if you knew. Like that he was touching himself to the smell and thought of you. If the situations were reversed, though, he wouldn't mind. If he'd showered in your guest bathroom and you walked in once he left to warm steam that still smelled of him he wouldn't mind at all if you sat somewhere and touched yourself while you breathed him in and thought of him. He'd fucking want you to.
Jack doesn't know why, doesn't truly have a single fucking thing to draw the conclusion from, but he thinks you'd like it too. He thinks you'd find it hot.
If you knew he was doing this would you ask to watch? Ask him to show you what he likes? Would you slowly get closer to him so you could study every movement? Would you ask him what he was thinking about? Ask him to tell you all the things he thinks about when he touches himself? All the things he wants to do to you? Would you tell him all the things you want to do to him? Would you drag him to bed so you could both be more comfortable? Would you ask to take over? With your hand? With your mouth? Would you want to watch him come? Would you take your pants and underwear off and position yourself so he could come all over your cunt? Would you sink yourself down on him just as he started to come?
A million questions and possibilities run through Jack's mind, a million scenarios, ones he's imagined before and new ones. But his mind eventually settles.
"Jack?"
You and Jack are in his bed together, naked. You're tangled together on your sides, both of you breathless from making out. You press a couple of kisses to his jaw and scratch your nails at the v of his hips and whine slightly at the way you can feel his cock throb.
"Show me, please. Show me what you like," you whisper. "How you touch yourself. Please."
He swallows hard but nods. In addition to how fucking hot it is, there's something incredibly intimate about the ask, about the idea of touching himself with you watching. "Okay, Baby." Both of you shift and sit up against the headboard, Jack’s back propped up against it with some pillows comfortably and you pressed into his side, the position easier for you to bring your dominant hand across his body. Jack brings a hand that he has to focus way too hard on keeping steady to his cock.
"No, Jack," you interrupt before he can truly start, shaking your head at him. You hold your hand out to him. "Show me. Teach me. I want to be able to make you feel good."
"Fuck," Jack breathes, a heavy jolt of pleasure running up his spine. "I don't need to show you, Sweetheart. Just you touching me will make me feel good. Shit, just you watching makes it even better."
"But I want to know what makes you feel the best. I want to make you feel good, the best you've ever felt." You hit him with a pout that has him squeezing the base of his cock hard so he doesn't lose it just from that. "Please."
"Yeah, of course," Jack pants, reaches out and grabs your hand. "Anything you want, Baby. Anything and everything."
The groan Jack lets out as he imagines your hand wrapping around his cock at the guidance of his is ripped from deep in his chest. He knows that the feeling he's imagining would be nothing compared to the real thing, to how small your hand would feel in his and wrapped around him and how soft your skin would be against his cock.
Jack starts moving your hand up and down his cock slowly at first, picking up the pace with each pass until you're at a steady rhythm. He twists when he gets to his head and as Jack watches you watch your hand he can almost see you noting in your brain exactly where to start the twist to give him the most pleasure. He can't believe anybody, let alone you, would care for him enough to pay such close attention just so you can make him feel good.
"You're so big Jack," you moan softly as you work his cock. "I don't know how you're going to fit." Jack's hips buck at your words and your eyes meet as you look up at him. "You will fuck me tonight, right Jack? I need it. Need you."
"Yeah," Jack pants, "yeah, I'll fuck you tonight. I'll do whatever you want to you tonight."
"I want you to take whatever you want, want you to use me however you want." You look so truly desperate for it that Jack's hips buck just as desperately again. "I want you to do everything you've ever wanted to me, Jack."
He lets out a shuddery breath with a hint of a laugh to it. "That list is way the fuck too long for one night, Baby."
You giggle and bite your lip, twist your hand on your own just to surprise him and pull a loud groan of your name from his chest. It's like you can tell he's getting close despite this being the first time you guys have ever given in and done this, seen each other and kissed each other and touched each other like this. Jack can feel the way he's about to come, starts to draw in air to try to form the words to tell you, but instead his brows furrow in confusion when you slow your hand and then pull it away. He just barely swallows down most of a whine.
You hum soothingly, roll your head a little to kiss his skin wherever you can as his orgasm ebbs and then look up at him with an eager need in your eyes. "I want you to show me something else now."
"Oh yeah?" Jack has a feeling he knows what you mean, his heart somehow thundering harder at just the thought.
"Yeah." You move so that you're between his legs and facing him. And then you start to lower yourself and get comfortable laying between his legs on your stomach.
"Oh, Baby, you don't, you don't have to do this." He brings a hand down to your face where you rest it on his thigh and look up at him. "Your hand is more than enough."
"I know I don't have to, Jack." You smile at the precum he leaks when you say his name. You lift your head up and kiss his inner thigh up to his cock. "I want to, I promise" you murmur. "Show me how you like it, Baby, please."
You take his head in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it as you suck and moan. "Fuck!" Jack rasps, voice strained with pleasure. "Oh god, Baby, fuck. Fuck your mouth is so good, oh fuck."
As you slowly start to bob your head up and down one of your hands grabs one of his and brings it to your head as you look at him pleadingly. Jack knows it's a silent request for him to take control and show you how he likes it. He lets out a shuddery breath as he does what you asked.
Jack's hand speeds up, tightens around himself even more. He's close. He's so fucking close and it hasn't even been that long and he should be embarrassed but he's not. He's just fucking not. That's what you do to him. This is what you do to him.
And you’re not even fucking here.
He thinks he might be drunk off your scent. Jack never wants this to end, never wants the steam that smells like you and envelops him to dissipate. Not unless he can have the real thing. Not unless he can be fucking you with his nose pressed up against your neck or hauling you into the shower with him to make more steam that smells like you. Not unless you're his and he's yours.
"Jack." The way you say his name is almost moaned, your lips fluttering against his tip so you can take him back in your mouth as soon as you finish speaking. "Come for me."
Jack does with a breathy groan of your name, body almost trembling at how fucking good it feels as he watches his cum paint his chest and abdomen, a little hitting his collarbones and lower neck. His head drops back and he lets his eyes close as he keeps working himself through it, your name falling off his tongue over and over.
He works himself to a little painful overstimulation and then lets go of his cock as he pants and tries to come back down, aftershocks of pleasure ripping through his body as he basks in the post-orgasm haze and the smell of you. Jack can't remember the last time he came that hard. He's not sure if he ever has before. And all it took was the scent of you.
He's so astronomically fucked.
He's falling in love with you. With your beauty and smile and laugh and your personality and wit and how vibrant you are. With the light you bring into his life just by being his neighbor.
He craves you, wants you like he's never wanted someone before. He wants all of you, the good and the bad and the parts you haven't shown him yet and the parts of you that you haven't even discovered yet, in every possible way, sexual and otherwise. Jack wants you. All of you. All the time.
You guys have your thing, but it's probably harmless flirting to you, not something that would ever go anywhere. He told himself you'd probably find this hot, but would you? Would you really? Or would you find it sad? A man his age touching himself.
Jack finally comes back around to where he always seems to land. Why would you ever want him?
He grabs some toilet paper and cleans his chest off. He stands up and opens the lid, tosses it in the toilet and flushes. It's as he pulls his shirt back on that his hearing apparently fucking comes back.
There's a knock on his door. "Bugs?" His unlocked door. He never locked it after you left, and he knows you, he knows you'll be concerned that he hasn't answered and you'll try it and he's in the fucking bathroom you were just in, that he has no reason to be in, that he never uses, always just goes to his, and you're too smart for your own fucking good and you'll put together why. You'll know.
So he needs to get out of here.
"Jack?" He hears the door start to open. "I'm coming in."
He just gets the lights off and makes it out of the bathroom and into the hallway a little bit, hopefully enough that it doesn't seem like he was coming out of there. "Hey, sorry," he calls to you as he crutches closer as you walk in. "I didn't hear at first…" He tries to think of some sort of excuse about why he didn't hear when he's always heard every other time, but he decides to let it go. You'll see right through him and the lie.
"That's okay." You smile at him, cocking your head just slightly with a subtly suspicious smile. Jack looks different than you've ever seen him before. He looks… caught, almost.
As you move closer to each other and you get a better look at him you realize he's flushed from the neck up, skin red and pink and a little blotchy, sweat making some of his curls stick to his forehead and his temple and neck a bit shiny. He looks hot. Literally and metaphorically.
You're so transfixed by him and thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of you while looking like he does right now that you don't even stop to think about why he looks like that right now, about what he could've been doing.
"You didn't lock your door." You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a teasing smile. "You need to."
Jack smirks at you. "Worried about me?"
"Yeah, actually," you laugh, the teasing sliding out of your smile and replaced by something so genuine Jack has to cover the way his breath hitches. "You'd be so mad if you discovered my door unlocked."
"Not mad," he shakes his head, "concerned and worried."
You shoot him an oh please look, but you know he's telling the truth. You know it would be that kind of anger that's really just a mask for intense and deep worry and concern. You lick your lips and take a breath. "I came back because I think I left my body wash."
Jack nods. "Ah, well we couldn’t possibly have that sitting in my guest bathroom until the next time you came over and grabbed it at your convenience. Absolutely required you getting out of bed and coming back over," he teases, crutching toward the bathroom with you.
"Nope," you pop the 'p.' "You might use it when you miss me," you smirk at him as you step by him to walk into the guest bathroom, your chests nearly brushing, something that isn't completely unusual, it's happened before and you guys hug. But there's something much more keyed up to the way your chests almost touch when combined with your words.
Your words that make Jack glitch for a moment. Do you know? Could you have figured out what he was doing before you came back in? No. There's no way you could've. You're just fucking around. He needs to fucking relax and be normal before he gives it away.
"Oh," Jack drawls with teasing amusement as you grab the bottle from the shower and then turn back to him and walk toward him, "is that your way of asking for a bottle of my body wash for when you miss me?"
The beat before you reply is just a few seconds too long for it to mean nothing, and fuck, Jack realizes, you might actually want that. But why? How? He has to be wrong. He's projecting.
You're undeniably a little flustered though, that much is obvious to Jack, but not flustered in a he made you uncomfortable way, more in a you've been caught kind of way. It makes his head spin.
Where the fuck everything that happens next comes from, where the confidence to do any of it comes from, you have no idea. It just seems to happen.
You stop in front of Jack, chests less than a centimeter from brushing. "You know one time you had me over you'd left a bottle of your body wash on the kitchen table for you to take into your bathroom the next time you went back there," you murmur, eye contact with him direct and unbelievably heady, a small ghost of a self-satisfied smile on your face. "So for all you know I already have a bottle in my shower just for that purpose."
Your smile pulls up a little wider on your face when Jack's breath catches in his throat and he swallows heavily. His brain tries to come up with something to say but just fucking can't because you just said that. You just said that and it’s how you said it and that smile and your murmured voice and the look in your eyes and fuck.
You really just said that.
And Jack has no idea whether you do or don't but is now so beyond desperate to know.
"Thank you again, Bugs." You lean into him and up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, something you've never done before. "Have a good rest of your night."
You step back and smile at him before turning and walking to his front door, Jack almost frozen to his spot because you just said that and then kissed his cheek. Your lips had contact with his skin. Your lips.
You pause at his door again and turn back to him. "Make sure you really lock up this time, Bugs, yeah?" You flick your eyebrows up at him for a second in emphasis. "And have sweet dreams, Jack."
I want to be his neighbor he's falling in love with so badly. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable enough that you'd like to see more of them! Let me know if you would! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and give me so much joy! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support and for taking the time to read!! ♥️
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Jack spends an entire post-sex cuddle session emotionally suffering from the fact you’ve figured out he used to be ginger because…despite all the silver curls and stubble, there is a very incriminating copper color that still exists south of the border.
Or, to put it frankly, you realize he used to be a ginger from his pubes that haven’t gone fully gray.
You’ve been brushing up against them enough to notice.
“Jack Audrey Abbot, You seriously expect me to find out my silver fox boyfriend used to be ginger and not demand evidence? This is the best day of my life!”
You, naturally, react like you’ve found God. Jack wants to die, because you become obsessed with the idea of young ginger Jack. He gets gruffly, pathetically flustered in ways you’ve never seen before.
“You know what, you wanna talk about pubes? Let’s talk about how you thought shaving down there would be a fun surprise for me. That was stupid.”
“Shut up. I want photossss!!”
Fuck. Apparently all it takes to reduce him into a blushing mess is his hot girlfriend nurse young enough to be his kid is her being too delighted by the fact that he used to look like a fucking stocky Irish farm boy.
“I have some…I have some photos. Hopefully you’ll stop sexually harassing me.”
“Yay!”
But unfortunately for him, the more embarrassed he gets, the much more attractive you find him. Which, that should be impossible by now.
Mrs. Abbot must’ve told him at least a thousand times: Jack, when I’m gone—
But he never let her finish that sentence. Not after the first time.
You can’t be alone.
He wouldn’t hear it. All he ever wanted was her. Young, dumb, broke, and in love. That’s how it started. And he thought he was lucky, finding her so early, starting forever so soon.
But, as it turned out, forever was not long at all.
You need someone.
So forever alone it is. Alone and bereft is how he’ll stay. Because he found the one, and the one had to go. He can’t be greedy.
That was always his biggest flaw. Too greedy. Wanting too much. A love and a life. Greedy.
I need to know you’ll be okay.
He wasn’t okay before he met her. His life started that day in ‘98. So he won’t be okay now, in the after. In the dreaded space and time that keeps stretching, one beating heart short.
And he’s okay with that. Okay with not being okay. He’s made his peace with the restless nights, the empty home, the deafening silence.
But there’s this noise…. A noise that shatters the glass walls he surrounds himself with. It’s not grating, not harsh, but it torpedoes his safety with dead-shot accuracy.
Your voice.
Sometimes soft, sometimes loud, sometimes smooth, sometimes scratchy. It reverberates in the corners of his mind. When you’re near, but also when you’re far—he still hears you, like a ghost in his walls.
Please, for me.
You follow him around, possessing his thoughts, turning his body into a haunted house. Your scent trails after him, the heat of your skin burns into his with just one brush.
One love. That was the hand he was dealt. He’s sure of it. One love, a life lost, only memories to sustain him.
But it’s different with you. You don’t push, but he pulls. You don’t step forward, but he’s already three steps back. It’s a paradox he can’t figure out. You’re easy with affection, easy to draw him in, yet you don’t ask for more. You don’t pursue, but you make him wish you would. Does he have it in him to resist? Does he have it in him to do it himself? To pursue?
One love, that’s all he deserves. So why does he feel it again? That wanting? Why does he notice himself reaching?
The greed is back, hungrier than ever. After years of wasting away—starved—it has returned. It takes a different shape now, jagged and sharp from lessons learned, marble pieces chiseled away by the cruel pick of time.
You drive him mad. Your existence is a direct contradiction to everything he’s told himself since her passing.
Fine. But when I send her to you, you better not turn her away. Promise me.
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jack abbot doing that thing where he’s shushing you even he’s the reason you’re making all that noise. like he’s got you pinned to the bed on your side, curling his body over you to keep reaching that spot. asking “what’s all the fuss about, hm?” and holding your face with fake concern while railing you to literal pleased tears.
you’re grabbing onto whatever part of him you can, tugging the freckled skin as the thick of him splits you open with rough strokes. unraveling you thrust by thrust.
“j…jack,” is all your voice can bunch out of your damp-with-sweat, bouncing figure. the rest of what you say just spills into loud, melty, fucked-out noises.
“that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he mumbles, lips against your ear. they peck a quick kiss along the shell before he grins at your loud pants—which is exactly how he wants them… wants you. loud and crying (good tears, of course) and stuffed full of him. you cry out his name again, and he just bucks into you harder. feeling a little light headed himself. “shh, baby, i know. we’ll getcha there.”
jack abbot x resident!reader. implied age gap. established situationship. based on a request!! explicit sexual content. oral f. receiving. unprotected pinv. unedited. idc.
☆ crash course (dbf!jack series) ☤ the pitt masterlist⋆˚꩜｡ main masterlist ☕︎༯ tip jar
When you were a kid, you tried out for a school play. It was some ridiculous production with paper costumes and glitter-glued hats. You had one line, and you forgot it in the heat of the moment under the stage lights.
It taught you two things: one, you're not cut out for theatre, and two, you prefer to be in the background making things work. Maybe that's why you became a doctor, why you function well in the ER background noise.
You didn't set out to start sleeping with your attending. Hell, most of the time, you're on day shift. One night shift pickup covering for Ellis, and you ended up under Jack Abbot fifteen hours later.
Turns out, you're good at learning your lines. You recite them perfectly when Jack gives you that look, and your resolve slips. Every time is supposed to be the last one, but neither of you believes it. At least he does you the courtesy of pretending. That patient, placating nod, the smirk that indents his freckled cheeks as his lips twitch, then fold into that wry grin.
You've had a long, terrible day. Robby was breathing down your neck for most of it, Santos's charts have been a mess you're cleaning up, and some drunk asshole pissed on you while his buddy grabbed your ass. By the end of your shift, you just want to get drunk and sleep for a million years.
Until you get that text.
You should say no. If you had more than two brain cells to rub together after a draining, nightmare day, you'd realize what a terrible idea it is to sleep with your attending. Again. Because even if you know deep down it'll never go anywhere, that you'll always be second to the ghost of his dead wife, you can't stop yourself from this. Skating across the thin ice, dangerously close to falling in.
And god, you could drown in him. It would be so easy to love Jack Abbot.
Despite yourself, you drive to his place instead of yours. You turn up at his front door, sheepish, tired, wearing your spare scrubs and crocs because the peeing guy ruined your shoes.
There's a moment where hazel eyes meet yours. Where his smile cracks you open and spills sunlight down your throat.
And Jack? He grabs you by the stethoscope and kisses you.
You kiss him back. Hard. Sometimes, the two of you do something soft, almost close to making love. But this isn't that. No, it's harsh and fast and sloppy. It's passionate and raw, like nerves exposed. You come up for a breath, gasping as you peel off your scrub top and your undershirt in one pull.
“We can’t keep doing this," you pant against his lips.
“We can’t," he agrees, unbuckling his belt.
Clothes hit the floor. Tit for tat. One article at a time. Your back meets the cool sheets on his bed, and you're not quite sure when he carried you to his bedroom, but the scenery has, decidedly, changed.
“It’s a bad idea," you moan, as his fingertips sweep over your nipples through the lace of your bralette.
Jack just smiles as he kisses your neck, those deft fingers finding the waistband of your panties. “The worst. Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.”
You do. He rips off your underwear like they're personally offending him, and you'd normally chastise him for being so rough on your good undies, but the moan that escapes you when his hot breath fans across your slick pussy is barely coherent. “This is the last time," you whimper.
He chuckles. “Better make it count then.”
His tongue circles your clit, slow at first, just teasing you, getting you worked up, and then he curls his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and delivers a devastating suck that makes your hips fly right off the bed. He's memorized all the right spots, learned to devour you in the perfect way to keep you on the verge of a toe-curling orgasm. Jack is a generous lover, but he makes sure you come on his terms. Usually when you're so wet you're shaking and crying.
"Jack," you cry, tugging on his grey curls. "Jack, please—"
"Come on, baby," he teases. "What are you waitin' for, huh?"
He shoves two thick fingers inside of you, curling them to reach that gummy spot inside of you that only he seems to know how to reach, and then you're a goner. Heels digging into his shoulders, his mouth painting you in hues of pleasure as he sucks your clit and scissors his fingers in your needy hole.
Jack always keeps you on cloud nine as long as possible. He enjoys chasing every wave of your pleasure, rocketing into overstimulation. He discovered early on that he could make you squirt, and ever since, he never lets you leave without it happening at least once. Every gush of your pussy is the sweetest wine. He'll drink you down every day.
He kisses you, sweet and slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His pupils are blown when he pulls back, his cock thick and heavy in his boxer briefs.
"More," you beg.
"Greedy little thing," Jack murmurs. "Made you see God and now you're begging for my cock?"
You nod.
He pauses for a moment, fingers tracing across your jaw, like he's taking a moment just to look at you. "I'll give it to you, baby," he says, "but only if you promise to stay. I'm tired of pretending you aren't all I think about. I wake up in the middle of the night wanting you." He says your name, so tender, so loving. "So let me have you. Wanna wake up to you, not just a dream."
"Jack," you say helplessly.
He interrupts you, pressing a finger to your lips. "This. You. You're my second chance, yeah? And I'm tired of pretending I'm not in love with you."
In love.
With you.
God, the way he says it, so matter-of-fact, like it's a diagnosis. A quiet certainty, like a physical law of the universe.
Your head is spinning, his words are swimming around in a loop, and you can't form words, so you kiss him. That's how you answer him. You kiss him, whimpering as he kicks his boxers down, lining his fat cock with your entrance. Dozens of times, he's stretched you out, stuffed you full, but every time, you're still not sure you can take it all.
"I love you," you whisper in his ear, nails raking across his shoulders as he sheathes himself fully inside of you. He's so deep, kissing your womb with the blunt head of him, as close as he can get.
"Yeah?" he asks.
Your heart is beating in time with his name, running through your wild mind. Jack. Jack. Jack.
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgical resident!reader
summary: your work’s been leaving you exhausted, but you’re struggling to fall asleep, you barely can relax. Javadi recommends you an audio erotica app. and it does help you unwind. until you realize that the orgasmic raspy voice in your headphones belongs to one of your attendings — none other than Jack Abbot.
warnings: implied age gap (that you can ignore); mutual pining, Jack isn’t that good at flirting when he catches feelings. he compensates for it with his other talents 😏 smut {dirty talk, masturbation, praise kink, teasing, fingering (with two hands, idk if that’s a thing?), piv, aftercare}; Park is an unintentional wingman, Javadi is the bestest of friends / words: 13K / author’s note: this was suuuper unplanned, I wrote the whole thing in a couple of days. is the smut too detailed? maybe. idc ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Late in the evening, the cafeteria makes for a perfect place for naps.
With day and night shifts overlapping, everyone’s busy with the paperwork and greetings, and that’s when you prefer to slip away. You aren’t alone at this uncommon hiding spot — Santos already dozed off at a table further off, earbuds in, hood up. She can sleep anywhere and anytime. But you aren’t that lucky.
You spent ten minutes genuinely trying — deep breaths, and meditation, and counting sheep. Now you’re just sulking, helpless against your permanent exhaustion. You catch the footsteps first — quick, quiet, a woman on a mission. The door creaks just a little when it opens.
Closes.
You know the quiet won’t last long.
“I can feel you staring. You’d suck as a spy,” you say, grudgingly opening one eye to see Javadi leaning on the fridge door.
She shakes her head — half disapproval, half concern. “You know, each time I see you here, I’m not sure if you’re asleep or dead.”
“And they let you talk to suicidal people like that? Maybe I plan on walking out of the nearest window.”
“You won’t make it that far,” she chuckles and hands it to you — her peace offering: a frozen Butter Pecan Swirl, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with crushed nuts. It’s like an orgasm in a cup (a huge one), which you are happy to accept.
Javadi sits right next to you, concern still very present in her deer-like dark eyes. “I think even the patients on a psych hold look better than you do.”
“Wow, that comparison really cheered me up. You should be thankful, by the way,” you’re savouring the icy, jarringly sweet drink. “If I didn’t look like death, you’d still be dreaming about getting into surgical residency. My eyebags changed the course of your life. You’re welcome.”
“I am forever in your debt. I’ll pay it off with coffee,” she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out — black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.
And you think — suddenly and stupidly, because that’s how your brain’s now wired — of that one time Jack brought you the same drink. Sat with you on this same spot. Looked at you with his eyes crinkled at the corners, his usual smirk turned into a softer smile. You don’t even remember what he talked about, but the feeling stayed: of just how calm his presence made you. How comforting it was.
For a good minute, your coffee loses taste.
You blink. Take another sip. Look up — and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like you’re losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesn’t disappear.
“Long time no see,” Jack says, very much real. Casual. He goes to look for something in the fridge, a crumb of time for you to get yourself together. Then he looks back at you. “Tough shift?”
Tough week. Or month. Actually, life’s been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.
“Bearable,” you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping he’d take a hint. And yet, despite him being good at many things, Jack is perpetually bad at leaving you alone.
You left him first. You thought he’d hate you.
Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:
“Didn’t you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.”
His compliment feels like a glass of water, and you’ve been parched with thirst.
“Yeah,” you meet his gaze, because you’ve missed him terribly. He’s looking at you like he hoped you would. And you can’t help the smile. “I guess it was.”
He doesn’t stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest — unreasonably, sinfully buff arms — and stares straight at you:
“Remind me where’d you learned that clamping trick?”
He’s being smug now, and you have missed this too. Slowly, the room is narrowing to the small space he takes. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.”
He holds your gaze. Pins you to the spot with his. And just as always, he makes you feel like no one in the world exists except you two —
But you aren’t really alone.
You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, it’s Javadi wishing she could blend in with the wall. And when you snap back to reality, Jack follows.
He clears his throat, taking a step back. “Teach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to or—or if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him, in the politest tone that you can master. Already grieving that small moment you knew could never last.
Javadi can barely wait for him to leave — before her face breaks into a smile. “Aw, he has a crush on you.”
“Which you have told me a dozen times, and I’ll continue to reply that no, he doesn’t,” although your own face treacherously heats up.
“He flirted with you just now.”
“He flirts with everyone. He’s like an energy vampire, that’s why he doesn’t look his age.”
Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. “To be fair, his flirting isn’t that impressive.”
“I think half of the ER would disagree,” Javadi eagerly retorts. If there’s one thing these two don’t ever get tired of, it’s bickering.
“Oh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,” Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. “With you, he’s awkward. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point — he’s totally into you.”
“Did you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.”
Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.
“He’s also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,” she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.
Your mood hasn’t been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didn’t kick in.
“Can you develop a high tolerance to coffee? I feel like I should be way more awake. This cup is literally the size of a newborn.”
“Babe, you know there’s barely any coffee in it,” Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. “You just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.”
“But what if coffee isn’t working anymore... What’s the next best option? Cocaine?”
“You can’t afford cocaine.”
“I’ll sell a kidney.”
“Can’t do that either, you need them both.”
“I didn’t say I would sell mine.”
The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. “I know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes it’s okay to actually talk about what’s bothering you.”
“I’m very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,” you quip. And your regret is instant. “Sorry, I genuinely don’t remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.”
“Has Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesn’t think so.”
“No, it’s not that I don’t have free time, I just— I can’t fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow — nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck it’s called.”
And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.
“I might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.”
“Vic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If there’s any way to help me fall asleep faster, I’ll try it.”
“Okay, there’s this app... With a collection of audios. Recorded by men and women, you can pick. They sort of play out different imaginary scenarios, like meeting you for the first time and getting to know each other. And maybe, like, kissing or —”
“Just to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?” you’re trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.
“It’s not porn!” she hisses, adorably ashamed. “I mean, not always. They aren’t all explicit. The ones I’ve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d be into it.”
“Masturbation? I feel like I should be offended.”
“No, the whole... Talking thing.”
With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.
“I mean, isn’t that why you liked working with Abbot? He was explaining everything to you, always talked you through the procedures and stuff. And now you are super annoyed because Park barely speaks. Just glares at people.”
“I assure you, I’m not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.”
Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. “So what you’re saying is that... Abbot turned you on?”
“You know what, now I actually want to kill myself.”
“No, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,” she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. “You will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.”
“Those gummies don’t do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.”
She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Well, there’s always another option,” Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. “I need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. I’m serious.”
“Will do, mom.”
She flips you off on her way out.
Whatever little caffeine’s been in your drink, it helps you look less dead and more like a person who can be trusted with a scalpel. The OR floor is quiet and cool, and from afar, Park can be mistaken for a statue: a tall body made of sharp lines and muscles, staying completely still as he looks through a patient’s file.
He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.
“Got enough coffee to keep you standing? Don’t want to scrape you off the floor.”
You give him a dry chuckle. “When have you ever scraped me off the floor?”
One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. “Fair,” he says, his gaze back to the tablet. “I’d like for it to stay that way.”
“So who’s the last one for today? Anything exciting?”
“Male, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. It’s all in his file. I’ll see you in ten.”
Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.
“They say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you it’s also such a mood killer,” you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.
Park makes a sound that’s more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: “I’ll let you do the CRPP.”
“Thanks, I’m smiling on the inside.”
He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes you’re thankful that he doesn’t: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.
Unlike the previous one.
You may never admit it out loud, but you’ve come to enjoy working with Park. He’s harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isn’t that he doesn’t talk much. You don’t mind doing your own research, and you’re actually okay with him being closed off.
The real problem is Jack Abbot. Who has been driving you insane.
At first, there were no signs of trouble.
You picked the night shift for your rotation because you’ve always been more of a night owl, and you enjoyed the challenge that comes with the variety of traumas. You two clicked from day one — Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didn’t get offended by someone else’s talent. He smiled at you and made small talk and always offered answers to your questions. He also smiled and talked to literally everybody else, so you didn’t think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldn’t allow your feelings to interrupt your job.
Even when said feelings turned into a crush. That felt like an addiction.
It started with you waiting. Wanting. More of his words, his gaze, his flattering attention. Jack always knew exactly how to land a compliment — his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. He’d stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. He’d push you when he knew that you could handle it. He’d tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. “Yes, that’s the move.” “Look at you taking risks, kid.” “Good” —
— “girl”, you wanted Jack to add.
So good for him, you wanted him to think.
You wanted him. God knows, you wanted him so badly.
It didn’t help that Shen soon started calling you “Jack’s favorite”. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasn’t denied it once. Ellis discreetly (so she thought) tried leaving you alone with him more often. And even Crus once told you that you were the only resident Jack paid so much attention to.
It could’ve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.
Even after you’ve caught his gaze lingering, his hands reaching for you, his warmth grazing your shoulder or your spine. On more than one occasion. And still, it led nowhere. There were no accidental touches, no flirting outside of the ER, he didn’t even try to get your number.
Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. What’s worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t do.
So you looked for a way out that’d let you save your dignity and your career. Switching to surgery helped you with both. Despite the fact that you had to restart your year. Despite seeing the very obviously hurt expression on Jack’s face when you informed him. He didn’t try to stop you, though. You didn’t tell him why exactly you were leaving. Instead, you dived right into work: from dealing with small fractures and arthritis to sports injuries, torn muscles, spinal disorders and crushed bones. It was in no way easy, but it felt empowering — knowing that you could fix something so strong and weighty, the living tissues made of minerals and collagen, the bony structure that allows people to move.
And on the rare occasions your paths crossed, Abbot kept being friendly. But you kept your distance.
Even if deep down, you still missed him.
His gaze, his guidance. Most of all, his voice.
It takes you two more days to finally give up and ask Javadi about the app.
Hey, so that app that’s totally not audio porn... Can you please give me the name. And then forget I asked.
Actually, forgetting might not be enough. Next time you come over, I’ll need you to swear on the Bible.
There’s no way you have a Bible at home.
Well, another option is a blood oath.
I’m this 🤏 close to admitting you into our psych ward.
Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. There’s no shame in it!
Please, get fucked (literally 😛).
You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.
The layout is pretty simple — pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You don’t waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They aren’t at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddy’s Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration — and you’re about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:
A Helping Hand.
“Okay, a little on the nose,” you mumble to yourself.
It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but he’s got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: “I guess, this is my new hobby.”
You’re positive that it won’t work on you.
You take a shower, put on your pajamas and your noise-cancelling headphones. You sit in bed, your back against the pillows. With zero expectations (except maybe to find it all ridiculous and cringe).
You press play.
At first, there’s just silence.
And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:
“Hi, baby. You look so tired,” he murmurs. “You’ve had a hard day, I can tell.”
You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you — how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this stranger’s voice made heat flash in your stomach.
You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.
“All that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I can’t have you going to sleep so tense.”
Yeah, you don’t want that either.
His every quiet word strikes home: your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, your mind is clouded with it. You let out a breath you didn’t realize that you were holding. And you don’t think that him saying all that is a hell of a coincidence. Instead, it actually feels nice: for someone else to talk about your struggles. For it to sound like understanding.
“Don’t worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.”
So you slide lower in your bed, the pillows now behind your head and shoulders. And when he asks to close your eyes, you do.
You follow every single one of his instructions. His raspy, gently voiced commands: he’s telling you to take deep breaths, to slowly stretch out your arms and legs, to draw small circles over your temples, to put your hands lower and massage your neck. He’s telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers would’ve felt much better.
Then he’s instructing you to put hands on your chest, to run them up and down your body to get your blood flowing. You do just that. And soon you feel your skin prickle with warmth.
“Need you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. “Don’t think about anything. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”
Your thoughts are light; there’s nothing on your mind but him. Your muscles pliantly unravel as he continues speaking. About how warm your skin must feel, how pretty you are looking — laid out for him on your bedcovers. And there’s another feeling that feeds off his voice: a spark of fire that grows and spreads and makes you ache for more.
You hear him telling you to move your hands down to your stomach. He says he wishes he could touch you there, to slowly drag his fingers down to your navel —
“Wish I could feel how wet you are right now.”
Your eyelids flutter open.
You probably should’ve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you aren’t as opposed to it as you thought you would be. You’re just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties —
you find the fabric in between your legs already soaked.
All that from someone talking to you nicely?
There must be something in his voice.
That same voice whispers:
“Touch yourself.”
Barely a second passes before you do.
This isn’t your first time, but somehow, it feels very different. More satisfying. Way more intimate. Pads of your fingers move against your clit, exactly how he tells you:
“want you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,”
“apply more pressure with your index finger — feels good, yeah? c’mon, don’t stop,”
“now move a little lower, feel what a mess you’re making. I know you must be dripping”.
He’s right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.
“I bet you’d feel so tight around my fingers,” he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.
If he was here, in your room, you’d shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.
“Want you to put a finger in,” he orders. “Imagine that it’s mine.”
You start with one. Just one, and yet, it’s getting difficult to focus on his words. And fleetingly, with your chest heaving, you wonder what his fingers would feel like. As if he reads — or guesses — where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:
“But mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,” — you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, — “There you go. Don’t rush it, we’ve got time. I’d never rush it with you, honey.”
Despite you trying to move slowly, you’re getting dangerously close to cumming. You want to drag it out, you do, but he is making it too hard. When he is whispering to spread your legs wider. To set a rhythm, to start moving your hips a little. When he is telling you that you’re doing so good.
When he wants you to use your free hand to touch your nipples. When he says, teasingly, how much he wishes he could put his lips on you.
When you can hear him sigh, like all this also turns him on.
“Want you to go faster,” his words come out in low grunts. “Yes, keep going, don’t stop. Keep fucking yourself. Need to get you loosened up and ready for me. Fuck, your cunt would feel so perfect wrapped around my cock —”
Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.
You’re gasping, too loudly to hear what he is saying, your body floating in the waves of bliss. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath.
The audio ends abruptly on his own heavy breathing.
You are left stupefied and sweaty. And satisfied beyond description. Your headphones end up thrown across the bed, but you’re too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.
Before you know it, you are fast asleep.
What’s meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you don’t really feel ashamed about it.
There is a certain thrill to it — having a secret you don’t want to share, the one thing you can’t wait to get home to. It does help you to take the edge off, yes: with just his words, he makes your tension melt away, makes all the worries disappear. Leaving you dazed and gasping at the thought of how good he’d fuck you.
But sometimes, as you come down from your high, your thighs wet and hands trembling, and he is soothing you back into consciousness — the stranger’s voice reminds you of Jack’s.
It can’t be him, of course.
You wish it was.
You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that he’s been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldn’t be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.
So, since you’re able to wake up well-rested, you start to pile on more work.
You take your time to learn about non-invasive treatments: you get to know the PTMC’s physician and psychiatrist, you print out studies about injections and post-operative care, you spend your breaks leafing through the countless pages. You learn fast. You grab at every chance to practice. You ask to scrub in on some of Garcia’s cases, you’re lucky to assist Javadi’s mother a few times. And even though you feel that Park’s a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.
You don’t see Jack. He’s still on nights, and you are mostly up in the OR, and even when you do come down, you do your best to stay away. You hope that a tight schedule and your daily orgasms will be enough of a distraction. That at some point, your crush will quietly die down.
It’s no surprise that you’re working on the 4th.
And it’s predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse — and way more gruesome — than the other. You deal with fractured, broken bones, you get to help with torn-off fingers, bashed-in skulls and penetrating wounds. You rush from one OR into the other. You barely get time to take a breath. And once you finally do, you get called down to the ER.
“Look who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?” Robby puts on a smile to greet you.
“Garcia is still operating on Howard, Park’s dealing with your water slide case. I’m just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.”
“Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight.”
“Didn’t count on it.”
He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. “Here’s the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.”
And in the next second, your own chest tightens, anxiety bruising your ribcage like a seatbelt in a crash. Because the aforementioned patient is rolled in by Jack.
He doesn’t see you yet. You can’t help but notice — the tension roped around his back, the sheen of sweat around his forehead, faint sleepless shadows spilled under his eyes. Reflexively, you step out of the way so he can move down the hall without bumping into you. So you can stay unnoticed.
The injured man is in the middle of a screaming match with some guy whose cheek is slashed in half.
“I’m gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!”
“You hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!”
“Because you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!”
“You’re the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be —”
“Take yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,” Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isn’t working.
And you can tell that Jack is low on patience.
He grips the gurney with both hands and pushes it into the room, his voice coming out low and clipped:
“Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.”
It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character — too blunt, too rude; although acceptable under the current circumstances. And in the never-ending noise and busyness of the ER no one would ever waste their time on lecturing him. You aren’t even sure they heard.
But you freeze. As if a bomb just went off. The world around you is momentarily devoid of all the other sounds.
It isn’t the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them — intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his “shut” and “fucking”. You aren’t surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.
You’re struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.
“If his heart was damaged, he surely wouldn’t be yelling,” Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. “But the stabbing’s definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?”
“Cardiac box it is. I’d bet on a pneumothorax,” you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you aren’t looking at the patient.
Jack grabs the scissors to remove the man’s clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasn’t managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric — then stops. And then his eyes come back to you, this time with purpose. He meets your gaze, his own confused a little, one of his brows crawling up. Because you’re staring at him, and he has no idea why.
It’s almost funny to imagine how you’d explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that I’ve been getting off to the sound of your voice.
But at the moment, you aren’t laughing.
You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This can’t be happening. It cannot actually be him.
“Do an ultrasound to get a confirmation, I’ll go up to prep the OR,” you say to Robby flatly, eager to leave the room, to have a minute to yourself.
You take the stairwell, thoughts rushing as your feet are. And very quickly, your shock gives way to irritation. Surely, Jack is allowed to do whatever in his free time. But now that you suspect it’s him — his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things — you don’t think you’ll be able to relax. It would also be kinda inappropriate to continue listening to that.
But then you spend another seven hours on your feet. Three surgeries, two breaks (about ten minutes in total), a lot of blood and bones, a few of Park’s dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe could’ve helped you to unwind. And by the time you cross the hall of your apartment, you find it hard to care about propriety.
You put the headphones on, fully aware that you’re about to hear Jack.
It doesn’t ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.
Because it’s not some random guy — it’s Jack who puts you on all fours. Jack who tells you to put your fingers in your mouth. To suck them, to then take them deeper, to gag on them, just like he could’ve made you gag around his cock.
“Ass up for me, baby,” he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight — you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. “Bet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. C’mon, be a good girl. Show me.”
You never even think about reaching for your toys. You don’t need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.
“Want you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,” Jack rasps, “Because it’s all I think about,” and you’re imagining his chest pressed to your back, the sounds he would make while thrusting deep, deeper, relentless movement of his hips, his lips grazing your neck, “I know you’ll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.”
His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.
“I’d make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until you’re sobbing for me to fill you up,” he whispers heatedly. “I will. Just so I can fuck my cum back into you when we go for round two. I know my girl is always greedy for more.”
And he is right, you would be.
“Like you were made for it. For me.”
You cum as hard as always, breathless and shaking. And this time, with his name helplessly gasped against your pillow. A few long seconds after that, in your sweet postorgasmic haze, you get a very clear thought: you still want Jack, now more than ever.
And you two really need to talk.
You press Call before you can come up with yet another argument for why this is a bad idea. She picks up in four seconds, but you don’t let her say a word.
“Hey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldn’t go because of that leg amputation thing, and you told me you ended up in some new bar, with those big plants or whatever, and Abbot was there too?”
“Wow, are you already on cocaine?” Javadi laughs.
“No, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. You’re coming to the same bar this Friday, right?”
“Yep, that’s the plan. You decided to join us?”
“I’m thinking about it. But I’m gonna be at least an hour late, cause I’d have to get home to change and then —”
“Or you can just come right after work. The place isn’t that fancy. You can do casual.”
“I don’t want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, it’d be nice to actually feel pretty for once.”
“Oh, cut the crap, I know you’d look great in anything!”
“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again —”
“O-ooh.”
“No, don’t oh at me. You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“If Abbot shows up, I’m gonna tell him that you are coming too, so he’ll stay and wait for you.”
“Okay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.”
“You’re both kinda predictable,” Javadi notes with a chuckle. “When he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you weren’t there.”
“Or he just remembered he left the stove on and didn’t want his flat to burn down. It’s not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.”
“He didn’t need to,” she argues. “He came in, went straight to the bar where we were hanging out, ordered a beer and managed the small talk for barely a minute before he flat-out asked if you were there. Looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you didn’t come. Wished us a good night and took off, didn’t even take his beer.”
That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment — until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. “The spinal fusion should take about three hours.”
“Ugh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.”
“It is pretty cool.”
“And I am very glad you think that,” she’s quick to reassure. “Go fuse some vertebrae, so we’ll have something to drink to!”
The surgery takes four hours.
It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Park’s curt advice and your own strategic guesses — and usually, something like that would leave you drained. Hardly in the mood for socializing. But this evening, you step out of the OR with a wide grin.
“Good call about rotating the metal plates,” Park says, his voice emotionless. Like he’s not sure himself that it’s a compliment.
Still, you take it.
“Thank you, I did some reading beforehand,” you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. “Should help with healing, too. But knock on wood, we’ll see what his post-op scans show.”
And you’re already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patient’s file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if you’re lucky, you’ll be home in 20 —
“Abbot was right about you.”
That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You haven’t seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.
You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:
“Care to explain?”
“He wrote you a recommendation letter. Didn’t he tell you?” he casually clarifies. “Not that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,” the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, “Abbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.”
“Hold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,” and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. “So he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?”
“Yes. About the letter.”
“About me, you mean.”
“The letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,” he deadpans. “Is this interrogation over?”
“Oh, come on, that was only two questions. Don’t act like I am waterboarding you,” you huff, hands on your hips.
Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. You’re half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.
“He talks about you, you talk about him,” Park muses coolly. “You guys just need to fuck it out.”
He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.
And under other circumstances, you would’ve been so glad to hear it. Jack talked about you! Jack seems to care!
Except, he had a perfect chance to actually show you that. But on your final day in the ER, he barely said a word. It stayed stuck in your memory, the last nail in the coffin where your hopes were buried: Jack’s weird avoidance, no jokes, no flirting, none of his usual penchant for eye contact. He spent the whole shift painfully indifferent to your departure. Only once you started saying your goodbyes, he came by to wish you luck. To say that he was sure you’d do great. Two sentences was all he managed.
And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!
You’d really like to get a fucking explanation.
You don’t go home to change. You come straight to the noisy bar, in your plain jeans and baggy shirt. And wrapped up in anger. You scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot Victoria from afar: some tipsy guy is cornering her, wildly gesticulating with his hands. She doesn’t really seem scared, mostly annoyed. But you are in no mood for being civil.
You unceremoniously walk up to them and grab the stranger by the shoulder to pull him back.
“Her face clearly suggests she’s not interested. Get lost.”
“Hello to you too,” he whistles, leering at you. “You wanna be our third, babygirl? I’m always down for... some new experiences.”
“I can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? It’s when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you don’t leave in 10 seconds.”
“You’re into human anatomy? That’s hot,” the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon. There are 3 long bones in your arm, 27 in your hand. Which one would hurt more when broken, how do you think? You’ve got seven seconds. Six —”
“Geez, fucking chill, girl,” he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.
Javadi snorts a laugh. “Thank you, he was so annoying, I just didn’t want to make a scene. You’d think the "Let’s go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but —” and then she takes you in — your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. “What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Abbot?”
“It depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?”
“You may be a witness.”
“I don’t think that’s any better,” but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that there’s no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.”
You go for it, barrelling through the crowd like an icebreaker through the frozen water. You notice Trinity, Dennis, Mel, Frank and Jesse nearby. You only have eyes for one man in particular. But at the long table where the drinks are being poured and paid for, there is no sign of Jack. You stop and wait; one minute, two, three pass by. And just as quickly, your determination crumbles.
You wanted him to tell you that he needed you to stay, all these days back, in person. You wanted him to wait for you today. Both times, he didn’t.
It makes you feel self-conscious again. Stupid. Even more pathetic.
You turn around, suddenly too overwhelmed by your own feelings.
The music is too loud now, the smell of alcohol mixing with sweat and perfume, and making your head hurt. You faintly hear someone call out your name, but you don’t stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isn’t meant to be.
The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesn’t help to cool you down. You’re walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you — that you spent so much time delusionally sure that Jack felt something for you. Cared for you. You think about his watchful gaze on you, the tension hung between you two, his hands he kept a little bit too close, his words that guided you through surgeries and orgasms, his goddamn voice —
You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.
“Hey,” he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at arm’s length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. “Is everything alright? The way you left got me worried.”
“Yeah, everything’s just peachy.”
But Jack ignores your sarcasm — or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. “Is it Park? Did something happen?”
And his concern doesn’t sound feigned.
It all comes to your mind at once — the unsaid words, unresolved tension, the longing gazes thrown at each other, the shamefully short distance your bodies never crossed. It roars your emotions to a boil.
“Why does everyone assume— You know what? Park is actually perfect,” you snap at him. “He barely speaks to me in the OR, he hates small talk, he is allergic to long sentences and, I suspect, to any sign of real human emotion. So I just clock in every shift to spend 15 hours trying to help people with very little to no guidance. And turns out, I still rock! Even when my mentor is as emotionally evolved as a toothpick!”
“Ok-kay,” Jack draws, “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing?”
“It’s freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,” and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. “Because you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe!”
Your hands don’t hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, he’s speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:
“Wait, what?”
“You wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldn’t say a word when I was leaving? After the months we worked together, all you could manage was good luck? The hell is wrong with you?!” and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. “You act all nicely, you’re glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and your— your smirking! And what’s with the intense eye contact? How was I supposed to work with you looking at me like that? You know how hard it was for me to focus?! It’s not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!” you huff angrily.
Still, he isn’t moving.
“Sure, it didn’t mean anything to you, you don’t like me like that. And I love surgery, I’m glad I transferred, I wouldn’t want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out — oh, you’re actually very talkative! And it’s not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because it’s been so damn exhausting — not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice and—” you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, “And honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.”
The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness — but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jack’s cheeks. You don’t back off — instead, you take your phone out and click the app’s icon to show it to him on the screen. His gaze flicks down to it. Then back to your face.
You stare at each other.
And then you think: he is about to tell you you’re an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasn’t really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isn’t on any apps nor is he —
Jack breathes out a laugh.
He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling his t-shirt tight. His gaze is locked on yours. Then it falls lower — to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.
“It got that bad, huh?” a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops — to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. “F’course, I can help you out. Should’ve asked me sooner, sweetheart.”
The sound knocks the anger out of you. The air, too.
You knew he sounded good on audio, when his words reached you through the headphones, when he so charitably helped you reach your high.
But in reality, he’s lethal.
When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that you’re disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.
“Mine or yours?” he asks calmly.
“W-what?”
“My place or yours?”
You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. “Mine is about 40 minutes away.”
Emotion flashes across his face — surprise that’s borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.
“I live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,” Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.
You let him.
You know it’s impolite to gawk, but you can’t help it — you’re pretty sure his hallway alone can fit half of your flat. It is a spacious, very minimalistic place: tall walls, a lot of lights and very little furniture. You guess that he hand-picked each piece — from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also don’t think he spends too much time in here.
“So how many roommates do you have?” you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.
“None,” Jack chuckles. “It’s my apartment.”
“You live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,” your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. “I’m serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them won’t even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? —”
He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.
“How about I do the talking,” his breath scatters against the side of your neck. Both of his hands find your hips, and very slowly, he turns you to face him. His eyes look a shade darker when he says, “I’ll walk you to the bedroom.”
And then his mouth is on yours.
There is no build-up and no hesitation — he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like he’s been starving this whole time. Just like you were. Your shuddering breath turns into a moan. His lips move seamlessly, matching his insatiability to yours, in a deliberately slow pace that leaves you dizzy, heated, panting. Your memory is wiped clean of every other man you’ve kissed before him.
You can only crave more.
Jack starts walking without breaking the kiss. He gently pushes you forward, his hands maneuvering your body around the furniture and into doorways — you’re blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.
He tsks against your lips. “Careful, you almost ran into a wall.”
“Well, it’s not like I can really see —”
Jack silences your protests with another kiss, one of his palms laid flat over your spine to steady you. Not once do you take a peek at your surroundings, entirely too focused on the movement of his mouth, and with his every touch, your heart grows louder.
All of a sudden, your legs bump into something — and in a second, your back hits layers of bedcovers, the fabric silky to the touch. You exhale shakily, taking a couple of seconds to collect yourself. The task proved to be impossible under his heavy stare.
The room is dim, drowned in the colors of the sunset that sinks in through the big uncovered windows. He took the jacket off somewhere along the way, and you watch as the coppery light sneaks into his curls, contours the lines of veins and muscles of his arms, his body standing right next to the bed, legs almost touching yours.
You guess that he is stalling in case you want to stop.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me what to do?” you want your words to sound like a challenge — instead, they come out as a plea.
You don’t mind. There’s nothing on your mind but him.
Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.
“Ask me nicely,” he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.
And he already knows that he won’t meet resistance — Jack leans over the bed, palms firmly gliding up your thighs until he finds the zipper of your jeans. He takes the slider between two fingers but doesn’t pull it down. And you’re glad that you aren’t standing, because the way he’s staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.
“Please, I’ll do anything,” you whisper.
You do not need to ask him twice.
Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans — down to your knees, then fully off. He parts your thighs with his leg, his gaze drawn to your panties, to where the fabric is already dampened with your arousal. You watch him slowly wet his lips, your body shivering in anticipation of his touch. And then he’s climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesn’t hover over you — because he’s equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.
His lips trap you in place — while his hands undress you: his fingers are unbuttoning your shirt to take it off, then sliding beneath your cotton tanktop, dragging it up over your ribcage —
then Jack sucks in a breath.
His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:
“No bra?”
“I don’t— don’t like the feeling of it,” you explain bashfully.
That earns you a pleased smirk. He actually pulls back to take a look, to hastily pull your last piece of clothing off. Then Jack ducks his head.
“And how’d you like this?” he asks before catching your nipple into his mouth.
You cry out at the sensation, and Jack uses one hand to pin you to the bed. He pulls more sounds out of you, swirling his tongue around your nipples, biting and sucking at them, his hunger mixed with admiration. Your heartbeat’s pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave —
But unexpectedly, Jack pulls away.
He reaches out to click the lamp on the nightstand. The light is faint, warm, draping your shadows over the silk. Jack lies down on his side, keeping his face close to yours.
“Show me how you do it.”
“You— Um. You want me to show you how—”
“Touch yourself for me,” he orders.
Blood rushes to your cheeks. But you comply, too eager for his praise. For all of his recorded promises to finally come true.
Jack watches raptly as your hand moves lower, slowly, just like he taught you the first time — until your fingers dip under the fabric of your underwear. You bite your lower lip, stifling a whimper, feeling the arousal leaking out of you. You spread your legs wider, the thin cotton not leaving much to the imagination as you start toying with your clit.
Jack swallows noisily, his breath uneven. But his voice stays measured. “I want these off. Need to see you, baby.”
You hook your thumbs under your panties and tug them off, a bit too hastily, but Jack makes no attempts to slow you down. Although unvoiced, his own desire is so palpable, it sets your nerves on fire. And when the cool air grazes your wetness, you can’t help but moan.
You do not wait for his command — you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jack’s cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.
“So what’s the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?” he muses with a grin. “I see, I have some room for improvisation,” and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, “You’re doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.”
You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jack’s not keeping his hands to himself. He cups your breast, pinching your nipple into a peak, rolling it expertly between his fingers, his lips wrapped tightly around the other one. Your back is arching into his touch, heat pooling in your lower belly, your fingers gliding faster up and down your slit — and then one slips inside.
Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. “Would you look at that,” his voice is low, teasing, “Your pussy’s drooling all over the bed.” And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. “Go ahead, make yourself cum.”
He is still clothed, and the material of his t-shirt rubs constantly against your naked skin as he continues his arousing, agonizing torture. You feel him everywhere — Jack’s warm breath on your neck, your cheek, his mouth placing kisses along your jaw. His hands are steadying your body as your two fingers plunge into your cunt, as you’re so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But something’s missing.
“What’s wrong? Your fingers aren’t enough?” Jack taunts. “Does my girl want me to help her?”
You nod desperately, rocking your hips into your hand, trying to get some extra friction, trying and failing to reach that sweet high on your own. He easily catches your wrist, forcing you to halt all movement, your moans reduced to needy cries.
“Tell me what you want,” Jack whispers, lips to your ear.
“I w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please —”
But just as you’re about to pull your hand away, he covers it with his.
His wide palm firmly cups your mound, pushing your fingers back into your clenching hole. Jack drags his index and middle fingers through your folds, collecting your creamy arousal. And then he eases his slicked digits into you.
He watches as your lips part in a silent moan, your thighs twitching involuntarily as you’re adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.
“Relax for me. I know you can take all four,” Jack coos, although his voice gets a bit strained as he feels your walls clamp down around him.
Your hand stays limp, so he pulls his thick fingers out — then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you don’t try to crawl away from the intrusion. He puts your fingers between his and starts moving them all together, unhurriedly, carefully stretching your wet cunt, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, your juices trickling down on the bedcovers.
Before you even realize you’re doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.
“Yes, just like that,” Jack murmurs. “Feels good, doesn’t it? About to get even better.”
This time, only his hand is moving while he’s staying still, drinking you up — your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds you’re making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as you’re getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.
Jack’s other hand comes up to turn your face to him:
“Eyes on me.”
And as you look at him through lidded eyes, he curls your own fingers inside you, pushing them up against your G-spot. The sudden pressure drags you into a climax, so powerful, you’re blinded for a second, your lungs emptied with a long-drawn exhale as you keep soundlessly mouthing his name.
Jack pulls out his fingers first, then yours. Your hand is drenched and numb, and you barely register as Abbot brings it to his mouth. He licks your fingers clean, one by one, and you are coming to your senses at the sight: his mouth sucking in your digits, your wetness smeared across his lips, his gaze piercing as he keeps eye contact. And just like that, it threads through your veins and bones: your craving for him you’re yet to satisfy.
Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.
It’s hot, it’s messy, his tongue darting between your lips, your hands tugging at his t-shirt, then sneaking under it to feel him tense under your touch. One of his hands grips your hip, the other moving back between your legs, where you’re still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.
“Wanna get a proper taste,” he mumbles, his lips already trailing lower.
But you have something else in mind. You close your legs and clutch his t-shirt, your fingers roughly crumpling the fabric, making him meet your gaze again.
“Jack, I’m very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,” you don’t bother hiding your impatience. “And please, take your damn clothes off.”
He grins, and this is a command he is willing to follow. Jack brings a hand behind his neck to grab the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes rake over the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms, his freckled skin flushed pink. Before he can think of his next move, you straddle him, leaning to nibble at his neck, your fingers tracing his flexing muscles.
“Someone’s very eager,” he notes with a chuckle.
And yet, the gravel in his voice is thinned out by his own keenness. When your gaze drops down, you see his cock straining against the coarse fabric of his jeans.
“Makes two of us,” you note cheekily and palm him through the denim.
His chuckle turns into a low, long groan. Like he is breaking character, like it is not as easy for him to keep his feelings under control.
You hide your smile, taking his jeans off to throw them on the floor, barely half a minute before you’re climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: he’s thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than you’ve ever had. Your mouth parts on the inhale; you are dazed just from the look of it. You feel yourself already getting wet again.
Your words are stumbling out, while your brain is still somewhat functioning:
“I have an IUD, I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone for a while.”
“Me neither. For way longer than you probably,” Abbot admits in a half-whisper, watching you attentively. Getting as drunk on the anticipation as you are.
Your fingers go for the waistband at his hips when you catch faint light glinting off the metal. Your palm briefly lies under his scarred knee.
“This okay?”
Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.
Jack gets it. “Yeah, m’fine. You want me to...?”
Remove it, is what he wants to say.
For just a moment, it comes up to the surface: his lack of confidence, not necessarily in himself but maybe in how he can be perceived, in what he looks like in your eyes. Being so close, so open, naked.
But this has always been exactly what you wanted.
“I couldn’t care less,” you whisper and tug down his briefs to free his cock.
Then you look down, and your breath hitches.
He is thick, fully hard, the tip red and already weeping. And instantly, you wonder how he tastes. How warm, how heavy he’d feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:
“We both know I don’t need that.”
You almost want to whine. But you smother your discontent and move your hands up to his shoulders, holding your hips up, hovering just above his girthy length. A sigh spills from your mouth when his cock brushes your slick entrance —
And right then, Jack’s hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you can’t move. Can’t lower yourself on him.
“Now, where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asks, playfully cruel.
He knows you’re trapped. You know it too. To prove his point, he rubs his tip against your clit, more slickness gushing out of you at the mere contact. You do let out a miserable whine, your thighs are shaking. But he stays unmoving.
And so you beg. Just like you thought you would.
“I want you, please, I want you so fucking much,” your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, “Want you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time you— you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them or— fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-please—”
Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.
“Months, huh? I know the feeling,” he murmurs, with unexpectedly raw honesty.
It lingers. It almost sounds like a confession. But you do not get time to catch the meaning of his words before he starts pushing his cock into your throbbing warmth.
You gasp. He’s easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jack’s watching you — your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as you’re allowing him to stretch you open. He moves one of his hands to draw light circles on your clit, to help you take him, all of him, until you’ve bottomed out.
Your body stills. He feels you clench around him, your pussy gripping him so tightly, he chokes back a groan. Your forehead dips forward, helplessly.
“You are— s’big, so-o —”
“Breathe for me,” Jack instructs, both palms secured at your hips, sounding a little out of breath himself. He watches as your chest rises and falls, the uneven cadence of inhales and exhales. He mercifully gives you a minute to adjust. “Need you to start moving, baby. Yeah?”
You scramble for an answer, all your words slurring out into whines, your body barely used to the stretch. But you want to be good for him. And so you lift your hips. Just a few inches. Then sink onto his cock again, trembling at the overwhelming ache of being stuffed so full.
The pause lasts for barely three seconds.
Then your hips start moving up and down on their own, because it feels too good to stop, because the ache is quickly dissipating into pleasure.
“There she is.”
He lets you find and set the rhythm, at first more grinding and slow, your pussy swallowing him whole each time. As you let the sensation build, as it spreads and turns searing. Euphoric. And your head tips back with a moan.
“Look how well you’re taking me,” Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. “Just like I knew you would.”
His hands grip harder at your hips, and without warning, he starts bouncing you on him. His pace is quicker, harsher, the fat head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your vision blur. Jack leans closer to rasp the words into your ear:
“Who do you think I thought about—” his fingers move down to open your legs wider, “While making all these audios—” and he plunges deeper, “For my favorite girl—” and your moans pitch louder, “After her tiresome shifts?”
You’re too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. You’re only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.
“I’m— I’m close,” you mewl. “M’gonna cum, Ja-ack.”
“Think I should let you?” he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.
“P-please,” you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, “Wanna cum, wanna— want you— t-to make me cum, please.”
A grunt escapes him, and Jack adjusts his hold, his chest heaving against yours, skin rubbing against skin. His mouth latches onto your throat, each word punctuated with a trust:
“That’s a good — fucking — girl.”
His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze — and then the world around you spins as he effortlessly flips you on your back.
Your legs fall open for him, and he manages to keep his cock nestled so perfectly in your fluttering hole. He doesn’t slow down for a second: Jack shifts his weight on his left leg, angling his hips a little to hit that spot inside you over and over, making your eyes roll back in your head. The room fills with your breathy moans, your cunt squelching around his thick length, your body caged under his weight. In stark contrast, his lips are weightless — against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises — or just the letters of your name, you honestly can’t tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.
“Yeah, that’s right. Need your head empty,” Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. “Need you to only think about how good I’m fucking you.”
He surely is.
Your whole body tenses.
You are so close.
And then you feel his forehead against yours, a pressure of his fingers on your clit, a command given with the utmost softness:
“Let go, baby. I got you.”
The second orgasm tears through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You cum with a sob falling from your lips, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as your pussy spasms wildly around his cock. He fucks you through it, he does try to last a little longer, but the combination of all this — the way you look, feel, finally his — pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, he’s powerless against it. Jack’s hips jerk as he cums, filling you up, his broken groans pressed into your neck.
The room is still.
You wait for your breath and heart to calm. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he whispers, still a little breathless:
“You good?”
You nod first. Then open your mouth:
“That was—” you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, “Literally the best sex I’ve ever had.” Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Too late.”
You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.
Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty — you have to stop yourself from reaching for him, from chasing his familiar warmth. You quietly watch him clamber off the bed and pull his briefs up, then close your eyes so he won’t catch you staring. You listen to him walk out of the room, and suddenly, a realization kicks in: his footsteps sound uneven.
Like he is limping.
Jack comes back with a wet towel and gently cleans you up, then helps you put your panties on and brings you a glass of water. And every time you look at him, your gaze catches on how he is obviously leaning on his healthy leg.
You slowly stretch your neck and shoulders, then tap on the spot next to you. “Come here.”
Jack sits down, a little bit unsure where this is going. And very much tense in the exact place you thought he would be. You move your hands to his right knee and feel his hamstrings flex involuntarily.
“You spend too much time on your feet,” you say, working your fingers over his muscles. “And you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like it’s made out of concrete.”
Without even looking, you can tell that now he’s tense all over.
You have seen Jack take the prosthesis off, short moments of reprieve that he allows himself too rarely for your liking, only after particularly long shifts. He isn’t shy about his disability, but he doesn’t like bringing attention to it, you’ve noticed. Like living with it isn’t hard, like it’s not that big of a deal. You also know that he’s got no one to take care of him.
You take your time massaging the scarred tissue, mostly applying pressure with your thumbs as they move from the socket up, then back down. And you know that it’s working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.
“I try to take breaks, but you know how it is. We’re always busy,” Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you can’t possibly be angry at.
“Shen’s an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Don’t act like the ER’s gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,” you turn your head to look at him.
Jack doesn’t meet you with defiance — he’s sitting with his shoulders slumped and gaze mellow, way too relaxed to hide it. The sight is so endearing, your heart lurches behind your ribs. You fight the urge to kiss him. Instead, your fingers glide down to the edges of the prosthesis’s socket. You do not push it; you let him decide if he wants to be this vulnerable with you. Jack just gives you a nod. A small, barely noticeable movement. Also an immeasurable sign of trust. You carefully remove the artificial limb, then take the sock off to let his skin breathe. Your touch lingers: you lightly trace the white uneven scars, faded reminders of something horrible he managed to survive.
He lets you.
Silence fills up the space between you two, and you don’t know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didn’t say that it would happen more than once. This would be the perfect moment for you to thank him and head out.
So you remove your hands —
Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until you’re pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:
“You really like it in surgery, don’t you?”
“I do,” you answer honestly. “Way more than I thought I would. I was afraid it’d be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But it’s not that hard. And I love learning.”
He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. “Even with an attending who’s as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?”
“I think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Park’s teaching me how to mend bones, I’m giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.”
Jack’s smile is tickling your neck as he pulls you back into bed, so effortlessly, like he has done it many times. You readily curl up against him, resting your palm over his chest. He tugs the blanket up to cover you, his fingers gently moving from your shoulder to your collarbone.
But then your eyes meet his, and it is a discovery you never thought you’d make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.
“You said I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” Jack recalls.
“I didn’t mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,” you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you should’ve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. “From the first day you came to the ER, with your humor and your curiosity and your quick thinking... To me, you were like a breath of fresh air,” he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions he’s been holding back for months. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.”
His heartbeat is hushed under your palm. Steady with certainty. It radiates from him like light, your insecurities melting away under his gaze like snow under the sun.
After a moment, you speak up: your voice is teasing. “Funny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,” Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. “But you were the one who gave me the idea.”
“Um, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasn’t mine.”
His chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t remember it? Your third week in the ER, the nightcrawles on a night out. I walked you out to wait for your cab, and you said — and I quote — that I’ve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.”
You cover your face with your palm, groaning. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.”
“I didn’t,” Jack says and pulls your hand away. “Everything you do and say is very memorable to me,” he presses his lips to your wrist. Then puts your hand back on his chest and holds it there, his thumb brushing yours. And out of nowhere, very nonchalantly, he asks. “So, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?”
“Yeah. Give or take,” you tell him vaguely.
He doesn’t buy it. “And if we’re being more specific?”
“Closer to an hour,” you admit reluctantly. “But the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so —”
“You can move in here.”
Your words die down in an instant as you stare at him, trying to discern a hint of humor, of pity, of anything to suggest he doesn’t mean it.
“You aren’t serious,” you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. “No, I really— I can’t.”
Jack props his head up on one hand. “Why not?”
“Because it’s your apartment. You’re living on your own, and I wouldn’t want to bother you or— or take up too much space.”
“Didn’t you say this place can fit a football team? So unless you’re gonna bring another 10 people with you...”
“No, it’s just me,” you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since you’re out of arguments, the only thing you’re left with is the truth. “I don’t want you to regret it later on.”
“I won’t regret it.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.”
“Yeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isn’t exactly informative, because I can be a total mess in my everyday life. What if you come home to find my clothes lying around everywhere? What if I’ve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?” you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. “And then we’ll start getting into fights because I was too tired to iron the bedsheets or I accidentally took your favorite t-shirt or ate your favorite ice cream because I got my period and acted bitchy or —”
Jack tilts your chin up, the small movement making you close your mouth. A smile pulls at his lips, soft just the rest of him — now, in this moment, with you: soft touch of his strong hands, soft grey curls, a little ruffled (totally your fault), soft gaze that is a vortex of green, amber and gold. His voice carries the same softness when he says:
“You usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when you’re tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,” his smile grows wider. “You do not throw things around, not when the inside of your locker is strategically organized by shelves. Your only weird food habit is thinking a protein bar can be considered a full meal. I don’t iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and I’ll make sure to stock up on ice cream. I’ve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when you’re upset or nervous. Which I can handle,” but there is no pressure behind his reasoning — instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, “I know enough, and I’d love to learn the rest. If you let me.”
The feeling rolls all over you, familiar and very long-awaited one: of calmness that his presence always brings you. Of just how comforting it is to be with him. Jack makes it sound too easy for you to harbour any doubts.
“Okay,” you manage quietly.
And when your hands cradle his face, he leans in first to close the distance.
You kiss him slowly, like you are trying to spell out your gratitude, your ever-growing fondness, your feelings you are still afraid to name. He holds you close like he can understand exactly what your lips are saying. You want to drag this moment out for longer; but then a yawn bubbles in your throat.
“You’re not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,” Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. “What time do you need to wake up?”
“M’not working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,” you mumble.
“Good,” he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you — and then adds in a tender whisper, “Good girl.”
You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know you’re about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:
no, this definitely isn’t a one-time thing.
✧ dividers by @/strangergraphics, @/saradika-graphics, @/omi-resources, @/cafekitsune;
✧ I usually don’t like diving a fic into shorter “parts”, but it felt right in the moment, and I hope it didn’t ruin the pacing of the story? ngl I was super horny when I wrote the smut part(s), so maybe I went a liiittle overboard... also, yes, this fic was supposed to be shorter, but then I added a shit ton of softness at the end, I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF!
✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
Omg dude. First of all of course the smut was banger, but the intimacy of her massaging his limb after they have sex 🥹 Also, when she said that they didn’t really know each other but he listed out all these details about her. I’m screaming.
And him using the golf quote in the context of this story was amazing hehe
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pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader
summary: Dr. Jack Abbot is your closed-off, divorced neighbor across the hall—the kind of man who fixes what breaks, notices what hurts, and pretends none of it means anything. Then one bad night makes pretending a hell of a lot harder.
wc: 8.3k
a/n: i need this man to come inside more than my apartment. not beta read.
warnings: piv, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, hair pulling, fingering, nipple play, possessive language, implied age gap, doctor kink, unwanted touching/pushy date (not from Jack), minor blood/injury, alcohol mention, divorce mention, chronic pain, not beta read
MASTERLIST
In hindsight, the eggs should’ve been your first warning.
The hallway always smelled faintly of old paint, somebody’s takeout, and the industrial lemon cleaner the building manager used like he thought enough of it could pass for luxury.
It was quiet tonight. Quiet enough that the soft clink of your keys hitting the floor sounded louder than it should have.
“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, balancing a tote of groceries against your hip as you crouched awkwardly to scoop them up before the carton of eggs slid out after them. The paper bag cut into your palm. The handle of the other one was already giving up on life. You’d had a long day, your shoulder ached, and your front door suddenly seemed determined to humiliate you personally.
A shadow fell over the mess.
A hand—broad, veined, quick—snagged the egg carton before it hit the floor.
You looked up.
Jack Abbot stood there with that same expression he always seemed to wear in the building: tired enough to look carved down to the bone, not interested in talking, not interested in anything except getting inside his own apartment and shutting the world out. He had on navy scrubs beneath a dark jacket, the collar open at the throat, stethoscope looped carelessly from one pocket like he’d forgotten it was there. His hair looked like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times. There was color high in his cheeks from the cold outside, but it didn’t make him look younger. It just made him look worn in a different direction.
And there it was, visible even in the short distance between you: the hitch in his gait. Slight tonight, but there. More obvious the longer he stood still.
He held the eggs out to you.
“Thanks,” you said, straightening too fast and nearly dropping your keys again.
His mouth flattened into something that wasn’t quite a smile and wasn’t quite annoyance either. “You always this coordinated?”
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop yourself. “Only when there’s an audience.”
“Lucky me.”
His voice was low and rough, like he hadn’t used it for anything but clipped instructions all day. He reached down, caught the second grocery bag by one torn handle, and passed it to you before it could split entirely.
You took it, fingers brushing his for half a second. His hand was warm. Yours, embarrassingly, was freezing.
“Thank you,” you said again, more steadily this time.
He gave one short nod, like the exchange had already lasted longer than he’d budgeted for, and pulled his own keys from his pocket. Apartment 4B. Yours was 4A. Across the hall. You’d known that since the first week you moved in, mostly because he came and went at impossible hours and because sometimes, when the building settled late at night, you could hear the low murmur of his television through the wall.
He opened his door, paused, and glanced over once more.
“You should use both hands with the eggs,” he said.
Then he disappeared inside and shut the door behind him.
You stood there in the hallway with the groceries digging into your fingers and a ridiculous, inconvenient awareness humming under your skin.
You’d seen him before, obviously. Everyone in the building had. The man who kept strange hours, limped a little after long shifts, and looked like he had no use for small talk or neighbors or anyone else’s bullshit. You knew he was a doctor—emergency medicine, if the stitched lettering on one of his jackets meant what you thought it did. You knew he was divorced because old Mrs. Larkin downstairs had mentioned it in the same tone she used for broken elevators and weather fronts. Such a shame, she’d said, as if she’d personally witnessed the end of his marriage from behind her curtains.
You knew he was handsome in the kind of severe, accidental way that made it worse. Not polished. Not charming. Just unfairly good-looking while looking like he’d slept four hours in the last three days.
And now, apparently, you also knew his hands were warm.
Which was annoying.
It was nearly a week before a dying smoke detector forced the issue.
The thing started chirping at eleven-fifteen on a Thursday night.
At first it was just one high, cruel little beep from the hallway outside your bathroom. Then silence. Then another beep forty seconds later, sharper somehow for giving you time to hope it had stopped. You stood under it in your socks, staring up at the plastic disc like glaring at it might shame it into shutting the hell up.
It did not.
You dragged a kitchen chair beneath it. The chair wobbled. You climbed up anyway, phone flashlight clenched between your teeth, and discovered two things in quick succession: the cover was stuck, and the previous tenant had apparently installed it with the spite of a man sealing a tomb.
“Great,” you whispered around the edge of your phone.
Another chirp split the air.
You flinched, lost your balance, caught yourself on the wall, and cursed.
A hard knock landed on your front door.
You froze.
Another chirp.
Another knock.
You climbed down, annoyed and embarrassed before you even opened the door.
Jack stood in the hall wearing a faded gray T-shirt and dark sweats, hair damp at the temples like he’d just showered. He looked tired in a deeper, meaner way than usual, like the fatigue had gone past worn and landed somewhere close to hostile.
“There a reason your apartment’s screaming?” he asked.
Mortification flashed hot through you. “Oh my God.”
“Mm.”
“I was literally just trying to fix it.”
“Sounded successful.”
“Wow. Helpful.”
Another chirp shrieked behind you.
Jack’s eyes lifted past your shoulder. His expression did not change, but something about the stillness of his face suggested the sound had personally offended him.
“Battery,” he said.
“I know it needs a battery.”
“You have one?”
You hesitated.
His mouth tightened. “Of course you don’t.”
“I might.”
“You don’t.”
“I love how much faith you have in me.”
“I’m learning.”
He turned, disappeared into his apartment, and came back ten seconds later with a nine-volt battery in one hand and a small screwdriver in the other. You stepped back automatically, and he moved past you with the kind of brisk certainty that suggested he’d already taken stock of the whole apartment in one sweep.
He glanced at the chair under the detector.
“You were standing on that?”
“Yes.”
“That chair’s a lawsuit.”
“It has sentimental value.”
“So does every bad decision before it breaks your neck.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and his mouth did twitch, brief and unwilling.
The smoke detector chirped again.
Jack looked up at it like it had one more chance to live.
“Hold the chair,” he said.
“I thought the chair was a lawsuit.”
“It is. Hold it anyway.”
He stepped onto it before you could object, one hand bracing lightly against the wall as he reached up. The movement was careful. Efficient. But careful.
You noticed the way his weight shifted. The set of his mouth. The slight stiffness in his right leg as he balanced.
He noticed you noticing.
“Eyes on the chair,” he said.
“My eyes are on the chair.”
“They’re not.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
“Yes.”
He got the cover loose with one sharp twist of the screwdriver. The old battery came free. The new one clicked into place. The next forty seconds passed without a chirp, and the quiet felt almost holy.
“There,” he said. “Temporary peace.”
“Temporary?”
“It’s a smoke detector. It’ll find another reason to ruin your life.”
He stepped down, and you saw the muscle in his jaw jump before his foot hit the floor. The wince barely registered and would’ve been easy to miss if you hadn’t already been looking at him too closely. He straightened fully a second later like nothing had happened.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes flicked to yours. Cool. Guarded.
“Fine.”
It was such a reflexive answer that you almost laughed. Instead you just nodded slowly. “Right.”
He handed you the dead battery like it was evidence.
“You own a screwdriver?” he asked.
“Probably?”
“Helpful.”
You folded your arms. “You know, you could just accept that I’m a disaster and move on.”
“I had,” he said. “Then your smoke detector started screaming across the hall.”
You laughed in spite of yourself, and this time he didn’t hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.
It changed his whole face. Not enough to soften it, exactly. Just enough to make him look less like a man bracing for impact and more like a man who remembered, very reluctantly, how to be human.
He stood there beneath the newly silent detector like he was debating whether you were capable of surviving the next hour unsupervised.
“I’ll buy replacement batteries,” you said.
“Do that.”
“Thank you.”
He shrugged one shoulder as if gratitude was an unnecessary use of breath, then limped—not badly, but unmistakably now that you knew to look for it—toward the front door.
At the door, he paused.
“Don’t climb on that chair again,” he said.
“Yes, doctor.”
He gave you a look over his shoulder. “Cute.”
Then he left.
The smoke detector stayed quiet.
Your problem, unfortunately, did not.
After that, you started noticing him everywhere.
Not because he was newly visible. Because now he seemed to catch your eye before anything else did.
The laundry room on Sunday morning, standing with one hand braced on the industrial washer while he waited for the machine to unlock, hospital ID clipped crookedly to his waistband.
The lobby on Monday night, expression flat with fatigue as he accepted a takeout bag from the delivery guy and checked the receipt without really seeing it.
The stairwell on Wednesday, stepping aside automatically to let you pass even though he clearly had the right of way.
The sidewalk out front, phone to his ear, saying, “Robby, if you’re calling to ask me to pick up another shift, the answer’s no,” in a tone so dry it bordered on impressive. He’d glanced up then, caught sight of you coming through the front doors, and ended the call with, “I gotta go.”
That one stuck with you for longer than it should have.
Robby existed, apparently. Robby got calls. Robby got more of Jack’s personality than the rest of the building did. There was something oddly comforting about that, about the fact that he wasn’t just a set of locked doors and dark windows across the hall. He had a friend. A life. Someone who knew him well enough to bother him on purpose.
The routine built in pieces after that.
A package left outside your apartment door one rainy afternoon, neatly tucked against the wall where it wouldn’t get wet. You opened your own door just as Jack was stepping back across the hall.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you called.
“It was in the way,” he said.
A lie, probably. But a useful one.
A Thursday evening when you came in carrying an overloaded canvas bag and he held the front door before you could hip-check it open. He didn’t say anything, just waited while you awkwardly made it through.
A Tuesday near midnight when he got off the elevator looking worse for wear and you, coming back from the corner store in slippers, held out the extra bottle of sports drink in your hand.
He looked at it. Then at you.
“You buying those for random neighbors now?”
“I bought two by accident.”
“Sure you did.”
But he took it.
The longer it went on, the more you could read him.
You could tell which shifts had been bad by the set of his shoulders. Which nights his leg was bothering him more by the precise, deliberate way he crossed the hall. Which moods meant he might answer with one word and which meant—rarely, but sometimes—you’d get a whole sentence.
You also learned that he noticed more than he let on.
“Your tire’s low,” he said one evening as you both reached the parking lot.
You looked at him blankly. “What?”
“Front right.”
You turned to stare at your car. Sure enough, it looked a little sagged at one corner.
“How did you even—”
He was already walking away. “You want air in it, or you wanna keep driving on a rim?”
Another time you came in rubbing absently at the back of one ankle, shoes pinching from a long day, and he glanced down once before saying, “Those are killing you.”
You blinked. “These are fine.”
“Mm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re limping.”
“I am not.”
He raised an eyebrow, looked meaningfully at your feet, and kept going.
He was an asshole.
A helpful asshole.
A deeply, profoundly inconvenient asshole.
The first time you saw the damage up close, it was by accident.
Not because you knocked. Not because you meant to look. Just because the hallway was narrow, and Jack Abbot had left his door open while he carried pieces of his old life out to the trash.
You came home a little after ten with your keys already in your hand and stopped short at the sight of him half in, half out of 4B, a cardboard box balanced against one hip. He was in sweatpants and a dark long-sleeved shirt, reading glasses low on his nose, his hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it for the last hour.
That image alone nearly wiped out your ability to form sentences.
“Sorry,” you said, because he was blocking just enough of the hall that slipping past him without speaking would’ve felt stranger. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He looked up. For half a beat, his face stayed blank.
Then he shifted the box more securely against his side. “You’re not.”
The top flaps hadn’t been folded all the way down.
Inside was a picture frame, face-up.
You didn’t mean to stare. You only saw it for a second. Jack at least fifteen years younger, same mouth, same eyes, the hard lines of him not gone but unfinished. Beside him, a woman stood with her hand hooked at his elbow. Both of them dressed up, both smiling at something out of frame. Wedding clothes, maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. The intimacy in the picture was plain enough.
Jack followed your line of sight.
The air changed.
He folded the flap closed with one economical motion.
“Sorry,” you said again, quieter this time.
He nodded once. “Don’t be.”
That was all. No explanation. No awkwardness offered up for you to smooth over. Just a wall, going back up in real time.
You wanted to say something kind. Something light. Something that acknowledged the sudden, unmistakable bruise in the room without pressing on it.
But he’d already started moving toward the stairwell, the box held tight against his ribs.
“Night,” he said.
“Night.”
He took the stairs instead of the elevator, slow and careful on the first step before forcing the rest into something steadier.
You stood outside your apartment for a while after that, thinking about the photograph you hadn’t meant to see. About the ring mark you’d noticed once when he reached for his keys and then pretended you hadn’t. About the quiet, sparse feel of his life through the wall. About the way pain could make people meaner at the edges without making them cruel.
The next time you saw him, neither of you mentioned it.
But something had shifted.
Not softness, exactly.
Just awareness.
It was a little after midnight when you knocked on his door for the second time.
This one felt more embarrassing.
You stood there with your hand wrapped in a dish towel and your dignity somewhere back in your kitchen, probably bleeding beside the cutting board. You’d sliced your thumb trying to open a stupid plastic clamshell of strawberries with a paring knife because apparently you were a woman incapable of learning from obvious danger.
It wasn’t deep. Probably. But it was bleeding more than you liked, and after twenty minutes of rinsing, pressing, and muttering at yourself in the mirror, you’d started to feel lightheaded from looking at it.
Which was how you ended up on Jack Abbot’s doormat, knocking with your good hand.
He opened the door wearing a black T-shirt and the same gray sweats as before, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a bourbon glass low against his thigh. He looked tired, but not hospital-tired. At-home tired. The softer kind. His glasses were on again.
His gaze dropped to the towel around your hand.
For once, he didn’t make a joke first.
“What happened?”
“I may have lost a fight with a strawberry container.”
He stared at you.
“It had really aggressive plastic.”
He stepped back immediately. “Come in.”
His apartment was warmer than yours. Dim. Quiet. A lamp on in the living room, television muted, coffee table stacked with two medical journals, a half-empty takeout container, and a folded newspaper. The place looked exactly like you’d imagined it would: orderly without being neat, practical without trying to be stylish. There was a cane leaning in the corner by the umbrella stand—not hidden, but not exactly displayed either. A pair of shoes lined up neatly by the wall. A kitchen that looked used, not decorative.
“Sit,” he said, already moving toward a drawer in the kitchen.
“I’m not dying.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“It’s just a cut.”
“Then you’ll survive me looking at it.”
You sat at the kitchen island. He came back with a small first aid kit that looked far too complete to belong to a normal person, snapped it open, and held out his hand.
You placed yours in it.
His palm was warm. Steady.
He unwrapped the towel with a focus that made your throat go a little tight. His face settled into that ER-doctor calm you’d only seen in flashes before—assessing without panic, gentle without being soft about it.
“Not bad,” he said.
“See?”
“Still stupid.”
“I came here for medical care, not emotional violence.”
“That costs extra.”
You laughed, and his mouth twitched.
He cleaned the cut, ignoring your hiss when the antiseptic stung.
“Hold still.”
“I am.”
“You’re trying to climb out of your skin.”
“It burns.”
“It’s supposed to burn.”
“Awful bedside manner.”
“I’m off the clock.”
His thumb pressed lightly at the base of yours, keeping your hand open while he bandaged you with swift, practiced movements. The whole thing should have been clinical. It wasn’t. Not with your knee brushing the outside of his thigh. Not with him standing close enough that you could smell bourbon under the soap on his skin. Not with the careful way he avoided leaning too much weight on his bad leg even while pretending he wasn’t doing it.
A buzzing sound split the quiet.
Jack pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and rolled his eyes with practiced fondness.
“Robby?” you guessed.
His gaze lifted sharply.
You shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
He answered. “What.”
A beat of silence.
“No.”
Another beat.
“I’m not coming in tomorrow.”
He leaned back against the counter while Robby, whoever exactly Robby was beyond dry phone calls and night shifts, apparently kept talking. Jack scrubbed a hand over his mouth.
“No, I heard you. I’m still not doing it.”
Another pause, then, with a quick glance at you, “No, I’m busy.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the corner of his mouth moved.
“Goodnight, Robby.”
He hung up before the response could come through and tossed the phone onto the counter.
“Busy?” you said.
He taped the bandage down with a final, neat press. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
He made a low sound in his throat that might have been a laugh and might have been disbelief.
The quiet that followed was different from the others you’d had with him. Less brittle. Less likely to snap.
“You always work this much?” you asked.
“Pretty much.”
“That sounds miserable.”
“It is.”
“And yet you keep doing it.”
His shoulders shifted, not quite a shrug. “Somebody’s gotta.”
There was nothing self-important in the way he said it. No hero complex. Just fact.
You looked around the apartment again. “You like living here?”
He followed your glance, taking in his own place like he hadn’t really looked at it in a while.
“It’s quiet.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His eyes came back to yours.
“No,” he said after a second. Honest as a cut. “Not particularly.”
The admission hung there between you, simple and heavier than it should have been.
You looked down at the clean bandage around your thumb. “Thanks.”
“Mm.”
You didn’t go right away. Neither did he ask you to.
For five soft, strange minutes, you sat in his kitchen talking about nothing much at all. The guy in 2C who played piano badly after midnight. The fact that the delivery place downstairs always forgot napkins. The weather getting cold enough to make the windows rattle.
It should have been ordinary.
Instead it felt like discovering a room behind a wall you’d only ever knocked on.
When you finally moved toward the door, he limped just slightly on the turn that took him to open it for you.
You hesitated.
His gaze flicked down to your face. “What.”
“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, you know.”
Everything in him went still.
Then he opened the door and said, not unkindly, “Go throw the strawberries away before they finish the job.”
You left.
But you thought about the look on his face for the rest of the night.
The bad date happened on a Saturday.
It hadn’t been a terrible idea in theory. A drink with a guy from work. Casual. Low-stakes. An excuse to wear something better than your usual jeans and to pretend, for two hours, that you were not half in love with a grumpy emergency physician across the hall who barely smiled and definitely did not belong to you.
The problem wasn’t the date itself, not exactly.
The problem was the way he got weird at the end of it.
Pushy in that soft, smiling way some men managed. Like they thought they were owed a little more because the evening had gone fine and because you’d laughed at their stories and because it was late and because the hallway outside your apartment door was empty.
“Come on,” he said when you stepped back. “I’m not asking for a kidney.”
You kept your tone even. “I said goodnight.”
His hand landed lightly on your arm.
Every muscle in your body tensed.
“Hey,” he said, like you were overreacting already. “Don’t be like that.”
Something opened across the hall.
You hadn’t even noticed Jack coming home.
One second it was just you, your date, and the stale hallway air. The next, Jack was there in wrinkled hospital blues beneath a dark jacket, keys in hand, expression flat in a way that made your stomach drop and your pulse kick.
His gaze went first to the hand on your arm.
Then to your face.
Then back to the guy.
“Problem?” Jack asked.
It was one word. Calm. Quiet. No raised voice. No chest-thumping nonsense.
The guy straightened, trying to square himself without looking like he was doing it. “No problem.”
Jack didn’t move.
The limp was there, faint under the movement. So was the fatigue. Neither of them made him look smaller.
“Then take your hand off her,” he said.
The guy let go immediately.
A long second passed.
Your date—former date, obviously—gave a short, awkward laugh. “Didn’t realize there was a boyfriend.”
“There isn’t,” you said sharply.
Jack did not look at you.
“You didn’t need one to hear no,” he said to the man. “Leave without embarrassing yourself.”
That landed.
You saw it in the flush that climbed the guy’s neck, in the way he glanced between the two of you and decided, very reasonably, that nothing here was worth pushing further. He muttered something about misunderstanding and turned for the elevator.
The hallway went still.
Only then did Jack look at you properly.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” you said automatically.
His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”
The adrenaline hit all at once, ugly and shaky and embarrassing. Your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling, so you curled them into your palms.
“I’m fine,” you said again.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m angry.”
“Yeah.” His voice was dry again, but there was something else under it now. Something tighter. “Come inside.”
You stared at him. “Jack—”
“Inside.”
It shouldn’t have worked. The tone. The quiet authority in it. The part of him that was clearly still halfway in doctor mode, assessing, deciding, moving.
But you were tired, and rattled, and your pulse still hadn’t come down. So when he unlocked his apartment and stepped back to let you through, you went.
His apartment felt smaller than before.
Not physically. Just because now the air in it was charged enough to take up space.
He locked the door behind you, set his keys in the bowl by the entry, and shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath, his hospital blues looked even more worn in the low light, sleeves shoved to his forearms, the collar sitting crooked at his throat. There was a faint antiseptic smell clinging to him, clean and sterile and exhausted all at once.
“Sit,” he said.
“I’m not hurt.”
“I didn’t ask that.”
You stared at him for a second, then sat at the edge of the couch because arguing suddenly felt like more effort than you had.
He went to the kitchen, came back with a glass of water, and held it out until you took it. His eyes skimmed your face, your hands, the line of your shoulders.
“Did he grab you anywhere else?”
The question was clinical in structure. The concern in it wasn’t.
“No.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, as if logging the answer somewhere internal, then lowered himself into the armchair opposite you. The movement was slower this time. More careful. He was hiding it less, or maybe you were just seeing it more clearly now.
“You should’ve said something sooner,” he said.
“To who?”
“To him. To me. Somebody.”
A sharp laugh escaped you. “Sorry I didn’t schedule my hallway ambush more responsibly.”
His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The edge left the room just enough for the silence after it to feel tired rather than dangerous.
He leaned back in the chair, one forearm braced over his stomach, fingers rubbing once at the line of his thigh like the ache there had finally started demanding attention.
You noticed. Of course you did.
He noticed you noticing.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to break.”
A dozen responses rose to your tongue. The only honest one was, I don’t.
So that was the one you said.
Something in his face shifted. Small. Real.
You drank some water because your hands still needed something to do. “I thought you hated me.”
His eyebrows lifted. “I risked my life on that rickety chair of yours.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s evidence.”
“Jack.”
His mouth twitched faintly, then settled again.
“No,” he said. “I don’t hate you.”
The apartment was so quiet you could hear the radiator tick.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you said.
His gaze held yours. “You talk too much.”
A laugh slipped out of you, startled and genuine. He looked at you for another beat longer than necessary, then reached for his own glass on the side table.
“You were on a date,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. It also didn’t sound casual.
“Supposedly.”
“How’d that go.”
You gave him a look. “You were there for the ending.”
“Not what I asked.”
You swallowed. “It was fine. Until it wasn’t.”
He stared into his drink for a second, jaw flexing. “Guys like that count on you not wanting to make a scene.”
The line came out clipped and bitter, like experience speaking through someone who had seen too much of the world at its ugliest.
“You see that a lot?” you asked quietly.
His eyes came back to you. Tired. Older suddenly.
“Enough.”
There was so much packed into that one word that you didn’t touch it again.
Instead you looked down at the glass in your hands. “Thank you.”
“Don’t.”
“For stepping in.”
His voice lowered. “I said don’t.”
“Why?”
Because if he shut this down now—if he turned this back into one of those careful, spare exchanges in the hallway—you thought it might actually hurt.
He exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Then back.
“Because,” he said, “you saying it like that makes it sound like I did you some huge favor.”
“You did.”
“No. I acted like a decent human being for thirty seconds.”
“You don’t have to downplay everything.”
“And you don’t have to make a whole thing out of it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are a little.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, stubborn as stone.
“You’re very dramatic for someone who lost a fight with a strawberry container.”
“I was wounded.”
His mouth twitched.
“You needed a band-aid.”
“A medically supervised band-aid.”
Then, without warning, you both laughed.
It broke something open.
Not in a dramatic way. In a tired, human way. The kind that lets the room breathe again after holding too much in its chest.
His gaze dropped to your hand where it tightened around the glass.
“You’re still shaking,” he said.
“I know.”
He leaned forward, setting his drink aside. “Come here.”
The words were quiet. Not soft exactly. But not something you could mistake for anything else.
You set your water down and stood. He stayed where he was until you were close enough, then reached up and took your wrist—not gently, not roughly, just firmly enough to steady. His thumb pressed once against the inside where your pulse was still too fast.
He was only checking. Just checking.
That’s what you told yourself.
But the room had narrowed to the feel of his hand on you and the warm concentration in his face. To the fact that he was looking at you the way he looked at things that mattered. To the fact that he wasn’t pretending anymore that he didn’t see everything.
Your breathing went shallow.
His eyes flicked up to yours.
There it was.
The line.
The one both of you had been circling for weeks.
You saw the moment he recognized it too. In the slight stillness that took over his mouth. In the way his thumb stopped moving against your wrist. In the split second where he could have let go and didn’t.
You whispered, “Jack.”
His jaw tightened.
“Don’t,” he said again.
This time it didn’t sound like a warning to you. It sounded like one to himself.
Your free hand came up before you thought better of it, brushing lightly against the angle of his wrist where it held yours.
His breath changed.
Not much. Just enough.
“I’m saying thank you,” you murmured.
“No, you’re not.”
The truth of it landed warm and dangerous between you.
He stood too fast for his leg to like it, and you saw the brief check in the movement, the flash of irritation across his face at his own body. Then he was right there, close enough that your breath touched his mouth.
“If you’re gonna do something,” he said, voice low and rough, “do it.”
You kissed him.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t tentative. It was mouth and heat and nerve, the kind of kiss built out of too much restraint, too much noticing, too many late-night hallway run-ins and clipped conversations and all the things he’d kept behind his teeth.
For half a second, Jack went still.
Then he made a sound against your mouth—low, rough, almost unwilling—and kissed you back like restraint had finally become more painful than giving in. One hand caught your jaw. The other found your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to make your breath snag. His mouth moved over yours with sudden, devastating precision, and all at once he was everywhere: the heat of his chest, the scrape of his jaw, the clean bite of hospital soap still clinging to his skin, the rigid tension in his body breaking into want.
The force of it walked you back a step.
Then another.
Until the backs of your knees hit the couch and he broke away just long enough to look at you like he was trying to decide whether this was a terrible idea or merely the worst one he’d had all year.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze. Waiting. Dead serious now.
You shook your head once.
Something in him gave.
He kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other dragged up your spine and settled between your shoulder blades, pinning you close without asking twice. His tongue pushed past your lips, hot and sure, and the sound it pulled from you seemed to hit him somewhere low. You clutched at his scrub top, felt the heat of him through worn cotton, the hard plane of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength he carried even tired, even hurting, even trying not to.
He kissed like he did everything else—focused, unsparing, completely there.
When he pulled back, both of you were breathing harder, a thin string of spit stretching between your mouths for one dizzy second before it snapped.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
“Probably.”
His forehead tipped briefly to yours, a rough almost-laugh leaving him. “You’re not helping.”
“I don’t think you want help.”
“No,” he said, and there was nothing guarded in it at all. “I don’t.”
The next kiss was slower. Meaner. His tongue moved against yours, deep and deliberate, and when you tried to chase the pressure of his mouth, he caught your bottom lip between his teeth and pulled until your breath broke. His hand slid to the small of your back, broad and possessive without a word, holding you there like he’d finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to.
You tugged him closer. He let you.
The couch caught the back of his leg when he shifted, and he muttered a curse under his breath.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Your leg—”
“Still attached.”
“Jack.”
He looked at you, flushed and breathless and a little furious at the interruption. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.
“I’m fine,” he said.
The automatic answer almost made you smile.
You touched his face instead.
That stopped him.
Your palm against his cheek. Your thumb near the line of his mouth. Something quiet passed through his expression then—surprise, maybe. Or maybe just the shock of gentleness.
He turned his head and pressed one brief kiss to the inside of your wrist.
The gesture was so unexpectedly soft it nearly wrecked you.
Then he stepped back just enough to sit, pulling you carefully with him until you were half in his lap, half against the couch cushions. The movement was slower now, measured around the pull in his leg, but no less sure for it.
You kissed him again, and again, and the room seemed to blur at the edges around the two of you.
His fingers found the zipper at the back of your dress and dragged it down slowly, tooth by tooth, until the fabric loosened around you. Then his hand slipped inside, warm and broad, rubbing over the bare skin just beneath the band of your bra like he’d been thinking about touching you there for weeks.
The details after that came in fragments.
Your fingers in his hair.
The scratch of his jaw against your skin when his mouth found the side of your neck.
The low, involuntary sound that left you at the first pull of his hand at your waist.
The way he went still for half a second at hearing it, then cursed softly into your throat like restraint had become physically painful.
“Jack,” you breathed.
“Yeah.”
There was a question in the word. And an answer. And too much else besides.
You kissed him until the name lost shape between you.
At some point you were in his bedroom. You couldn’t have said exactly how. Only that he got there with you in the same deliberate way he did everything—without hurry, but without hesitation either. From the living room, he guided you down the short hall inside 4B, past the half-open bathroom door and into the room at the back of his apartment. Lamp light. Rumpled sheets. The plain dark blue comforter. A book facedown on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water, a blister pack of pain relievers, and a pair of reading glasses folded neatly on a small nightstand. Evidence of a real life, interrupted.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked at you.
Really looked.
Not rushed. Not hungry in the careless way men sometimes were. Just intent. Taking you in like he wanted to memorize what exactly had changed the night.
You reached for the straps of your dress where they’d slipped loose on your shoulders. He caught your hand.
“Let me,” he said.
The words sank straight through you.
So you did.
He undressed you with the same focus he brought to everything else, hands steady, eyes on yours often enough that it felt impossible to hide inside the moment. Every movement was attentive. Every pause meaningful. The room filled with heat and the soft sounds of breath and fabric and the unsteady beat of your pulse in your ears.
When you touched him in return, he exhaled sharply, forehead tipping forward for a second like he needed to gather himself.
You smiled, a little shaky. “You okay, doctor?”
His gaze lifted, dark and direct. “Not even close.”
His hands were still on your shoulders, thumbs tracing the curve of bone where the straps of your dress had been. The air in his bedroom was thick and warm, the fan blade spinning slow overhead, and you could smell him—sweat and coffee and something clean underneath, something that made you want to press your face against his chest and breathe.
"You're shaking," he said. Not a question.
"I'm not."
His thumb found your pulse. Held there. "Yeah, you are."
You wanted to say something clever, something that would break the tension, but your throat was tight and your skin was hot where his hands had been and the dim light caught the gray in his stubble and made him look tired in a way that made your chest ache. So instead you reached for him. Your fingers found the hem of his scrub top, bunched the fabric, pulled.
He let you. Watched you. Didn't help and didn't stop you.
You got it over his head. His arms came up slow, like he was giving you time to change your mind. Then he was bare-chested in front of you and you forgot how to breathe. He was broad, solid, a pale scar curving over his ribs, his skin warm and flushed. You wanted to put your mouth on every inch of him.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his jaw was tight and his breathing had changed—shorter, shallower. He was affected. He was trying not to show it.
"If we do this," he said, slow and low, "I'm not gonna be gentle."
"I don't want gentle."
Something flickered in his eyes. Then his hand was in your hair, fisting the dark strands at the base of your skull, tipping your head back. His mouth found your throat—open-mouthed, wet, a scrape of stubble that made you gasp. His other hand slid down your spine, pressed you into him, and you felt how hard he was through his scrub pants. Felt the heat of him. The want.
"Bed," he muttered against your skin. "Now."
You moved backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented from where he'd slept last night. He followed you down, one hand braced beside your head, the other finding your hip.
"You on birth control?"
"Yes."
He nodded. A short, sharp motion. "Good. 'Cause I don't have condoms. Been a while."
You should have said something reassuring. Instead you reached between you, palmed him through his pants. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. His eyes closed for half a second, and in that half-second you saw the fight leave him. Saw him stop pretending.
"Fuck," he breathed. Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand finding your breast and squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple until you arched into him.
He tugged your panties down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help him. Then his hand was between your legs, two fingers sliding through wet heat, and he made a sound low in his throat. "Jesus. You're soaked."
"Jack—"
"I know." He pushed a finger inside you. Then another. You gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. He watched your face as he worked you open, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing circles against your clit. "That's it. Take it."
You were trembling, your hips rocking against his hand, and he was still watching you like he was memorizing every sound you made. When he pulled his fingers out, you whimpered. He brought them to his mouth, licked them clean, and your cunt clenched at the sight of it.
He kicked off his pants, pulling the pant leg free from his prosthetic. His cock was hard, flushed, the head slick. He stroked himself once, twice, then he was pushing your thighs apart and positioning himself at your entrance. The head of him pressed against you, and you felt the ache of it, the promise.
He looked at you. His eyes were dark and his breathing was ragged and he looked like a man standing at the edge of something he wasn't sure he'd survive.
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this. I want you. Please, Jack."
He pushed in. Slow. An inch. Then another. Your body stretched around him, taking him, and you heard yourself make a sound you didn't recognize. He was thick, and he was filling you, and when he was fully seated he stopped, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot on your lips.
"Fuck," he said, the word punched out of him. "You feel—" He couldn't finish. He pulled out and thrust back in, and the sound you made was raw and desperate.
He fucked you like a man who'd been holding back for months. Each thrust deep and deliberate, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his mouth at your throat, your ear, muttering things you could barely hear—"that's it, take it, take all of it, you feel so fucking good."
You came with your legs wrapped around him, your nails raking his back, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his groan low and broken as he spilled inside you. You felt it—hot and deep, filling you—and you clenched around him, riding it out together.
He stayed inside you for a long moment. His breathing was ragged against your neck. Then he pulled out, slow, and you felt the warmth of him leaking from you, trickling down your thigh.
He looked at it. Looked at you. His thumb found your chin, tilted your face up.
"You're staying," he said. Not a question.
You nodded, ending up sprawled against him beneath the covers, one of his arms heavy around your waist, the lamp still on. His chest rose and fell under your cheek. Your dress was somewhere on the floor.
For a long time neither of you said anything.
Then, against your hair, he murmured, “You okay?”
The question was so Jack it made your throat tighten.
You tilted your face up just enough to look at him. “Yeah.”
He studied you for a second, as if verifying it.
Then he nodded once. Satisfied.
You traced a fingertip lightly along the line of his collarbone. “You?”
He huffed a tired laugh. “Ask me in eight hours.”
You smiled into his chest.
The light stayed on a while longer. At some point he reached over, switched it off, and settled back with a quiet exhale that sounded more worn out than unhappy.
In the dark, with the city muffled beyond the windows and his warmth surrounding you, it felt dangerously easy to imagine this as something that had always been waiting for you just across the hall.
Morning came pale and cold through the curtains.
For one disorienting second, you forgot where you were.
Then the smell of coffee reached you, and everything came back in a rush.
You sat up in Jack’s bed, tangled in unfamiliar sheets, naked beneath the covers, the bedroom door standing open. Beyond it, soft cabinet sounds came from the kitchen.
Your dress was still a rumpled heap on the floor, half inside out and not worth wrestling with before coffee. One of Jack’s T-shirts had been tossed over the back of a chair instead, soft and worn and easier to reach, so you slipped it on and let it fall down to your legs.
You padded out carefully, one hand skimming the wall, following the short hall from his bedroom back toward the kitchen.
Jack was standing at the counter with his back half-turned to you, already dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, moving with that morning stiffness you were starting to understand. The coffee maker hissed behind him. His phone sat face-down near the sink, buzzing once, then falling silent.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Neither of you spoke for half a second.
Then he said, “Morning.”
The single word held no awkwardness. No retreat. Just the roughness of sleep and coffee not yet fully doing its job.
“Morning,” you echoed.
He nodded toward the mug already waiting on the counter. “That one’s yours.”
You walked over and wrapped both hands around it, grateful for the heat.
“You always do this?” you asked.
“Make coffee?”
“Pretend everything’s normal.”
He looked at you then, properly. The corners of his eyes lined with fatigue, mouth still a little swollen from kissing, expression unreadable for all of a second before it settled into something drier.
“This is normal,” he said. “It’s coffee.”
You laughed softly.
His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and snorted.
“Robby?” you asked.
“Unfortunately.”
He let it ring out and reached for his own mug instead.
That little choice—small, casual, almost nothing—lodged somewhere deep in your chest.
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Outside, someone in the hall dragged a trash bag toward the chute. Ordinary building noises. Ordinary morning light.
Your eyes dropped to the line of his stance. The careful distribution of weight. The slight pull when he turned.
He caught you looking.
“What.”
“You’re limping.”
“I always limp.”
“More.”
He took a sip of coffee, unbothered on purpose. “Occupational hazard.”
“You should take it easy today.”
His eyebrows went up. “Take it easy.”
“Yes.”
“After you brought chaos into my home?”
You smiled into your mug. “I brought questionable romantic choices and emotional growth.”
“That was not emotional growth.”
“No?”
“No.” He set his mug down. “That was you bringing home a man who thought ‘goodnight’ meant opening negotiations.”
You laughed hard enough that he finally smiled—really smiled this time, brief but visible and unfairly good on him.
The warmth of it stayed in the room after it faded.
You looked down at your coffee because suddenly the moment felt a little too real in the best and worst way.
When you looked back up, he was watching you.
Not guarded. Not open, exactly. Just present.
“There’s a spare key with the super,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“For your apartment.” He leaned one hip against the counter, face unreadable again in that deliberate way of his. “But if you keep locking yourself out, or your smoke detector starts screaming, or some idiot follows you home again—”
He stopped there, like the list had already said more than he’d intended.
Your pulse picked up.
“Then what?” you asked quietly.
His gaze held yours.
“Then knock on my door first.”
The words settled between you with more weight than any declaration could have.
Not dramatic. Not polished. Not easy.
Just true.
You swallowed. “Okay.”
He nodded once, as if an agreement had been reached. Then he picked up his mug again and took a sip, looking annoyingly composed for a man who had just changed the shape of your life in one sentence.
You stood there in his kitchen, in his shirt, holding your coffee while the light crept brighter across the floor.
Across the hall, your apartment waited with its new smoke detector battery, dangerous strawberries, and all the ordinary pieces of the life you’d had yesterday.
Here, in 4B, Jack Abbot leaned against his counter, tired and sharp-edged and impossible, looking at you like he’d finally stopped being decent about wanting you.
And that was the trouble with good neighbors—they only stayed good until you let them in.
synopsisa patient tells you older is always better, Jack wants to know if you can confirm that.
warningsSMUT. MDNI. Oral (f and m receiving) fingering, dirty talk, slight dom Jack, penetration, p in v. language
authornotei dont even think god will take me after this one. this aint proofread
“So you think older is better?”
“Like anything good,” said Lu as you cleaned out her leg, pulling the light over to find the grit. “Like cheese... wine... sex.”
Your lips quipped up and you nodded. You didn't know how you started talking about this- you'd only asked what she was doing and how she fell. Date with an older guy, she said, was walking back from his when I fell. It must have been more of a tumble, roll and fall from the state of her leg that had got her through the waiting room and triage.
The next thing you knew she was highlighting how good sex was with an older man.
“It's like they have the experience and the confidence and they care more about getting you off than they do themselves,” she said.
“How many dates have you been on with the guy?” you asked, only trying to keep conversation while you plucked out the gravel. Trying to distract yourself from thinking about sex and older.
“Oh, this was the first one,” said Lu, laid back on the bed with a dreamy look in her eyes. “We've been talking for a few months on this app for older guys to meet women who are younger and interested. We met tonight and I had the best sex ever.”
The pling of gravel on the metal tray echoed out.
“You got a boyfriend?” she asked you.
You were silent, acting as if you were focused on the gravel. “I don't.”
Lu smirked at your silence. “But you got somebody?”
To that you had nothing to say. Maybe you did have somebody- or at least someone came to mind. Grey hair, stubbled chin and dark eyes in the shape of a doctor.
“Oh you got somebody,” said Lu.
You managed two more pieces of gravel and glass before she opened her mouth to speak again, to probably ask you another question but at the same time the door opened, bringing with it a small snap of the bustling sounds of the Pitt at night and the faint air of woodland and grease.
“How we doing in here?”
Jack walked in like he was un-aware to how you'd thought about him and then he came like you'd conjured him up. His grey hair, short stubble at the chin that he quickly rubbed at and dark eyes evaluating.
You betrayed yourself in looking to Lu.
“Is this him?” she asked, eyes lighting up.
Jack looked between the two of you. “Talking about me again, doc?” Jack asked.
You were focused on the task at hand but you didn't need to look to find him at your side, diligently watching you work.
“All good things,” said Lu.
He huffed out a little smile, hands held behind his back. His eyes bore into your head. “I'm Doctor Jack Abbott, I see you're in good hands here. How're her bloods?”
“Bloods are all clear though blood pressure is a bit high, we wanna keep an eye on that,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Well I'm sorry you're night took an unfortunate turn, Miss Marigold.”
She shrugged, rumpling her black dress. It was sleek and fit her in ways you could never imagine the dress fitting you. “Meh, it was pretty much done anyway.”
You were too caught up in the gossip she had been giving you that you didn't think about Jack not being informed. “He kicked you out?”
“No,” she said. “I left. Didn't want that awkward after sex small talk.”
“That's called aftercare.”
It was such a thrown away comment in Jack's words. He said it like he was prescribing her morphine. But the words rushed to your body, jolted you awake and alert to his presence.
Aftercare to some may have been normal, you didn't know other peoples sexual habits- you only knew yours and aftercare wasn't part of it. Your... sexual partners were few and far between and also loved to use your bathroom and sleep it off. Besides that was months ago before you started night shifts. Now your sex life was nothing but dry dry dry with the only occasional fantasy of your attending keeping you going.
“How old are you, Doctor Abbott?” asked your patient.
You caught Jack's smirk.
“Don't you know you should never ask a gentleman his age?” he said.
“Forties? Fifties?”
“Well I'm glad you ruled out thirties.”
You laughed.
“Are you single?”
“You asking?”
“And what do you think about younger women?” Lu asked with seemingly no shame. You carried it all in the blaze of heat in your cheeks.
“I don't know if this is an appropriate conversation to be having,” you said, trying to deflect. Looking between them, you found Lu waiting with curious eyes, not at all uncomfortable and Jack... surprisingly much of the same.
“You mean how do I feel about dating younger women?” asked Jack, standing at the other side of her bed.
In your eyeline.
“There's this app, called 'Always go older' it's catered for men over forty meeting younger women with similar interests. Go on dates, have long term relationships, or just sex.”
You couldn't believe the conversation you had been having with her before Jack came in, making the small space of the exam room even smaller. Having it with him in the room was your idea of a nightmare.
Jack nodded slowly, considering. “An app for... sugar daddies?”
You looked up at him. “You know what sugar daddies are?”
He pursed his lips at you in disappointment. “I'm old, I'm not clueless.”
“If you're interested I can get you a great discount,” said Lu like this was a business meeting. “Both of you.”
Jack looked at you but you missed whatever his eyes were trying to convey when you realised this app cost.
“You have to pay?”
“To be a member yeah, there can be a lot of creeps out there and they do real good work to make sure they're not in the club. You interested?”
“Not if I have to pay,” you said, thinking first of your bank account and nothing else. You only realised once you'd said it what it sounded like.
That you were interested. That older men and dating for you were hand in hand.
You looked up hoping at least Jack wouldn't have noticed. His eyes were on you, an amused tilt to his lips. “Okay!” you stood up, pulling off your gloves. “All the gravel and glass is out but I'm gonna get another blood test in to check your alcohol levels. I'll call a nurse to dress you up and we'll keep you for observation on that blood pressure.”
She nodded. “Do you think I could do a pregnancy test too? Just, while I'm here.”
Jack approached your side, watching you again. His head was tilted up but his eyes were down on you. He was attending but as always he waited on your say. He never overstepped, never made assumptions, always let you lead with your gut.
You wondered if that was what younger women were looking for...
“Sure, I'll get you a pot for a urine sample and we can get those tests.”
“Were you practising safe sex?” asked Jack.
Lu stretched out on the bed, pulling at the seams of her dress at her cleavage. “It feels better without.”
Jack seemed un-bothered, if anything understanding as his head slowly bobbed in a nod.
You'd never had sex without a condom before. Never wanted to risk it.
Jack held the door open for you, letting you lead the way out.
It was noisier and busier yet it was easier to breath. At least for a second before Jack's body brushed yours as he walked next to you.
“Is she a cop? Feel like we were being interrogated in there.”
“That or she gets paid to promote the app.”
You slid into a chair desperately trying not to look at the clock. You had a bad habit of doing so and the night would drag on. You pulled up her chart and distracted yourself with repeating what you'd already said to avoid the inevitable conversation you were gonna be having with Jack.
His mouth opened and you beat him to it.
“I swear we just started talking about that, I was just asking her how she fell and she told me about the guy and started talking about sex and the date and the app, I... I did not invite that conversation.”
He nodded. “It's okay if you did.”
“I didn't.”
“Okay.”
There was silence between you. Your finger moves quickly over the keyboard and Abbott stayed stood there, watching.
“If you're interested-”
“- I'm not,” you said, quickly, without really knowing what he was asking for.
Jack held his hands up in surrender. “Older men aren't too bad.”
“Oh no, I'm-I'm sure they're great, I have nothing against age, you know, old's great! Like.... like wine! Or-or cheese! I just, I mean, my love life- sex life is kinda, urm-” you stumbled over your words. It was annoying how Jack just stood there, letting you, without stopping or helping. “I just don't really have the time for dating.”
You worked nights and in the day you were catching up on sleeping and eating. The furthest your date life got was phone calls with Jack when he was grocery shopping and wanted your opinion, or sometimes in the morning when you got breakfast together before heading back.
He always walked you home, even if it meant an extra half hour before he got home. He was a gentleman like that.
He was still calm as he held his hands behind his back and watched you. “Are you looking to date?”
You chuckled. “Ha, you know a guy who works as crazy shifts as me?”
Jack's eyes lowered to yours. “Maybe. Might be a bit older though.”
You realised what he meant just as an ETA was called in.
The ETA had turned into five and for the rest of the night you and Abbott were too busy with the rest of the team to brush by each other. Every move was a hard move of shoulders to not bump or ripping of the gowns off and the harsh change of gloves. There was no time to talk about anything through the night, let alone whatever the hell had happened at the start of shift.
Your small reprise came when a man dressed in the makings of a rushed man walked in as the clock was striking past five in the morning.
“Excuse me, I'm looking for Lu Mari-gold?”
His hair was silver and growing at the back of his neck. It was brushed back handsomely and though he clearly must have been in his fifties (at least) he had a head full of hair and stubble growing on his chin.
He was handsome and even more so when you saw the bouquet of flowers he held in hand.
“Are you- are you family?”
“No I'm uh- I'm her partner.”
So you escorted him to her room, letting him in and giving him a small update on her care. He set the flowers next to her and you lingered, diligently checking her chart.
“Why'd you leave, honey?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her bed and petting back her hair.
“Oh you know,” she said, casually. “Didn't want to do the whole awkward morning after thing.”
“There'd be nothing awkward about it. I was gonna make you breakfast, had plans to make love two you in the morning.”
Your cheeks flamed up as he said it so casually, like he was laying out a list for morning plans which.... he well was.
You decided to give them some privacy and save yourself form listening. You gently closed the door over and watched them through. He kissed her gently on the forehead, cradling her and Lu soaked it all in in adoring eyes and gentle touches.
It was a sort of tender touch you weren't used to even seeing, let alone feeling.
“Hey,” there was a ghost of a touch on the small of your back and Jack came to stand next to you. “That her boyfriend?”
“Yeah, though I don't know if they're their yet,” you admitted. “They only met tonight- well, last night. But she ran out.”
“And he came to her,” observed Jack. “They'll be just fine.”
“How'd you know?”
“The way he looks at her.”
When you looked at Jack he was already looking at you.
The thousand moments between the two of you played out. The gentle ghosts of a hand, the watchful moments but Jack was like that with a lot of people, attentive.
Your eyes fluttered as you looked away from him to the scene playing out again. “Are you some sort of relationship whisperer?”
He huffed a small amused laugh and followed your eyes to look ahead. “I just know things.”
It wasn't long before Lu and her partner were walking out, the flowers in hand as his arm was around her waist, supporting her.
They stopped off by the nurses counter where both you and Jack lingered working on separate cases.
“We just wanted to say thank you,” said Lu. “And here. There's a ninety percent success rate.”
She handed you a business card with the app name and promo code applied.
“Oh, er, thank you,” you said, un-sure on what to say other than a thanks.
Lu smiled kindly, leaning in to you as subtle as possible. Her eyes lingered somewhere over your shoulder. “Though I don't think you'll need it.”
You turned, catching sight of what she was watching.
Jack stood with Crus who was thrusting a tablet to him but he was looking at you.
“I'll- er- put it to good use. I'll see you in a couple days to check out those stitches.”
Slowly they left and you were stood frozen, staring down at the card. Ten dollars a month wasn't so bad if you didn't count the subscriptions you already had at the student loan and bills and such. You got three months half price, maybe three months to meet the love of your life or at least get some-
The card was plucked from you fingers.
Jack twirled it around. “You thinking about it?” he said, an edge to his voice.
“What? No- I don't know, she just- it was a parting gift?”
He nodded, reading the card. “Always go older,” he read.
“It's the app, younger women with, um, older men.”
“Interested?”
The way he looked at you felt more like an invitation than a general question. His eyes were hooded as he looked at you. It was the way he always looked at you but it felt weighted.
“It's just an app,” you excused.
Jack held the card out between the two of you, letting you chose.
It should've been your choice but it felt like there was a right and wrong answer.
Slowly, you plucked it from his fingers.
Two days later you found Jack Abbott on the app.
You were scrolling in the bathroom on your three minute pee break. You'd got the app that morning, caving in after spending a night tossing and turning and dreaming. You could say the dream was any old man, a faceless sort but even if that were true you felt the hard press of the chest, the tickle of the stubble. You imagined the freckles along the arms and the low rumble of his voice in your ear.
“That's it... that's it... take me in... all the way... god you feel beautiful,”
You woke wet between your legs and hot all over with little to no time to do anything about it.
You were desperate, you told yourself as you hastily built up a profile, picking what small pictures you had of yourself not in scrubs.
You hadn't had time to check it until the bathroom break and you don't make it three profiles before you were faced with Abbott.
The pictures of him were pictures you'd seen before, a selfie with his stupid smirk, the peek of army uniform there. There was another of him that seemed to a couple years ago and the third and final was a picture of him in scrubs.
It was a picture of the night shift but you could tell there were several cropped out, but you who stood next to him were still there.
You stared down at the picture of you two, his arm was thrown over your shoulders casually. He was grinning at the camera and you had a small smile to, your body leant into him. You hadn't even realised you did that.
Didn't Abbott know it wasn't a good sign to have a picture of another woman on the dating app? Unless it was your mother and you were a mamas boy.
There was knocking on the bathroom stool doors.
“Have you coded in there?” Crus called out.
You huffed and got off the toilet, pulling up your pants and pocketing your phone.
“If only.”
The night continued as usual, abdominal pains, charting, lacerations, charting, traumas and charting.
You'd hardly got a look at Jack when it was turning to six in the morning and day shifters started piling in.
You were passing the break room when the door swung open.
Jack popped out, catching you, his arms braced at the door. “Get in here, now.”
You were worried, reading through every patient you'd seen that day. You were sure you dealt with them all attentively, you'd never misdiagnosed someone before and today couldn't have been the day.
Jack closed the door behind him, checking nobody was on their way to find you before speaking. He was calm as he walked over to you, leaning his hand on the table and crowding you. “Why do you think I need to talk to you?”
You tried to think of something you'd done wrong. Anything. “Trauma came in, I er, didn't intubate quick enough?”
He shook his head and you tried to think again.
Before you could hazard a guess, he spoke. “I thought if you were interested, you'd have said something.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Interested?”
Jack's chest rose and fell in a deep breath. “In going older.”
“In going-” your mind short-circuited to his profile. If you'd seen him just a few hours ago, he could have seen you before then.
“I thought I had made my invitation clear,” he uttered.
“Invitation?” you repeated, feeling like a stuck record player.
“To go older,” Jack stepped closer and you could feel the warmth of his breath. “I was inviting you to try it.”
His breath somehow still smelt of mint freshness whereas you were sure yours was coffee stained from the three cups you'd already drunk.
“And not through the app,” he added.
You gulped. “You saw me on the app?”
“I saw you on the app.”
“But you're on the app,” you pointed out, eyes flickering up to his.
“I got it two days ago to make sure you didn't get it,” he said. His eyes weren't focused on yours. They were flickering between your eyes and your lips.
You wondered if you were still dreaming. If you were still in your bed, still dampening your panties and sheets with this crazy dream of him. You pinched yourself slowly but you felt the pain and didn't wake.
You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them and he was still there. Still calm. “You want to have sex with me?”
Jack's jaw clenched. “Honey, I want so much more than that.”
His finger was light as it brushed the back of your hand that rested on the table there.
“I want what you want, and maybe even more,” said Jack, his hand cradled your face. thumb dragging over your cheekbone. “You just got to tell me what you want and I'll make it happen.”
You'd thought that being with an older man meant being told what to do, that you wouldn't get a word in edge ways and yes, it was hot to think about.
You imagined Jack would be that, gently guiding you through your pleasure like he understood it better than you did. “You, I want you.”
Jack's lips were soft on yours, his head tilted at the perfect angle that meant he reached every edge of your lips at once. He didn't push against you, annoyingly so, he just let you feel the press of his lips like a fresh summers breeze.
It was your hands that fell on his chest, it was you that tilted your head back so he could reach deeper. It was your tongue tracing the bottom of his lips to get in deeper.
The door clattered and you jumped from Jack like he'd scorched you.
Jack only opened his eyes slowly, turning.
Robby leant on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his lips as he sipped from his coffee cup. “Good morning, brother.”
Jack took you home to his and carefully man handled you through the door. Once it was closed his lips sort yours in a hunger even a twelve hour shift couldn't kill.
He breathed against you hard as he kissed you, stirring you through his house with his hands migrating from your cheeks, to your neck, to your waist, to your hips, to anyplace he could get a hold of you.
Your hands made his neatly combed hair a mess as you leant against him, letting yourself be moved around like a rag doll.
“Is this your house?” you asked against his lips. You couldn't look around to study his space, he was hardly letting you go to catch your breath let alone turn your head.
He nodded, kissing you. His tongue entered the warmth of your mouth and he moaned into you. “We didn't break and enter, baby.”
“But you-” you gasped as his hands travelled under your shirt, sending a chill. “You don't rent.”
This wasn't your best dirty talk.
Jack smiled against your lips. “No, I have a mortage.”
You kissed him again, holding him close as your hand slithered to the back of his neck.
He was still navigating you through his house till you felt your back hit a wall. “Does that turn you on?”
Slowly he pulled at the ties of your scrub pants and he slid his hand in enough to get a feel of the warmth of your cunt through your panties. You were wet, impossibly so just by kissing him.
“Yeah,” he said, breathless. “It turns you on.”
Jack's teeth scraped down your neck, his tongue soothing where he nipped.
You tilted your head back, a silent invite for more.
A thigh of his slotted between your legs and you fell onto it.
“You wanna- wanna tell me about tax returns next?” you teased.
“Maybe,” he said, lifting his head back to yours. “I kinda wanna taste you first.”
With strong hands on your hips he turned you and pushed you through the open door into a master of a bedroom. The bed was in the middle, a four postered type thing with clean and made sheets. There was nothing messy about it, nothing to signify the exhaustion of a night shift.
Jack held your body into his, hips rutting against yours.
You acknowledged somewhere in the back of your head that he'd told you years ago he moved into a bungalow. No stairs- easier on his leg.
“Do you know how many times I've touched myself thinking about you, on that bed?” he whispered into your skin, kissing the words there.
“You-You have?”
You felt his hair tickle you as he nodded. “Do you like knowing that?”
“Yes.” You reached over, cupping the back of his head till your tongues were meeting in a sloppy kiss.
Jack's hands slipped down your waist, down your underwear and spread at your cunt till he could easily slip in a finger.
You gasped against him, body curling in pleasure you'd never felt.
He moved with you as if he was chasing you, sucking on your bottom lip.
“You like that?” he uttered, dragging out your bottom lip.
You nodded as he slowly withdrew his finger to slip another in.
“Need to hear you like it, baby.”
“I like it, Jack, like your fingers inside of me.”
The fingers on his free hand moved to wrap around your neck, tilting your head back till it rested on his shoulder. With this advantage he could like on the skin, feel the heat of you and the jump of your pulse as he slowly worked his fingers in and out, curling at the spots that got you shaking.
Your held onto his arm, fingers digging into the skin.
“You're gonna like it,” he whispered. “You're gonna like it so much you'll never go back, never want anyone else.”
His fingers worked quicker as you felt him leave marks at your neck, in places you knew people would be able to see. “Still like my fingers inside of you?”
“Yes, god, yes!”
“How'd they make you feel, baby?”
“Good, so good.”
Jack withdrew his hands and turned you, guiding you up on the bed. He leant back on his knees, slowly undoing the ties of his scrub bants.
You'd never been happier that they were black, showing the outline of his cock, hard and begging for attention.
“Take your top off.” He gestured.
You did and his eyes grew darker though didn't know how that was possible. Your hands trembled with eager excitement to get your hands on him or for him to get his hands on you. You moved to un-clasp your bra but Jack shook his head.
“Keep it on. Take my shirt off.”
His chest was broad and slightly defined. Freckles dotted around and one or two scares you'd never seen before were littered there too.
It was instinct to move in to his neck to kiss him but his hand wrapped around your neck and pushed you down till you bounced off the mattress.
“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me.”
You followed his order as he slowly dragged down your scrub pants and panties, getting a glimpse of how wet they were before they were chucked aside.
Hopefully that was the time Jack let you see all of him. No.
Like a prized possession Jack laid you out and spread your legs.
It was suddenly all too real. The haste of the drive over, his hand on your thigh, everything he said about being with an older guy and how Lu had told you how experienced they were. Would he expect something you couldn't deliver? Did you expect something?
“Jack,” you said only his name but you didn't know what else you were trying to lead on anyhow.
His eyes were earnest though clouded by desire as he pushed your legs up till you were sprawled out for him. “I'll stop any time you want.”
You watched him get closer to your heat. Felt yourself cry out for his attention.
“You're gonna like it, gonna love it,” he promised, eyes focused on you as he slid his middle finger inside of you. “Relax... relax.”
You tried to but as another one of his fingers slid into you, creating a slow thrusting pattern and his other hand kept playing with your cunt to get your lips spread you could do anything but relax.
Your breathing kicked up, your pulse was high.
As Jack leant down to slowly flick his tongue against your clit you threw your head back and moaned.
“Oh shit, Jack- Jack!”
His gaze flickered up to you, daring you to try to speak.
When you did it came out as another moan, his tongue flattening against your bud of nerves.
He played with you like that, moulding your legs around to where he wanted them. Flat on the bed, over his shoulders, up in the air. Anything to get him deeper inside of you.
All the while you alternated between watching him and falling back on the bed in aches of pleasure.
Jack watched where his fingers disappeared inside of you. “Swallowing me up, can't wait to get my cock inside of you.”
“Want it.... want it....” you mumbled, head back on the softness of his quilt.
“Yeah?” he whimpered.
Your hand fisted the quilt that smelt like him and you smothered your face in it as his fingers curled.
“Oh my god, honey... yeah....” Jack moaned before you felt the wet of his tongue on the heat of you.
You couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Whether it was his spit on your cunt or your want that was pooling into wetness on his sheets.
There was no warning, only your moans, as you came around his fingers and tongue. You had no idea you could come so quick, had no idea it could be pulled from your head to your toes.
Jack let your orgasm play out, pulling back to watch it leak. “Oh yeah... yeah...” his fingers swept up the mess lightly. “You're so sweet, oh yeah... moan like that...”
His tongue went in, licking up all the mess around you.
“Jack please, I can't- I can't!”
Your body was trembling beyond your control and he was still playing around with you and your sensitive bud. Your arms wrapped around yourself as if you could hold yourself together from breaking out in cries.
You hadn't noticed your eyes were screwed shut until you felt him move and heard the demand in his voice.
“Look at me.”
When you did you found Jack standing at the foot of his bed, scrub pants deserted and hand wrapped around his own cock.
You looked at him and then some.
“Touch me, touch me,” he said gently, prying your hands away from your chest with care.
With guidance he helped you sit up and helped you feel his cock.
You'd done this before but your mouth had never watered by the idea, your body never wept with the need to suck another guy off. Nothing about him disgusted you. Not the scars around his knee where he lost his leg, not the hair that dusted the base of his cock in tamed grey.
It moved you on.
You only jerked him off slow, only a little at first but his breath became laboured.
Jack's eyes closed as he grabbed a hold of your legs like they were his anchor.
You wanted to speed up.
“Go easy on me,” he said with a drunk grin. “It's been a while.”
You moaned and inched your body closer to the edge of the bed, your heat wanting to swallow him up.
Jack's eyes watched as you withered. He held onto your wrist that stayed wrapped around the base of his cock. “No, no, no, don't put it in yet.” Slowly he came to lean over you. “I want you to suck on it. You want it? Want to suck this old mans cock?”
In answer, the two of you moved quickly till he was lying flat on the bed and you were over him, slowly taking the tip in your mouth.
“Oh my god... oh yeah...” he moaned. Jack petted back your hair. “Take the tip.... take the tip... swirl your tongue...”
You took in his tip and swirled the tongue just as he said, watching him as you took him deeper with his careful help.
A string of 'oh yeah, don't stop' fell from him like a mantra as you took him deeper and faster, the need growing in you again.
“It's not- it's not too much?” he checked in, his head falling back.
You only took yourself off him to shake your head before sucking him into your mouth again, holding the base of him and working what you couldn't manage.
Jack groaned, hands flying to his head as his fists clenched. “You're so good... oh you're so good, baby.”
You took him deep and hollowed your cheeks.
Jack lurched. “Fuck! Fuck- shit, don't do that,” he moaned, guiding you off with pink cheeks. He chuckled, guiding you up to him. “I'll finish if you do that.”
He kissed you, never minding the both of your arousal on each other's lips. “They're are so many ways I want to be inside of you.”
You moaned against his lips. “I want you inside me, Jack.”
“I know, I know.” His brows pulled together as he seemed to have a battle in his own mind about just how to have you.
You didn't make it easier. In temptation you lied back on his bed and spread yourself out. All the while he was still caught up in thinking.
You almost started playing with yourself to relieve the build up when Jack grabbed your wrist and guided your fingers into his mouth.
He gently kissed the pads of your finger tips. “Turn around.”
Jack lied next to you, your back flush with his chest. He lined his cock up with your cunt, slowly sliding the length of it between your folds.
“Con-condom?” you mumbled, dreading the feel of anything that wasn't completely him.
Jake kissed your shoulder. “It feels better without. I'm clean.”
You nodded, breathless at the promise of feeling him. All of him. “I'm clean and I have a, an IUD.”
He kissed you again as he nudged the head of his cock into you.
Your moans echoed around the room as he held onto you, inching himself in further and further.
Only once you'd just got the feel of all of him he was slowly retreating to push back in again. For a moment it was only the sound of the both of you breathless and the gentle sounds of skin on skin as he moved at a steady pace, growing needier, getting deeper by every thrust.
“Oh my god... oh my god...” you moaned.
Jack's hands grabbed your hips, helping you meet his thrusts in urgency. The sun was just peeking through the blinds and a thin layer of sweat glowed off both your bodies.
You tried to grind your backside into him, desperate to feel relief as his pace remained steady.
Jack gripped your hip, leaning into your ear. “Don't rush it, don't rush it,” he nipped at your ear. “Don't be greedy, we'll go slow.”
You didn't want slow. You wanted fast. You wanted hard.
The slow drag of his cock through your walls drove you mad. He reached around, fingers circling your clit as his other hand finally un-hooked your bra.
It wasn't long before Jack was slamming into you, harder, your body rocking with his movements and the head of his bed hitting the wall.
“God, it's been so long.... you feel amazing...” said Jack as his fingers circled your clit hard.
“Jack I'm gonna-”
At the warning he stilled himself inside of you.
“Not yet, honey, not yet.”
You whined, hand moving round to grab at his ass and hold him in.
Jack groaned and bit into your neck. “I know, I know. Just gimme a minute.”
You had no choice as he slid out of you and moved you around so you were flat on the bed. You felt his fingers thrust inside of you again harder than before.
His breath was hard, chest rising and falling quickly. “I wanna make you come in so many ways I can't chose how.”
He was a man starved, ravenous as he dedicated time to licking you up again, if only for a minute. But he moaned around you, sucked in your nerves and released it to the mercy of his fingers.
“Jack!” you yelled, screw the neighbours.
There was a growl somewhere in the back of his throat as he loomed over you.
“You wanna fuck me?”
“Yes, Jack, bad so bad!”
“Okay, okay honey, fuck me then, come one baby.... I know you can.”
Jack pushed into you as the both of your eyes clashed watching the pleasure in each others eyes. He set a brutal pace, holding a leg up as he peppered kisses along your chest.
“J-Jack-”
“Tell me how good I feel.”
“So good.”
“So good, yeah baby, so good,” he gasped. “Oh fuck, god baby!” He reached over and gripped the headboard, body tight in pleasure.
You arched off the bed.
“I need you to come,” he announced, eyes screwed up in pleasure as he thrusted into you hard, the slap of his balls on you.
You watched where he met you as your legs shook.
“I need you to come so I can come.... one more time, baby.... one more time, please....” he begged.
The sight of him sweating, his body rigid, eyes shut in pleasure and mouth hanging open only to voice obscene moans was enough to have you coming over the edge.
Your walls tightened.
Jack must have felt it as he steadied himself over you, fingers falling between your bodies to work you through it. “That's it.... that's it.... that's it...” He kissed along your collarbone.
You released over him, gasping, body melting into him as Jack rode out your orgasm.
“Arg... oh god... you feel so good, I-urg-”
Dirty words spilled from your mouth as Jack latched onto your mouth and let go inside of you.
The both of you were a panting, sweating mess as he calmed down, slowly slipping out of you but kissing away every whine and protest.
Your breathes slowed and slowly Jack slipped out of you, watching his release leave you.
His eyes flickered back up to you, brushing away hair that had stuck. “I've never come like that in my life.”
You were still catching your breath, still waiting for the race of your heart to dull. “Your welcome?”
Jack chuckled, falling beside you and throwing an arm over you. “I think you can delete that app now.”
You groaned with a wave of embarrassment, covering your face. Gently, Jack pried away your hands and kissed the palms of them. You turned on your side. “Are you going to delete it too?”
“Honey I only got it cause I couldn't stand the thought of you getting it, and some other gut thinking he can treat you better.”
“I always hoped it would be you.”
Jack kissed you tenderly. “So?” he asked against you. “You think older is better?”
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