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In order to be properly non-pedophilic you have to want to fuck somebody old but not with gray or white hair because that's too close to blonde which as we've established is the hair color of children. So ideally somebody old as fuck but bald. And obviously wanting to have sex with a man is misogynistic so it has to be a woman. And it can't be a white woman because that would be racist and it can't be a woman of color because that would be fetishistic, so ideally a woman with some unnatural skin color, oh let's say, purple. But it can't be an alien, because we don't know anything about alien life cycles so it could be an alien child or an alien that looks like a child. So it has to be an animal from Earth, but obviously one of human level intelligence that can communicate is otherwise that would be bestiality. So an old purple female animal that can speak English. I think the only creature you can be hot for is the Ant Queen from A Bug's Life.
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â summary: you start as the new sous chef at the pitt, where working under the intense jack abbot proves almost as thrilling as being beneath him
â pairing: chef!jack abbot x sous-chef!reader
â warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, cursing, power-dynamics, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, p in v, cream pie, rough sex, semi public sex, size kink, chef kink, dirty talk, slight choking, jack abbot talks you through it
â word count: 9.4k
â notes: so obviously i listened to the quinn audio and opened a doc. my fingers were on fire (please support them instead of pirating btw) also im not a chef i literally just watch the bear and gordon ramsey ijbol but can I also say this might be the hottest smut iâve ever written LOL
When you step foot into The Pitt, the first thing you notice isnât the fresh scent of lemon and herbs, or the sparkling countertops, itâs the precision with which Jack Abbot runs it. Itâs controlled chaos. Every bang of a pan, crackle of flame, and metal scraping against metal is almost orchestral.Â
And right there in the center, is head chef Jack himself. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his apron splattered with various sauces.Â
âAgain,â He instructed a line cook, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt as he crossed his arms. âIf it doesnât feel right, donât send it. If it doesnât make you feel anything, then you arenât doing it right.âÂ
He didnât hear you slip in through the delivery door, didnât notice you standing there with your coat draped over your arm and bag on your shoulder. Youâre leaning against the stainless steel prep table, watching the girl carefully pipette dollops of sauce on a plate next to a perfectly roasted slice of duck.
âYour spacingâs off,â you say finally, voice calm but carrying easily over the noise. âYouâre crowding the protein. Let it breathe. Itâs the star of the show, the sauce is the supporting act.â
The woman startles, eyes snapping up to you, then immediately over your shoulder like sheâs checking if sheâs about to get in trouble.
âWhat,â he starts, turning sharply, already halfway into irritation, âdid I just say about-â
His eyes land on you, a flicker of confusion on his face about the stranger who was relaxing against his station, as if she belonged there.Â
âWho are you and why are you standing around like you own the place?â He asks gruffly, his hands leaning against the table now. His arm veins protruded as his body weight rested on the limbs.Â
âThe person who does own the place gave me a key,â You hold up the silver key between your fingers, âAnd Iâm Y/n Y/l/n, the new sous-chef.âÂ
âThe one from France?â he asks, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel but not breaking eye contact.Â
You give a curt nod, a smirk still gracing your lips. It made it very hard for Jack not to stare at your pursed lips as he sized you up.
âAh, yes,â Ellis chimes in, grinning as she leans against her station, clearly enjoying this far too much. It wasnât often that many people gave Jack shit. âThe prodigal daughter back from studying abroad in France. Here to give this old guy a run for his money?â
âOld?â His voice echoed in the kitchen, making Ellis put her tattooed arms up.Â
âRespectfully.â She whistled, holding her hand out for you to shake.Â
Her grip was firm as she gave you her name, âEllis Parker, Chef de Partie for the French girl.âÂ
You nearly flushed at her warm gaze, dropping her hand as she grabbed her plate, giving you and your new boss time to talk.Â
âAlright,â he says. âLetâs see what Robby thought was worth importing.â
He holds his hand out in front of him, guiding you through the massive kitchen.Â
âCareful,â you murmur. âYou might like it.â
Something in his gaze darkens at that, interest threading through the challenge, but itâs gone just as fast as it appears. Your stuff is put up in a locker, while you throw an apron over your head.Â
The tour is less formal than most restaurants youâve worked in. Thatâs the first thing youâve noticed, just how close-knit everyone seems to be. Which was a stark contrast to most other posh workplaces youâve spent the last few years in.Â
âHead of house, Frank Langdon with his assistant Mel King.â He points through the glass window into the dining room where the tall brunette was wildly explaining something to do with menus to the eager blonde.Â
Youâre on his heels as he walks, keeping up behind him like you were in a moving current.Â
âDana, house manager. She keeps this place running, donât ever piss her off.â He grumbles, and you hear the blonde put the phone down to yell loudly at the man.Â
â-I heard that!âÂ
âAnyways,â he continues, his shoulder pushing open another door for you two to glide through. âSantos and Garcia, our resident bartender and sommelier.âÂ
The younger girl is shoulder to shoulder with the older girl, polishing wine glasses with expert precision. You wave softly to them, trying your best to be polite while Jack is all but dragging you through the restaurant at lightning speed.Â
Youâre back in the kitchen, a guy is on his knees scrubbing at a spot on the floor while the other is rinsing the sink.Â
âWhittaker, our busboy, and Ogilvie his assistant of sorts. I donât really know what he does, he cleans.â Jack pauses watching the boy squint at him before youâre off in the kitchen again.Â
The smell of sugar and vanilla hits your nose as you walk through the pastry kitchen. âSamira Mohan, our Pastry Chef. I donât care what bullshit you saw in France, sheâs better.â He boasts, and you barely catch a glance of the girl as sheâs pulling another rack of pastries out of the oven.Â
âThere are some people Iâm missing,â He huffs, âYou met Ellis, then we have Shen and Crus our other chefs. We have our prep cooks Princess and Perlah, donât tell them anything they gossip.âÂ
He lets out a short laugh as youâre suddenly right back where you started, âMcKay and Javardi are our hosts, Joy and Emma are our veteran waitresses. We love them, Emma does our social media. So if she asks you to make a TikTok, youâll do it because sheâs too sweet to say no to.âÂ
âUnderstood,â You let out a breath, still trying your best to remember all of the names.Â
âYou met Robby and Heather, theyâre hardly here since their daughter was born so that leaves me.â He smiles, rocking on his feet. âJack Abbot.âÂ
âNice to officially meet you,â You nearly laugh, sticking out your hand to shake his. You nearly shiver at the way his large warm hand encompasses yours.Â
He switches in and out of Head Chef mode easily, immediately going into a deep explanation of how they work here. Their processes, what makes it work, and how under no circumstances are you to deviate from the plan. He was a stickler for order, that much was obvious, but you had to be in this line of work.Â
âDid you memorize the menu?âÂ
âOf course.â You nod, thinking back to Robby shoving a binder in your hand upon hiring and telling you to study up. You didnât think youâd actually be tested until Jack started throwing questions at you.Â
âMiso cod,â he says. âWhat finishes it?â
âWhite miso glaze, reduced until it clings,â you answer without hesitation. âCaramelized under high heat, served over a bed of jasmine rice with a ginger-scallion emulsion and pickled shiitake for contrast.â
His eyes flick toward you briefly.
âCitrus?â
You donât miss a beat. âYuzu zest in the emulsion. Bright, but not overpowering.â
âMid-rare,â you scoff. âObviously, anything higher is a crime.â
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He stops suddenly at the pass, picking up a plate, holding it between you like a test youâre meant to fail. Itâs still steaming, but thereâs not much cooking happening besides prep.Â
A smile quirks up at your lips, thinking of him preparing a dish just to quiz you on. You take the challenge.Â
He holds it out slightly toward you, pulling a fork out from his pocket.
âRoast chicken,â he says. âWalk me through it.â
You step in closer without hesitation, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his as you lean in.
âAir-dried for at least twenty-four hours,â you start, eyes scanning, picking it apart piece by piece. âHigh heat to render the skin, then finish slower so it stays juicy. Basted in butter, thyme, maybe a little garlic toward the end so it doesnât burn.â
Your finger hovers just above the pommes anna, not touching, just tracing the shape with the fork. You bring it up to your lips, unaware of Jackâs sudden interest in the counter after your tongue swipes against it.
âPotatoes layered with clarified butter, pressed, cooked low and slow, then crisped. Truffle folded in at the end, not during, or it disappears.â
âSauce,â he prompts.
âChicken jus, mounted with butter,â you reply. âReduced enough to coat the back of a spoon, not so much that it turns sticky.â
He nods once, then tilts the plate slightly.
âWhat doesnât belong?â
You hum, twirling the fork around.Â
You lean in just a little more, close enough now that if you shifted even an inch youâd touch him, your voice lowering without you meaning to. The fork stabs one of the pearl onions, you shove it into your mouth, and grimace a little.Â
âTheyâre glazed in balsamic,â you say.
âAnd.â
âItâs too heavy,â you continue, straightening slightly, meeting his eyes again. âYouâve already got richness from the chicken, the butter, the potatoes. The balsamic makes it sweet and acidic in the wrong way. It pulls focus instead of balancing.â
He watches you carefully.
âSweetness is bad?â
âNot if itâs intentional,â you counter. âBut this isnât. Itâs competing, not complementing.â
Then you tilt your head just slightly, a hint of something playful slipping in.
âYouâd be better off with something brighter. Maybe a preserved lemon glaze, or even a light cider reduction. Something that cuts through instead of sitting on top.â
He makes a noise of satisfaction, âMost people wouldâve said the truffle,â he admits.
âThe truffle isnât overdone, itâs a good addition. If itâs in the budget, Iâd put it on the menu, minus the onions.â You smiled crookedly.Â
Heâs trying to hide how impressed he is, as he shuffles around. âWell, try not to slow us down tonight.âÂ
âOh, I donât like it slow.â You purse your lips, âDonât worry about me.âÂ
He has an amused look on his face, âYou are gonna give me a run for my money huh?âÂ
You shrug, âGuess youâll just have to wait and see.âÂ
And you donât make him wait long.
Service hits like a wave and you step into it without hesitation, sliding onto his line as if youâve always belonged there, like the rhythm of this kitchen is something your body already understands. This is where you belong, even when the tickets start stacking. Jack glides through the kitchen like he could do it blindfolded.
You match him without thinking, your hands moving before the words even fully land, reaching for pans, adjusting heat, finishing sauces before he even has the chance to bark out orders.Â
âTwo scallops, one duck, one filet,â he calls.
âScallops walking,â you answer just as quickly, already flipping them, butter foaming, the edges caramelizing into that perfect golden crust. You tilt the pan, baste once, twice, then pull them at exactly the right second, sliding them onto the plate like itâs elementary.Â
Jack tries not to stare, tries to focus on his own job but he finds the way you move mesmerizing. Even when you reach for the wrong item, still gaining your footing here, youâre majestic.Â
âDuck?â he presses.
Youâre already slicing it, the blade gliding clean through, juices held exactly where they should be. âRested,â you say, fanning it out, dragging the cherry reduction into a sharper line, tightening the plating just enough to elevate it without losing its soul.
âYouâre moving fast,â he mutters, more to himself than you.
You donât look up. âI told you, I donât like it slow.â
Thereâs something in the way you say it that makes him pause for half a second too long before snapping back into motion.
The longer the service goes, the clearer it becomes. Youâre not just keeping up with him, youâre anticipating him. Adjusting before he asks, finishing thoughts he hasnât spoken yet, stepping into the exact spaces he leaves open without ever colliding. It isnât chaotic, it isnât competitive in a loud way. Youâre not working against him, youâre not showing out. Itâs a dance.Â
At one point your hands brush when you both reach for the same pan, and neither of you pulls back immediately. He lingers, and you let your fingers dance over his before pulling the pan out from him.Â
When service is over, the place takes a deep breath. Jack pretends he canât smell the sweat clinging to your neck, and the soft scent of your shampoo when you pass him.Â
âIs every night like that?â You ask, your skin still vibrating from the adrenaline rush. successful service.Â
âIf weâre so lucky,â Shen smiles, patting you on the back, âYou were on fire back there.âÂ
âThank you.â You smiled, listening to their compliments while your eyes were on Jack. He gave you a simple nod of encouragement, before he leaned back down to scrub at the oven. You took that to heart, ignoring the weird flutter in your chest at his approval.Â
You roll your shoulders back, trying to shake the adrenaline loose, but itâs still there, buzzing under your ribs, settling somewhere deeper instead of fading.
âCareful,â Ellis calls from across the line, flicking water from a rag in your direction. âYou keep that up, youâre gonna make the rest of us look bad.â
âYou already do that on your own,â you shoot back, not missing a beat.
A few laughs ripple through the room.
âYeah,â She whistles, tossing you a sponge, âYouâre right where you belong.âÂ
You move through cleanup as you worked here for years, not a single night, falling into rhythm beside them, trading small comments, quiet jokes, letting yourself settle into something that feels dangerously close to belonging already.Â
Princess is already whispering something to Perlah that makes them both glance at you and grin, Danaâs voice carries faintly from the front, still managing something even this late, and Shen is already halfway to the espresso machine without needing to ask. He brings you a coffee in a shot glass, a wide smile on his face. âTo surviving your first shift at The Pitt.â
By the end of your first week, the kitchen stops watching you like youâre a baby deer on new legs, and starts moving with you as if youâve always been there. By the end of your second, they start trusting you. And by the end of your first month, there isnât a single person on the line who doesnât adjust when you step in, who doesnât listen when you speak, who doesnât look for you the same way they look for him when something matters.
Service becomes something electric between you and Jack.
You learn his tells, the slight shift in his posture when something is about to go wrong, the way his voice drops when heâs focused, the exact second he expects a plate to land in the pass. And he learns yours too, whether he wants to admit it or not. The way you move faster when youâre challenged, the way you donât wait to be told, the way you fix things before they ever reach him.Â
âToo much salt,â he mutters one night, barely glancing at a pan.
Youâre already beside him, tasting, adjusting, adding a splash of stock and a knob of butter, bringing it back into balance like it was never off.
âBetter,â you say, sliding it back.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, before youâre already back at your station.
âYou donât miss,â he says.
âNeither do you,â you reply, and he pretends it doesnât make his knuckles shake. Heâs too old for a crush, he tells himself. But it doesnât stop the way he looks at you with stars in his eyes every night.Â
Thereâs a push and pull to it, something unspoken but constant. You challenge him in small ways, tightening a plate here, swapping an element there, offering suggestions that are just bold enough to make him pause but never reckless enough to break the integrity of what heâs built.
âLose the microgreens,â you murmur one night, adjusting a dish before it goes out. âTheyâre filler.â
âThey add color.â
âThey add nothing,â you counter, meeting his eyes. âIf you need color, fix the dish, not the garnish. Microgreens are shipped in by the pound to every wanna be Michelin star restaurant in the US. We donât need it.â
He wants to argue, you can see it on his face. Then his brows furrow, and he watches the plate so intensely youâd almost believe it was speaking to him.
Then he pulls them off himself.
âSend it,â he says.
You donât smile, but you feel the way your cheeks burn.Â
You find your place in the quieter moments too.
Samiraâs kitchen is the first space that feels different. Warmer, softer, but no less precise. The scent of caramelizing sugar wraps around you the second you step inside, vanilla and citrus layered over butter and heat. She hands you a spoon without looking.
âRespectfully,â You start, the spoon still in your mouth, âI think Iâd do anything you asked me to do if you keep making things like that.âÂ
She laughs, a loud one that comes from her throat. âJack was right, I like you.âÂ
You donât press on what she means, because the idea of Jack boasting about you makes something coil in your stomach.Â
Itâs easy to fall into rhythm with the staff. Youâd bum a cigarette off of Santos after long nights, the two of you chain-smoking with Dana in the freezing Pittsburgh weather. Samira would sneak you pastries in exchange for tips you had picked up in France. You brought her in some cookbooks from your time there, and she nearly cried. The next day thereâs a container waiting for you in the breakroom fridge, your name written across the lid in careful script. Chai tiramisu, layered perfectly, the spice warm and unexpected against the bitterness of espresso.Â
Frank and Mel were a joy to be around, you sat with them one day learning the inner workings of the magic they create out front. Your first outing with the crew was one weekend Javardi had convinced all the girls, barring Dana who was always busy, to go out and get drinks one night. Despite the girl's only memo, Shen showed up an hour in and got so drunk that Ellis had to carry him two blocks home.Â
Somewhere in all of it, you find your place.
Not just in the kitchen, not just on the line, but here, in the middle of this strange, chaotic, loyal little family that somehow makes space for you without question.Â
Thatâs why, you think, the first time it cracks makes it hurt a little more than if this were any other job posting.Â
The kitchen is running hot, faster than usual, the kind of night where everything is just slightly off and everyone feels it. Tickets pile, timing tightens, and Jack is sharper than usual, voice cutting a little cleaner, a little colder.
You taste it as it comes up, quick, instinctive, and your brow pulls just slightly. Itâs good, actually, itâs fantastic, but itâs missing something vital to him.Â
A splash of sherry vinegar, just enough to lift it. A touch of orange zest, subtle, brightening the edges without changing the core. You swirl, taste again, and it opens up immediately, the richness balanced, the flavor sharper, more alive.
You plate it and send it without thinking.Â
Jack catches it at the pass, because of course he does.Â
âWhat is this,â he asks, not loud, but dangerous in how controlled it is. Everyone seems to tense, knowing exactly what the inflection in his voice means.Â
You donât hesitate. âShort rib.â
His eyes flick to yours, then back to the plate. He then narrows his eyes at the sauce you have sitting on your station.
âYou changed the sauce.âÂ
Itâs not a question, but you answer anyway. âYes.â
âI didnât ask you to,â he says, voice tightening, the edge finally showing. âYou donât touch my dishes without clearing them first.â
âIt needed it,â you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.
âThatâs not your call,â he snaps, sharper now. âYou think because you worked in France and have all these fancy restaurants under your belt that you get to walk in here and rewrite my menu? Youâve been here a little over a month, donât think youâre more important than you are because Robby wanted a new shiny chef to look good in the media.â
There it is.Â
The version of him everyone else warned you about. The version of him you have yet to see. The one no one had seen since you arrived. Because, Robby thought youâd mellow him out. Inspire him again, lighten the kitchen up.Â
For a second, the kitchen holds its breath. Waiting to see if you crumble, or if you start yelling back.Â
If anything, something in you sharpens right back, your eyes catching the light in amusement.Â
The anger simmering in his chest only burns hotter when he sees your plush lips fighting off a stupid grin.Â
âTaste it,â you say simply.
He scoffs. âThatâs not the point.â
âThen make it the point,â you counter, stepping closer, lowering your voice just enough that itâs not for everyone else anymore. âBecause if youâre going to be mad, you should at least be right.âÂ
His warm eyes are dark, with something you canât quite place.Â
âYou come into my kitchen, and say my dish needs fixing?â He scoffs, both of your faces inching towards each other. The chaos of service still bustles around you, but both of you tune it out. Too fixated on each otherÂ
âI mean no offense,â You start, âBut that dish was supposed to be you on a plate right? It was wrong, it needed a boost, a light in it if you will.âÂ
âDonât try to sound like my therapist,â His voice raises, âThe sauce was fine-âÂ
âI never said it wasnât.â You stressed, âI just made it better. Iâm sorry I didnât tell you, wonât happen again Chef.â
His jaw tightens at that, like the words themselves are a physical thing he has to chew through. For a second it looks like heâs going to refuse just to prove a point, to keep the argument alive on principle alone.
But he doesnât, because heâs a chef first. And much to his chagrin and anger, he trusts you.
Jack snatches the spoon from the pot with more force than necessary, then drags it through the sauce you changed. The motion is sharp, almost aggressive, and when he brings it to his mouth, the entire kitchen somehow gets even quieter.
âItâs good,â he says finally, his voice not coming out as flat as heâd like.Â
Your lips curve before you can stop them.
âChef,â you correct softly, just to press him a little more.
His eyes snap to yours immediately, the irritation running back up his broad shoulders. âItâs good, Chef.âÂ
Jack leans in just slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that the space between you stops feeling safe. His hand grabs your upper arm, to pull you closer or just as an excuse to touch you. He isnât sure which one it is.Â
âYou pull something like that again,â he says quietly, voice rougher now, âand it will be your last day in my kitchen.â
âYes, Chef.â You whisper to him, a little too close to his ear. Your warm breath on his neck makes him shiver, his fingers dropping the grip he had on you.Â
It occurs to you in that moment, that this is foreplay. For both of you.Â
Both of your chests are panting, eyes dark with something neither of you dared to name. This is what every challenge in this kitchen has been. You push him, he pushes back, and you enjoy the rush.Â
He steps back like your presence burns, turning his attention back to the tickets that were piling up.Â
âBack on the line,â he calls, voice louder now, reestablishing control, forcing the kitchen back into motion.
As the rhythm picks back up, Crus passes behind you and bumps your shoulder lightly with his elbow, a grin tugging at his mouth.
âYou poked the beast,â he murmurs, shaking his head like he canât decide if heâs impressed or terrified for you.
You glance at him, calm as ever. âHe survived.â
Crus snorts under his breath. âBarely.â
Across the line, Jack doesnât look back at you again for the rest of the service, but you know he feels it. The coil wound tight between the two of you. What was once just longing stares and brushes of skin, was now a pressure cooker ready to explode all over the kitchen he spent the last few decades building from the ground up.
After that night, nothing really goes back to how it was before.
It doesnât get worse, not exactly, but it changes shape. The kitchen doesnât stop moving, doesnât lose its rhythm, but thereâs something threaded through it now that wasnât there before. A pressure. A quiet awareness that sits under every callout, every pass, every brush of shoulders in tight spaces. People feel it even if they donât say it out loud, even if they pretend they donât see it.Â
Princess and Perlah catch it immediately, and it spreads all the way to the front of the house. Frank catches it in the way Jackâs eyes flick toward the kitchen door whenever youâre not on the line. Mel notices it in how quickly the tickets start moving when youâre working beside him, like the pace shifts just slightly to match the two of you instead of the system. Dana, of course, clocks it immediately and says nothing, which somehow makes it worse.
Santos says it out back one night, smoke curling between her fingers as she watches you lean against the brick wall after service.
âWhatâs going on between you and Jack?â She asks.Â
âWhatâs going on with you and Garcia?â You pirate back, dangling the cigarette between your lips.Â
She ignores your comment, continuing on.Â
âYou two are going to burn this place down with the passion between you two,â she says mildly, like sheâs commenting on the weather.
You just take a drag of your cigarette and exhale slowly.
âWe just both love food, passion makes us run hot, sâall,â you reply.
She hums like he doesnât believe you.
Inside, Jack doesnât say anything either, but he starts noticing everything. The way you stand a little closer than necessary when youâre correcting a dish. The way your hand lingers for half a second too long when you pass him a pan. The way you donât look away first anymore.
Someone texted Robby about it, because of course they did. He gets a call one morning, asking if heâs running off the new chef or if heâs trying to commit an HR violation. Jack hangs up before he gets the chance to start making jokes anymore.Â
Itâs a random Thursday when you slip through the back door like normal, a little earlier, and a lot more dolled up. Your makeup is done, hair is down, and you have on a sweater as compared to your normal work attire. Samira whistles playfully as she walks into the breakroom, complimenting you as you begin to talk between yourselves.Â
Jack hears you but doesnât look up right away.
âYouâre early,â he says, voice low, still facing the stove.
âEmma needs a headshot of me for the website,â you reply, shrugging off your coat and hanging it without slowing down. âShe said she likes to take them in front of the sign. Iâm also filming a few videos with her.â
He hums in acknowledgment, but his attention stays on the braise for the beef, on the way the liquid moves when he tilts the pot slightly, checking consistency, tasting with a spoon without thinking. He looks up at you, and thatâs when everything goes wrong.Â
You look beautiful. Youâve always been beautiful, even bare-faced with a dirty bandana tied around your head, but this? This was different, it was seeing you in another light. The Y/n you were outside of these walls, outside of being the best chef heâd ever met.Â
Jack shifts slightly closer to the burner, adjusting the heat under the pot mindlessly, and thatâs when it happens. He pulls back immediately, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth before he even fully processes it. The side of his hand sizzles against the heat, and everyoneâs heads turn.Â
âYou good, boss?â Crus asks, and you see Shen and Ellis falling into each other hiding their amusement.Â
This is the first time in his career he had burned himself, and it suddenly feels like his world is falling apart in front of him. The clicking of your heels against the floor makes his brow furrow as he wraps his hand in a rag.Â
âJack,â you say, already moving.
He likes the way his name sounds coming from your lips.Â
âIâm fine,â he answers automatically, but itâs too quick, too tight.
You donât argue, just step in beside him, gently but firmly taking his wrist and turning it under the cooler sink before he can insist otherwise. The skin is already red, irritated, not serious but enough to sting, but enough to make him finally go quiet and let you work.
âI said Iâm fine,â he mutters again, though softer now.
âAnd I didnât ask,â you reply, adjusting the water slightly, your touch steady and unhurried as you check the burn properly.
You reach for ointment in the first aid kit without asking, careful as you apply it, your fingers light but precise as you wrap the gauze around his hand. He doesnât pull away, doesnât interrupt, just stands there letting you take control. Something he normally doesn't let happen.Â
âYou distracted me,â he says after a beat, quieter now, like heâs admitting something he doesnât fully like saying out loud.
You glance up at him briefly while tying off the bandage.Â
âI wasnât even doing anything,â you laugh.
That earns a faint exhale from him that almost, almost sounds like a laugh heâs holding back. âExactly,â he replies.
Thereâs a pause then, as your head tilts to the side watching him carefully. âIs it the heels? Because I know theyâre not kitchen standard, but I have an outfit change before service.âÂ
âItâs not the heels,â He breathes out, but then his eyes do rake down your body for a fleeting moment before he meets your eyes again, âMaybe itâs the heels.âÂ
You chuckle again, patting his now bandaged hand softly. âYouâre all set to go.âÂ
âYou must have been a doctor in another life,â He smiles, âI feel better already.âÂ
âHealing hands.â You wiggle your fingers at him playfully, taking a short step back. You go to turn away, but you pause leaning back into his space. âBe careful, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again watching me walk away.âÂ
With those words youâre off, spinning on your heel and walking into the dining room with an unnecessary added sway in your steps.Â
âJesus,â He grumbles, feeling a flush run up the back of his neck as he indeed did watch you walk away. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were ringing in his head, as he tried his best not to get hard in the middle of prep.Â
Heâs not subtle at all with the way his eyes keep finding yours that night. At one point there was no shame as he stood in front of the pass window, watching Emma direct you and pose while Joy stood there following Emmaâs every polite command.Â
âYou are not slick brother.â Robbyâs voice bellows through the kitchen.
Jack barely reacts, just exhales through his nose like heâs been caught doing something mildly inconvenient rather than completely transparent. He turns his head slightly, watching Robby step into the kitchen like he still owns part of the air in it.
âYouâre here,â Jack says flatly. âAlmost forgot you worked here.â
âYeah, yeah.â He takes the tease, hugging him gently. âIâm observant,â Robby adds, glancing past him straight to you, then back to Jack with a faint smirk. âAnd Iâve been hearing things.â
Jackâs jaw tightens just a fraction. âFrom who?â
âLittle birdies,â Robby says casually, leaning against the edge of the pass like heâs got all the time in the world. âMostly the kind that tells me my head chefâs been acting like he forgot how to breathe around his new sous chef.â
Jack scoffs, immediately turning back to the line like thatâs the end of it. âPeople talk too much.â
âPeople always talk,â Robby replies, watching him carefully now. âWhatâs interesting is that Iâve been here two minutes and I already see it.â
Then, lighter, almost teasing, but not quite. âTheyâre saying sheâs changed you.â
Jack doesnât answer right away, just focuses a little too hard on the clock.
âShe hasnât changed anything,â he says finally.
Robby hums like he doesnât believe him for a second. âSure.â
Service pulls them both back in before anything else can be said, and the kitchen does what it always does, it swallows everything that isnât immediately necessary. Orders fire, pans heat, voices cut across each other in practiced rhythm. Youâre back on the line fully now, moving like youâve always belonged there, correcting, plating, adjusting without hesitation, and Jack tries to stay locked in the way he always does.
But he keeps looking.
He catches himself doing it twice, maybe three times, eyes flicking up without permission, drawn to you like itâs reflex now. Youâre leaning over a station explaining something to Ellis, hair slightly loosened from earlier, even as itâs pulled back, your expression focused and animated in a way that makes the whole room feel a fraction warmer. It annoys him more than it should that he notices how easily people orbit you now.
By the time service winds down, the kitchen is in that slow collapse, energy draining out of it in waves. The clatter softens, the urgency fades, and whatâs left is exhaustion and the quiet satisfaction of getting through it.
Shen is already at the back counter when you finish cleaning your station, pulling shots of espresso with practiced ease, humming under his breath like heâs done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.
âYou look like you need this,â he says, sliding a small glass toward you.
Ice cream first, espresso second, the classic affogato, simple and perfect in a way that feels like a reward for surviving the night.
You take it gratefully, leaning against the counter beside him.
âSaved my life,â you murmur after the first bite.
Shen shrugs like itâs nothing. âYou say that every time.â
âBecause itâs true every time.â
Across the room, Jack is wiping down his station, slower now, watching the kitchen settle back into itself. Or at least pretending to. His eyes flick toward you before he can stop them, landing on the two of you draped across the bar as you belong. The way your faded lipstick still clings to your lips that are wrapped around the spoon.Â
Shen leaves before you do, bidding you a goodnight. No doubt stealing yet another glass bowl from the restaurant. You tell him not to eat and drive, and he flips you off as the door shuts behind him.
You finish your affogato and set the glass down, turning slightly like you feel Jack watching from behind you.Â
âYou two are close,â Jack says, voice level, neutral on the surface but just tight enough underneath to give it away.
Itâs then you realise that you are the only two left. The lights are dim and the room smells of cleaning supplies and that slight metallic smell of polished stainless steel permeates through the air.Â
âHeâs a mess,â You comment, placing the bowl into the sink slowly.Â
He makes a noise of agreement, tossing his rag around his neck.Â
âNot as close as we are, chef,â you say lightly, almost teasing, but steady enough that it lands exactly where you intend it to. âDonât worry, youâre still my favorite.âÂ
âAm I?â He asks, running his hand through his tousled salt and pepper curls.Â
Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, mischief in your eyes as the only thing that separated you two was the kitchen island. You lean your palms against the cold metal, leaning forward.Â
âOf course you are.âÂ
He pretends he canât see down your thin undershirt now, he finds his fingers itching to touch the exposed skin of your collarbones.Â
âYouâre my sous chef,â he says after a beat, like he needs to remind himself of something solid.
âMm,â you murmur, stepping closer to the island, palms pressing lightly against the edge as you lean in more. âAnd?â
âAnd,â he repeats, but it comes out quieter than he intended, like the word itself has lost some of its authority.
You tilt your head, watching him carefully now, the teasing still there but softened by something more focused, more aware.
âWhite pinot goes best with cod,â you say casually, like youâre talking about nothing important at all.
His brow furrows slightly, thrown off for a second. âWhat?â
You shrug, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before returning to his gaze like you didnât just do that. âI thought we were just naming the obvious.â
His breath shifts slightly, like heâs trying to steady it without making it obvious, and he pushes off the counter, stepping closer without fully thinking about it until suddenly there isnât really any space left between you and the island doesnât feel like an obstacle anymore, just something your bodies are pressing against from opposite sides.
âThatâs not,â he starts, then stops, jaw tightening as if heâs actively trying to regain control of the situation, of himself. âWe canât just-â
âCanât just what,â you interrupt softly, not moving back, not giving him an inch. âTalk?â
His eyes drop for half a second, as they betray him before he can stop them, and when he realises just how close you both are. Even with the counter digging into both of your hips, it feels like thereâs no space between you two at all.Â
âYouâre pushing it,â he says, but thereâs no real force behind it anymore.
âI think you like it when I do,â you reply, and this time your voice drops with it, something slower threading through the words as you shift just slightly, your nose brushing against his. Your lips hovering over his warm skin, âDonât you?â
He moves, nearly stumbling backwards as he does. Like your touch burned him just as bad as the burner did earlier.Â
You follow him like itâs instinct, like the space he creates is just something youâre meant to fill. He doesnât back up once, he just lets you step across from himÂ
âListen, if Iâm reading this wrong you can tell me.â You say softly, âI wonât be offended.â
His eyes flick to yours, sharp, guarded, but itâs slipping at the edges now.
âYouâre not- fuck,â he replies, but it comes out lower than he intends, less certain than it should be. âThatâs not it.â
You hum faintly, stepping just close enough that the air between you changes again, warmer, tighter, charged in a way that makes the quiet hum of the kitchen feel miles away. The towel around his neck catches your attention, and without asking, you reach for it.
He doesnât stop you,if anything his body shivers anticipating your touch.Â
Your fingers curl around the fabric, not pulling hard just enough to feel the tension in him as you draw him a fraction closer, enough that his breath shifts slightly when you do it. You pull his neck down to your height, meeting his eyes.Â
âThen what is it?â You ask, that teasing jilt in your tone again. The same one you throw out during service that makes his cock twitch in his pants.Â
His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second like heâs still trying to decide whether he should stop this or not, and then it settles at your waist, firm but controlled, pulling you just slightly closer until the space is gone between you two entirely.Â
âYouâre my sous chef,â He repeats, his mouth dry. âYou work under me, itâs a- I donât wanna- take advantage of you-âÂ
âJack,â You coo softly, âIâm a big girl, if anything I wish youâd take advantage of me-âÂ
Thatâs all that it takes for that coil to snap. He leans forward, his hands pulling your hips flesh against his as your lips meet.Â
Itâs frantic, hot, and wet. Your lips are warm against his, teeth nearly gnashing together at the intensity of it. Before you know it, heâs pressing you against the edge of the counter, cornering you there. His hands on your hips grip tighter, before they lift you as if you weigh nothing.Â
You plop down on the metal slab, your lips still chasing each other as his knee knocks your legs open wide for him. You oblige, pliant in his hands as yours are tugging against his curls. He pulls your shirt over your head as if it personally offended him, the fabric falling somewhere near the glasses.Â
You nearly whine when his lips part from yours, but itâs soothed over with a moan when he kisses down your jawline to your neck.
âTell me what you want.â
Your back arches, the ache between your legs growing stronger with each touch.Â
âJust, f-fuck-â You can barely get the words out when his canines bite down into your skin.Â
âDo you like that?â He panted against your neck, his lips alternating between sucking and licking at the supple flesh. He moved down to your tits, kissing the exposed skin.Â
âI want you to tell me how you want it,â He demanded, âBoss me around just like you do every fucking day in this kitchen. Tell me how to touch you, where you want my lips, how slow, how fast, how you like to be fucked..âÂ
Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head at his words, your hands gripping his biceps like a lifeline.Â
âGet these pants off,â You manage to bark out, lifting your hips to give him space to pull your pants to your ankles. The thin fabric separating you from him was damp, a dark patch that had been there since the start of your verbal foreplay earlier during service.Â
âYou are so fucking beautiful.â He whispers, his eyes never once leaving yours even as his lips trail down your body. âIâve thought that from the moment you walked in here, correcting my chefs like you owned the place.âÂ
âYeah?â You panted out, watching his fingers slide your underwear to the side.Â
âAnd thisâŠ.â He breathed out, staring at your wet heat. He used his fingers to spread you open wider for him, a guttural moan leaving his lips. âThis is gonna be the best fucking meal Iâve ever had. Isnât it?âÂ
You canât speak, youâre breathing too hard, anticipation making your skin crawl. But you see the glint in his eyes, the smirk on his face.Â
âYouâre so mouthy during service, whatâs wrong? Hmm?âÂ
âFuck,â You nearly whine, feeling his fingers ghost around everywhere but where you need him the most. âIt is gonna be the last meal if you donât do something-oh.âÂ
Your head falls back against the wall as soon as his tongue makes contact with your clit. Itâs an experimental swipe through your folds, enough to have your fingernails digging into his arms.Â
âI was right,â He moans into you, "Delicious."Â
Jack Abbot was not lying when he said this would be the best meal heâd ever had, because the way his mouth was moving against you youâd think the man had never eaten in his life. Itâs messy, his tongue teasing in and out of your aching hole in between frantic sucks of your clit into his mouth.Â
You were moaning his name like a prayer, jutting your hips up into his nose without even meaning to.Â
âFingers,â You gasped out in need.Â
âYeah?â he hummed, slipping an arm between your legs so he could slip a finger inside of your soaking entrance. âYouâre so wet, baby. What got you like this?âÂ
His finger stretches you out with a delicious burn, youâre already aching for more by the time he curls the digit just right. Itâs like he can read your mind, slipping another deep inside. Theyâre so thick it takes you a moment, before youâre clenching around him.Â
âYou, just you.â Your hands are now gripping the side of the counter, watching him through half-lidded eyes. âBeen thinking of those fingers of yours, every time youâd- oh my god- stick your fucking finger into a sauce. Sucking on it like you knew I was watching.âÂ
âSame way youâd suck on those spoons while looking at me,â He whispered, bringing his mouth back down to your throbbing clit.Â
The sound was just as disgusting as it was the hottest thing youâve ever heard in the world. With each loud squelch of his fingers prying you apart, he was moaning desperately into you. His cock was hard and straining against his slacks.Â
âSâgood,â You praised, shifting your hips a little in his hold, âA little faster, wait- right there- yes, yes,âÂ
He listened intently, waiting to hear that sharp intake of breath and to feel your legs tremble around his head. He wouldnât admit how many nights he went home, fisting his cock in the shower imagining just how youâd sound when you came. How youâd taste, how youâd feel wrapped around him.Â
You could feel your orgasm approaching, and it almost pissed you off how fast you were coming apart around him. No other man had made you feel this way, but with his tongue lapping against you and his fingers curling deep inside right against your g-spot you were cumming with a loud moan.Â
âThere it is,â His voice was slurred and muffled against you.
Your shoulders dropped back, back arching and legs trembling as he didnât change his rhythm once. Your head fell back, mouth parted as his fingers slid through your folds drawing out your orgasm until you couldnât take it anymore.Â
His head was pulled back up by your fingers in his curls, your release was dripping down his chin. His eyes were sparkling as he looked up at you.Â
He brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean like he made a mess eating the most expensive chocolate in the world. Not a drop is wasted, and youâre already clenching around nothing.Â
âRemember,â You start, still trying to catch your breath, âHow you wanted me to tell you how I wanted to be fucked?âÂ
He nods eagerly, slowly rising back up to your eye level.Â
âI told you I donât like it slow.âÂ
He smirks, the crinkles by his eyes deepening as you pull him closer towards you by his belt loops.Â
âGet this off-â
âEager?â He teases, his boxers falling to the floor.Â
âFuck.â You almost laugh, watching his heavy cock fall between his legs. He was veiny, and his tip was red and leaking.Â
âI donât have any condoms-âÂ
You cut him off, eyes still locked on the massive cock that was twitching with neglect. âIâm clean, and I have an IUD.âÂ
Heâs about to ask you another question before you bring your hand down, wrapping gently around his length. He hisses at the touch, warning you to go slow.Â
âSorry, this is just- god the biggest cock Iâve ever seen.âÂ
His chest puffs in pride, watching your thumb swipe a bead of his pre-cum around his sensitive tip. He can barely take it, he needs to be inside of you so bad his legs are practically shaking.Â
âThink you can take it?â He asks, grabbing your thighs to push them up on the counter, as he settles between them.Â
âYes, chef.â You say jokingly, but you feel the way he tenses you see the way his eyes darken. You tilt your head at him, while heâs lining up at your entrance.Â
âYou like that donât you?âÂ
Heâs silent, but huffs as he rubs his tip against your soaked slit.Â
âYou gonna fuck me?â You ask, âPlease Chef-âÂ
Youâre barely able to finish your teasing when he slips inside of you slowly, a gasp gets lodged in your throat. His palm is heavy on your stomach, thumb rubbing small circles into your clit as he inches in.Â
âYouâre okay,â He cooed, âBigggg stretch, almost in baby. Youâre doing so fucking good. F-fitting like a glove, so wet for me.âÂ
You feel so full, almost impossibly full. Each time you think heâs done, he keeps pushing more into your greedy velvety walls. With one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out. His hips meet yours.Â
âFuck.â He moans, leaning his forehead against yours to kiss you gently. âNeed. This. Off.â
Your bra is unclasped with one of his hands, and pushed to the side. His head lowers to catch a nipple into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around the bud before pulling off with a pop.Â
âYou okay, honey?â He asks softly, doing his best to keep you relaxed as your body adjusts to him.Â
You nod lazily, the dull ache turning into searing pleasure after a minute of his tongue expertly sucking at every sensitive spot he could reach.Â
The first thrust has you nearly crying out in bliss, his tip is nudging so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Heâs slow at first, steady enough to make sure heâs not hurting you and that your cunt is still dripping around him.Â
As soon as he feels your hips rocking against his, he braces his hands on your hips.Â
âMâmember what you said, baby? How you donât like it slow?âÂ
Your jaw goes slack, the moment he thrusts harder, pulling his cock all the way out before slamming back in with fever.Â
Then, heâs everywhere. His lips mouthing at your neck, his cock rearranging your guts, his thumb flicking your clit. Itâs overwhelming, in the best way possible.Â
âIâve been thinking about this ever since you walked in here in those fucking heels,â He admitted in a gasp, already lost in the warm wet of your cunt wrapped around him. âHell, since the first day I met you.â
It was one thing to have a massive cock, it was a completely other thing to know exactly how to use it. And god, did he know how to use it.Â
All control you held onto slipped through your hands, cockdrunk already on him.Â
The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed through the quiet kitchen, alongside the pathetic moans you couldnât stop from slipping through your lips.Â
âSâ fucking big.âÂ
âYouâre taking it so well,â He praises, âFeels sâgood doesn't it baby?â
The moment your nails scratch down his shoulders so hard he winces, he knows heâs angled his hips just right. âThere it is,â he says, under his breath. âThatâs the spot isnât it?â
When you donât answer in coherent words he speaks up again, âCome on, talk to me. Tell me thatâs the spot baby.âÂ
âThatâs the spot,â You cry out, âThatâs the fucking spot, donât stop. Keep fucking me.âÂ
âWouldnât dream of stopping,â He huffs, pulling the hem of his white t-shirt up his torso. The hem finds itself slotted in between his teeth, keeping it out of the way as he jackhammers into you.Â
The sight of his salt and pepper hair, and his abs glistening with sweat is all it takes for the familiar feeling to creep up your spine. And he knows it too.Â
âYouâre gonna cum for me, chef.â He orders, and you feel your cunt pulse around him. âGonna cum all over my cock.â
âY-yes, chef.â Youâre gone, eyes closed and hips thrusting upwards as he pushes you down with his palm on your stomach to keep you still.
âThatâs it,â He grunted, âGive it to me- fuck use this fucking cock.âÂ
You came so hard your ears rang, pleasuring licking up your spine even hotter than before. You can feel yourself creaming around him, each thrust only making your high ride out that much longer.
âShit- youâre squeezing me so fucking tight- Iâm barely gonna last.â He spoke through gritted teeth, his hand cupping the back of your neck harshly while the other ran up and down your side, squeezing the flesh harshly.Â
âW-wanna feel you cum.â You babbled, head lolling to the side, only being held up by his hand. âFuck me full of your cum.â
âYeah?â His brows squinted in concentration, keeping your eyes on you. âWatch me while I cum.âÂ
Tears are filling your waterline as he fucks into you so hard youâre worried the shelving units are going to fall off the walls.Â
Drool is sliding down your chin by the time his hand wraps around your throat, as he groans your name loudly into your neck.Â
His hips stutter as he comes, and you can feel him twitch and release inside of you. The ropes of sticky cum are warm, filling up your cervix with each twitch until youâve milked him dry.Â
âHoly fuck,â He pants, pulling your head into his sweaty chest as the two of you come down.Â
You were both sticky and out of breath, bodies aching from the intensity of it. But still, your brows were furrowed, lost in thought before you spoke up.Â
âWait,â You pant softly, âHave we ever thought about putting a new pasta dish on the menu?âÂ
His brows furrowed, sweat still clung to his top lip. âWhat?âÂ
âI just started thinking of an herb roasted chicken mafaldine pesto pasta, with like sundried tomatoes and shallots,â You rambled, as if his cock still wasnât seated deep inside of your cunt. âWe could top it with parmesan and some lemon, freshly cracked black pepper.â
âYou realize,â He shifted, âIâm literally still inside of you.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, he wasnât wrong. His release was still dripping out of you, coating the inside of your thighs. âYes, you should be proud your dick inspired such a wonderful dish from my brain.âÂ
It was then he realised he was more far gone than he had ever been before.Â
He thinks heâs in love with you.Â
All he could do was shake his head.Â
Thatâs how you ended up staying there late into the night, both of you working to make your impromptu post orgasm dish a reality.Â
âHm, I still think itâs missing something.â He mused, looking at the freshly made pasta dough and steaming chicken that was thrown together on the tasting plates, and you nodded letting him hand-feed you yet another bite.Â
âI think,â You swallowed, âYou should take me home, and we can shower and you can fuck the missing ingredient out of my head. How does that sound?âÂ
The fork was dropped within seconds, practically grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the door. âBut, wait we need to clean up-â
âFuck them, Iâm the boss.â He shrugs, and you find yourself in an endless fit of giggles.Â
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I'm not sure if this is going to link correctly but there's also an anti AI skin going around on AO3. It prevents people from being able to just copy and paste your work into an AI bot.
I applied it to all my works. It has also drastically reduced how many bots leave comments on my stuff because they can't read the text.
Summary: Youâre a new ED doctor who wears a fake wedding ring to keep patients from flirting, but your observant colleague Jack notices and wants more.
A/N: Sorry for the lack of posts, I've been sick. This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.
Masterlist
No two days in the emergency department were ever the same.
Some nights were quiet, with only a couple of patients coming in with fevers or coughs. Other nights were utterly chaotic, ambulances rolling in back-to-back, alarms blaring, doctors and nurses moving like a storm through the hallways.
But one thing never seemed to change: the patients who thought the emergency department was the perfect place to find a date.
You learned that lesson after just a week of working in the ED.
It didnât matter if someone had a broken arm or had suffered a heart attack; some men still found the energy to wink, grin, or make comments that made your skin crawl while you were trying to work. Sometimes it was harmless. Most of the time, it wasnât. And there was no running away when you were their doctor.
So you developed a plan.
When you transferred to PTMC and started working the night shift, the solution became routine. You werenât married. But a simple ring on your finger changed everything.
It wasnât flashy, just a simple silver brand that lived on your left hand whenever you had to work a shift. Most people assumed it was a wedding ring from a happy marriage, and you let them think that. In reality, it had cost ten dollars from an online store.
But it worked.
Some patients would never see you as their doctor, someone who had spent years in med school at the top of their class. Instead, they only saw a pretty woman standing close enough to flirt with.
However, when was there a ring on your finger? Suddenly, you were someoneâs wife.
So the comments stopped. The winks. The âyou got a boyfriend?â question. Everything disappeared. Apparently, being someoneâs wife made you off-limits in a way that simply saying no never did. Like you were someone elseâs property, it made them hesitate. Stupid, but the logic worked, so the ring stayed.
If any of your new co-workers noticed it, they never mentioned it or just assumed the obvious. Except Jack.
Jack Abbot noticed everything around him.
It was a habit from years as an army medic and now attending in one of the busiest emergency departments in the city. Jack didnât just see charts and symptoms. He saw the small things, the way someone held their shoulder, the slight limp in their step, the tremor in their hand.
And he noticed your ring. Not only because he was staring, but also because it was always there. You had a habit of twisting it when charting. It tapped against the counter when you were thinking. It left a bump under your gloves. It was a small detail, but Jackâs brain catalogued it anyway.
You were still new, and the few details that Jack knew about you had him intrigued: married, new to the hospital and worked well under pressure. And then there was something else he couldn't quite place, the pull he felt towards you.
This night shift had started like any other, chaos in bursts but slowed at times. You were tucked into your usual rhythm, moving between patients, checking vitals and charting.Â
It wasnât until the trauma phone went off that it paused your movements.
âLevel two trauma, motor vehicle collision," Lena shouted as she answered the call. âFive minutes out.â
Your adrenaline spiked, and Jack was already moving, tablet in one hand, gloves snapping as he prepped for the incoming patient. You were paired on this trauma together, moving almost instinctively as a team.
The patient arrived bloodied, unconscious, and chest rattling with each forced breath. You slid the IV line into the patientâs arm while Jack called out instructions for the rest of the team.Â
Jackâs eyes were everywhere at once, vitals, monitors, and the team's movement, but his gaze happened to flick across your hand. And that's when he noticed. Your ring. It wasnât there.
A small detail that others would have overlooked, but made him pause for a fraction of a second. A movement he couldn't afford in a place like this. He didnât realize until now how much he had noticed it, how automatic it was to look at you during shifts and see that silver band wrapped around your finger. Tonight, it was nowhere to be found.
Jack quickly turned his focus back on the patient, but the details lingered in his mind.
Minutes passed in a blur of intubation, transfusion, chest compressions, and desperate interventions. Despite the skill and precision of the team, the injuries were too severe.
The patient coded. The monitor went flat. Time of death was announced.
You stepped back, heart sinking, and Jackâs hand went to your shoulder, not to blame, but to ground you as the weight of loss pressed down on the team. Sometimes, despite doing everything right, it wasnât enough.
By the end of the shift, the ED was quieter than usual. The hum of machines, the footsteps of staff cleaning up, and the weight of loss hung heavy in the air. Jack glanced at you while filling the final chart, noticing that your finger remained bare.
âAre you going out too?â He asked. Shen had suggested that everyone go out for a drink to cope, and no one seemed to argue.
âYeah⊠I could really use a drink.â Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly.
Jackâs gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and something softer, harder to define. âYeah⊠me too,â he muttered. The unspoken weight between you decided for you.
There was a bar a few blocks down from the hospital where everyone gathered after shifts. It was louder than usual for a weekday, the low thrum of music and conversation filling up the air. It had discounted drinks and dim lighting, a place where no one asked the doctors or nurses what had just happened when it looked like they had been through hell.Â
Jack was sitting in a booth near the back with John, nursing a half-finished beer. His scrubs had been swapped for a dark jacket, but exhaustion still lined his face.
John exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. âHell of a shift.â
Jack nodded once, staring at the condensation on his bottle. âYeah.â Silence followed, heavy but not awkward. The burden of the night weighed on him.
His eyes drifted across the bar and landed on you. You were on a stool near the counter, chatting with one of the nurses, a drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual, slower, the kind that came from alcohol loosening the edges of the hard night.
His gaze dropped to your hand once again.
Still no ring.
âHey,â John said, standing and grabbing his empty bottle. âIâm getting another. Want one?â
Jack lifted his bottle slightly. âIâm good.â
John nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Jack leaned back in the booth, letting his eyes wander again. They found you on your way over, movement slightly unsteady, yet deliberate.
âHey, Doc,â you muttered, sliding into the seat across from him, sighing softly as your forearms rested on the table.
âYou okay?â he asked immediately. It wasnât unusual for Jack to see his coworkers like this after a shift, but he still wondered if this was normal for you.
You huffed out a small laugh that didnât sound very amused. âDefine okay.â
Jack didnât answer right away. Instead, he studied you, the tired eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the weight of the night still sitting on you.
âRough one,â he said finally.
Your gaze dropped to the table. âYeah.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar filled the silence.
âI kinda like this part,â you admitted quietly.
Jack tilted his head slightly. âThe bar?â
You shrugged, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. âYeah⊠not why weâre here, exactly. But the team gets together. Feels⊠lighter. Less like youâre carrying it alone.â
He softened. Heâd seen too many new doctors burn out trying to carry everything. He understood.
âAt my last hospital,â you continued, your voice a little looser from the alcohol. âEveryone just⊠went home. Pretended nothing happened. But here you guys carry the wins and the losses together.â
âYeah,â he said quietly. âIt helps.â
You nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly as you took another sip. Even in your tiredness, there was a warmth to you now.
For a second, Jack just studied you again. The way the tension slowly left your posture. The way you still looked tired but lighter now that the shift was behind you.
Then his eyes drifted back down to your hand. Bare,
He hesitated before speaking. âSo⊠everything alright at home?â
You blinked up at him. âAt home?â
Jack nodded subtly toward your hand. âYou usually wear a ring.â
You stared at him, surprised. Then laughed, soft, tipsy, a little embarrassed. âOh my god⊠alright, Iâll let you in on a secret.â
Jackâs brow lifted.
âWhat?â
You held up your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly.
âItâs fake,â You leaned back in the booth a little, clearly amused.Â
ââŠYour ring is fake?â
You nodded, taking another sip of your drink before explaining. âPatients, some of them get⊠handys. Especially at night. You say no, you ignore them, but it doesn't always work.â
Jackâs jaw tightened slightly. Yeah. Heâd seen that.
âSo I bought a ring,â you continued, tapping your bare finger. âTen dollars online. Suddenly, Iâm someoneâs wife. The flirting stops. Itâs like magic. Stupid, but it works.â
Jack studied you quietly for a moment. It wasnât the confession itself that caught his attention; it was the way you said it so casually, as youâd simply adapted to the world instead of letting it push you out of a job you clearly loved.Â
âThatâs⊠actually pretty clever,â he admitted.
You grinned. âRight?â
Jackâs gaze lingered, softer now. âSo the husband doesnât exist.â
âNope.â
Jack smiled into his drink, a warmth threading through him. Somehow, hearing this made him admire you more.
âWell,â he said casually, taking another sip of his beer, âif youâre going to invent a husbandâŠâ
You raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by where this was going.
ââŠyou should at least give the guy a decent name.â
You laughed softly. âOh yeah?â you asked. âWhat would you name him then?â
Jack pretended to think about it for a moment, leaning back in the booth.
âHm.â
Your eyes narrowed playfully. His gaze met yours, something teasing sparking there.
âJack,â he said.
You blinked.
âJack?â
He shrugged lightly, a small grin forming.
âSounds reasonable.â
You stared at him for a second before laughing, the sound warmer this time.
âWow,â you said. âThatâs bold.â
Jack lifted his bottle slightly, clearly enjoying himself now.
âJust saying,â he replied. âIf youâre going to make up a fake husband, you might as well pick a good one.â
You shook your head, still smiling into your drink.
âCareful, Abbot,â you said lightly. âPeople might start to think youâre volunteering.â
Jackâs eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.
âWould that be so bad?â he asked quietly.
The question hung between you for a beat before the noise of the bar swallowed it again.
The next shift felt strangely normal after the night before.Â
Did you drunkenly flirt with a fellow attending? Yes, but did you regret it? Nope.
The ED hummed with its usual controlled chaos; it almost felt strange that the world kept moving after a shift like that. You were currently charting at the nursesâ station, twisting the silver band on your finger without really thinking about it.
âNice to see your husbandâs back.â
You looked up. Jack was leaning against the counter across from you, tablet tucked under his arm, the corner of his mouth curved in that quiet, knowing smile.
âOh my god,â you laughed, shaking your head. âAre you really going to start with that today?â
âOf course,â he said, a small, confident grin tugging at his lips. âIâm hoping to get an audition to play him.â
You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated.
âWhat?â you said, lifting an eyebrow.
âIf youâre going to invent a husband,â he continued, voice low and teasing, âsomeone has to audition for the role. And I think Iâd be perfect.â
You laughed softly, shaking your head. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âRidiculous, maybe,â he admitted, â but if I'm going to audition for the role properly.. I should probably take my lovely wife out⊠maybe for dinner or coffee sometime. To make sure I'm playing the part right.â
You blinked, caught off guard by the smoothness of it. âJack Abbot, are you asking me out on a date?
Jackâs grin widened, confident but teasing. âCall it a test run. Coffee after shift, and I can show you my best husband skills.â
You felt a blush creep up your neck and laughed softly, shaking your head. âI⊠Yes, that sounds perfect.â
âGood, Iâll see you later, wifey.â With that, Jack left the nurses' station, heading into a patient room.
Your chest tightened, heart beating faster. Somehow, the chaos of the ED and the fake ring felt far away. Jack Abbot had made something pretend feel achingly real.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just canât seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words ânever have i ever finished during sexâ ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lipsâand the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Danaâs notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way youâre looking at herâsoft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jackâs chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubsâGod, your scrubsâand the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous manâuntil you came along.
âDr. Abbot,â Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. âYouâre early.â
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
âDr. Abbot,â you say, like you canât quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nursesâ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why heâs at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
âYeah, Iâve got some stuff I didnât get to wrap up this morning,â he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. âI thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?â
Jackâs gaze cuts to her. âYes. But I forgot something.â
Dana narrows her eyes. âMhm. Whatâd you forget?â
âA few notes from the three a.m. GSW,â he replies quicklyâtoo quickly.
Itâs weak and he knows it, but thereâs nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. âRight. Two hours early for a few notes.â
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks pastâand he doesnât look back until heâs safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. Itâs ridiculous, really. Heâs a grown man.
More than thatâhe's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesnât quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reachâthen spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And itâs only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesnât even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his faultâif maybe youâd simply decided you didnât like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and heâs still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bayâwhich apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridgeâbecause he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
âWhatâre you doing here?â
Jackâs head whips around at the sound of his friendâs voice.
âIâuhâcame in early to fix up a few notes,â he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robbyâs brows lift. âTwo hours for notes?â
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. âAre you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?â
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. âI wasnât judging.â
âGood,â Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. âAnything I need to know?â
Robby falls into step beside him. âNorth Threeâs waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Danaâs still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.â
They both stop at the nursesâ station, glancing up at the board.
âOtherwise itâs been unusually calm,â Robby adds. âWhich probably means youâre about to get slammed.â
Jack gives him a flat look. âThanks.â
âAnytime.â Robby claps him on the shoulder. âOhâand that R2 you gave me?â
âWhat about her?â
Robby shrugs. âSheâs great.â
âI know,â Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone elseâs.
âWeâre alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,â he says after a moment, already turning away. âOr go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.â
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. âI hate you.â
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. âThen why are you here two hours early?â
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
âNotes,â he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesnât move. He lingers at the nursesâ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princessâboth of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someoneâs about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break roomâtrying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesnât.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the tableânext to someoneâs half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine containerâand grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morningâbefore Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
âShit, sorry,â you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jackâs pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
âWhat are you sorry for?â he asks, as if it isnât obvious.
Youâve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
âI only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,â you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. âThis is gross. Iâm so sorry.â
Jack shifts in his chair. âIâve seen worse in here, I promise.â
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. âReally?â
He nods. âReally.â
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldnât be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. âButâuhâLean Cuisine? Really?â
You look back at him again, brows drawn. âWhatâs wrong with Lean Cuisine?â
âNothing,â he says lightly. âIf youâre trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.â
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. âI actually managed to eat lunch today. Thatâs already a win.â
âItâs mostly sodium and sadness,â he adds, almost absently. âNot much protein.â
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. âAlright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, Iâll let you know.â
Jack opens his mouthâthen closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
ââŠI cook.â
You blink.
âYou cook?â
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
âYeah. Well.â He shrugs. âIâve been told Iâm reasonably good at it.â
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
âWell,â you say with a quick smile, âI guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.â
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
âSorry again for the mess.â
Then youâre goneâleaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
âIs that Dr. Abbot in the break room?â Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
âYep.â
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
âBut night shift doesnât start for like two more hours.â
âIâm aware.â
âSo, why is he here?â
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. âI donât know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.â
She snorts. âOr maybe because he likes you.â
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. âPlease donât start.â
âIâm not starting anything,â she insists. âI seriously think that old man has a thing for you.â
âDonât call him that,â you mutter.
âOkay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,â she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. âAnd we all know how you feel about him, soââ
âNo,â you snap. âWe donât all know how I feel about JaâDr. Abbot.â
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
âBesides,â you go on, dropping into a chair. âI swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctorâso could you please stop distracting me?â
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. âAnd donât you think thatâs a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shiftâwhat, two weeks ago?â
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. âAnd?â
âAnd,â she says dramatically, âfor the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.â
Your gaze slides back to the computer. âSo?â
She sighs, exasperated. âItâs not a coincidence.â
âActually, I think it is,â you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd youâre annoying.â
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. âWhatever. Youâre still coming out tomorrow night, right?â
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. âUhâIâm not sure yet.â
âDr. Ellis is the only person from night shift thatâll be there,â she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
âFine,â you mutter. âIâll come.â
âGood.â She grins, already turning away. âCome to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.â
âWhy canât I get ready at home?â you ask.
âBecause,â she calls over her shoulder, âI get to pick what you wear.â
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
âGreat,â you mumble, turning back to the computer. âCanât wait.â
Itâs not like youâre not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that youâre no longer on the night shift.
You are. Youâre just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMCâeven though youâve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why sheâs pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending whoâs had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but heâs also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
Heâs also the very reason youâre terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally canât function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shiftsâbecause Dr. Shen couldnât look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeingâwhich means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things youâve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if⊠it might not be working yet.
Because now you canât just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You canât have him step up beside you when youâre unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. Heâs not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isnât a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three oâclock lull.
Now you just⊠think about him instead.
But itâs only temporary. Youâre sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which⊠you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
Youâre pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe thatâs exactly what you need to doâget under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man whoâs nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give herâand only herâthe rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nursesâ station.
âDid you drive today?â Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
âYeah,â you reply. âNeed a ride?â
He nods sheepishly. âThatâd be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.â
Whitaker winces. âI just hope theyâre at Garciaâs tonight.â
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. âYou ready?â
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward centralâbut just as you reach the nursesâ station, his steps slow.
âDo you need toâŠ?â
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. âNeed to what?â
He hesitates. âDonât you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?â
Your eyes widen slowly. âUhâno. Why would you say that?â
He shrugs. âI donât know. I just thought you two were close.â
âWeâre not close,â you say, a little too quick.
âSorry,â he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. âI justâI donât know. I thought because you were his resident you two were⊠close.â
âIâm not his resident,â you snap. âIâm just⊠a resident. I donât belong to him.â
âOkay,â he says slowly, brows drawing together. âIâm sorry, I just thoughtââ
âYou thought wrong,â you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
âLetâs just go.â
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you passâcompletely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitakerâs isnât long. Whitaker fills most of it anywayârambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
âItâs fine, Whitaker.â
âSeriously though,â he says as you pull up outside their building. âI really appreciate it.â
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediatelyâinevitablyâyour brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights doâwith a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself youâre too tired to think about him. Itâs been a long dayâlong weekâand all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesnât stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nursesâ station or leaning over a chart.
Heâs in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospitalâlike he knows exactly what heâs doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself youâre just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staringâand says something you canât quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But heâs smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend toâlogic slipping sideways until suddenly youâre standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever heâs cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neckâ
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
âFuck,â you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise youâre still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
âGet a fucking grip.â
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quietâbut this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesnât.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that youâre excited about tonight. That youâre going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means itâs probably time to start getting ready if youâre actually going to make it to Santosâ place before she decides youâre bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the doorâtrying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift whoâs going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
âAlright, Iâm ready,â Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitakerâwho have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beerâlook up.
âAw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,â Javadi says. âIt just doesnât suit my eye shape.â
âDonât look too close,â Santos mutters. âItâs super uneven, but I donât have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.â
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitakerâs eyes go wide. âMe?â
Santos scoffs. âNot you, Huckleberry. God, I donât have enough time in the world to fix whateverâs going on there.â
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. âWhatâs wrong with this?â
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. âIs it really that bad?â
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. âThereâs nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.â
You pat his shoulder. âItâs fine, really. Sheâs justââ
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. âWhatâs that?â
Santos grins. âA dress.â
Whitaker chokes on his beer. âThatâs⊠not a dress. Thatâs a glittery napkin.â
âOh my God.â Javadi snorts. âMy mum would kill me just for buying that.â
âI didnât buy it,â Santos says lightly. âA friend in college gave it to me, but itâs never fit quite right.â
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
âBut I know youâll be able to pull it off,â she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at itâglinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
âSantos⊠this is a work thing,â you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. âItâs not a work thing. Itâs just an outing with people from work.â
âIsnât that the same thing?â Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. âNo, itâs not. And are you forgetting our main objective?â
You blink at her.
âTo get you laid.â
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
âCome on,â Santos says. âJust put it on and if it doesnât work, we try something else.â
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
âFine,â you say at last, pushing off the couch. âIâll try it on, but that does not mean Iâm wearing it.â
Santosâ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe itâs just the dress.
âThatâs my girl.â
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go onâbut once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric youâve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dressâshort, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where itâs supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
âSo?â
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitakerâs mouth falls open.
Javadiâs eyebrows lift. âOh.â
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
âI knew it,â she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. âThat is not a dress.â
Javadi elbows him. âStop talking.â
You tug awkwardly at the hemâwhich doesnât actually move much because there isnât very much hem to tug.
âSantos,â you say carefully, âIâm not sureââ
âRelax,â she says. âYou look incredible.â
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
âAnd youâre definitely going to get laid.â
âI feel like I shouldnât be here,â Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. âYouâre only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridgeâweâre going to need some liquid courage before we head out.â
After two shots of tequila and Santosâ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santosâ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You donât really plan on taking it off for the rest of the nightâeven if it isnât that cold.
The ride to the bar isnât nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that sheâs twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldnât have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldnât be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where youâd rather be tonightâthe bar or the ER with Dr. Abbotâyour honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
âWeâre here,â Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
âRelax,â she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. âYou donât need this.â
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until itâs bunched at your elbows.
âI feel naked,â you mutter. âLike this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.â
Whitaker snorts. âNot far from it.â
Santos rolls her eyes. âWell, youâre not at work. Youâre at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.â
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isnât Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
âFine.â
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
âSee?â she says. âMuch better.â
âLetâs just go inside before I change my mind,â you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. âYou look amazing. Seriously.â
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
Itâs just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. Youâll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approachâmore out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
Andâ
Your brain stalls.
Because thereâs a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the manâ
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looksâ
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way youâve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
âSantos,â you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. âHm?â
âYou knew.â
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. âWhatâs happening?â
âTechnically,â Santos says slowly, âI didnât know. I just... suspected.â
âYou said Ellis was the only one from night shift whoâd be here.â
She winces. âI did, but what I meant is⊠Ellis is the only one who actually told me sheâd be here.â
You stare at her. âSo you did know?â
âI knew it was his night off.â
âSantos, Iââ You glance back at him through the bar window. âI canât go in there like this.â
âLike what?â she asks. âSmoking hot?â
âHalf naked.â
She rolls her eyes. âYes, you can.â
âI will actually die.â
âNo, you wonât,â she says firmly. âYouâre an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.â
She pulls the door open.
âNow stop panicking and get in the bar.â
-
âHe swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks heâd had that night,â Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, âwhich was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.â
Jack snorts softly. âAnd did you believe him?â
Ellisâ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms theyâre currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and thenâbut mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because heâs not stupid enough to ask anyone if youâre going to be here tonight, but he is naĂŻve enough to hope you will be.
He wasnât even supposed to be here tonightâhis first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasureâinvolving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But heâs not.
Heâs here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just⊠waiting.
For you.
Heâd wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonightâbefore he agreed to joinâbut heâd barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didnât even say goodbye. Which isnât unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then heâd overheard your conversation with Whitakerâand something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasnât anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you donât belong to him. Even if Robby calls you âhis R2â and Whitaker thinks youâre close because youâre his residentânone of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldnât feel territorial. He shouldnât want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tightâa slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he canât make it not matter.
âOh.â Ellis glances over her shoulder. âLooks like Santos and the others are here.â
Jackâs gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if heâs bracing for somethingâbut he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then itâs Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks atâ
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
Itâs you. Of course itâs you. Youâre perfect.
But thenâ
That dress.
God.
That dressâshort, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
Itâs all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldnât be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And thatâs when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he seesâand feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that youâre not his.
âDr. Abbot,â Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. âWhatâs your poison tonight?â
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. âScotch.â
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. âYou might not want to have too many of those.â
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
âAlright,â Ellis says, pushing off the bar. âIâm going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.â
Jack nods, but he doesnât follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. Theyâre muttering to each other, leaning in, voices lowâbut nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of themâthe dumbest looking one, Jackâs already decidedâslowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket youâd been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jackâs pulse starts racing.
âDr. Abbot,â Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. âFancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.â
âI do have a life outside of work, you know,â he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
âLike playing bingo at the senior centre?â Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like theyâre the most interesting thing in the room.
âBingoâs on Wednesdays,â he says mildly. âTry to keep up.â
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dipâjust slightlyâand you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because youâre listening.
And apparently⊠you think heâs funny.
âAlright,â Santos says, lifting a hand. âI think we need some tequila over here.â
The bartender steps away from where heâd been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesnât really need wiping.
âSo,â he says to you, not Santos. âWhat are you drinking tonight?â
Santos blinks.
âI just told you,â she says flatly. âTequila.â
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jackâs jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
âUhâwhatever she orders is fine.â
âYeah. Tequila,â Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like sheâs jokingâand Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way heâs watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santosâpulling your jacket tighter around yourselfâhe knows youâre uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
âEasy, tiger,â he mutters. âShe can handle herself.â
âI know,â Jack says, voice low. âDoesnât mean she has to.â
Robby gives him a lookâa brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. âCareful.â
Jack doesnât respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he canât help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
âOkay,â Santos says. âI need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.â
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glassâand before he can even ask if youâd like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
âHey,â the guy says, stepping up beside you. âCan I get you another one?â
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noiseâbut itâs still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. âOh. Uhâsure.â
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. âYou really gonna let that happen?â
Jack frowns. âWhatââ
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed tooâbecause thereâs no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure youâre okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like thatâs going to change anything.
Itâs not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, heâd take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldnât need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. Heâd take that shot with you even when youâre tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. Heâd take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesnât get that shot.
Because youâre young. You donât have baggage. And youâre a residentâmaybe not his resident, but still a resident.
Itâs just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessaryâand the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if heâd like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way youâre smiling nowâsoft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laughâlight, easyâand something in Jackâs chest tightens again.
He looks away. He canât keep standing here. Heâs not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMCâs day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every roundâbut Jack doesnât order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until itâs too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the tableâpretending to follow the conversation, pretending heâs paying attentionâwhen really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a manâs bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. Noâthis one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldnât. He knows itâs none of his business. But he canât stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that heâs any better.
âAbbot.â Robby nudges his side. âHungry?â
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
âHm?â
âAre you hungry?â Ellis asks. âIâm going to order some wings.â
Jack frowns. âUhâno. Iâm good. Thanks.â
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. âYou might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.â
Jack doesnât even look at him. âFunny.â
âIâm serious,â Robby says mildly. âYouâve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?â
âI heard her,â Jack mutters. âI was just... thinking.â
Robby hums like he doesnât believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. âIâm gonna hit the head.â
Robbyâs brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
âMm,â he says. âSure you are.â
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms firstâmostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroomânot that he needs it, but itâs more private than the menâsâand stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
Heâs a grown man. He shouldnât be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for Godâs sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflectionâjaw tight, shoulders rigidâtrying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who canât keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his faceâthe day-old stubble, peppered hairâthen to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WONâT.
Jack tilts his head.
Thatâs not exactly... subtle.
But thatâs the thing, isnât it?
He doesnât hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someoneâs life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This⊠standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesnât know what he wants. Like he hasnât already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head onceâsharp, annoyed.
âJesus Christ.â
Itâs not caution. Itâs avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them togetherâquick and thoroughâthen turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the barâfinding you immediately.
Youâre still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. Thereâs a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jackâs eyes narrow.
The manâs hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think youâre okay with itâbut Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesnât mind being rude.
Heâs already moving before heâs fully decided to. Just a few long strides and heâs thereâclose enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
âHey.â
Your head turns immediatelyâand the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
âOhâhey,â you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anythingâbut enough to make Jackâs pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
âHey, man,â the guy says, holding out a hand. âIâm Trent.â
Jack ignores him.
âYou alright?â he asks you.
You nod slowly. âI am now.â
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a secondâlike you didnât even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. âSorryâuhâwho are you?â
You glance at him with a tight smile. âThis is my attending.â
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. âWhat?â
âRemember how I said I was a doctor?â
Trent just stares at you.
âWell, Dr. Abbot is my attending,â you go on anyway. âHeâs like my supervisor. Iâm his resident.â
His resident.
âRight,â Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. âCool. Soâyouâre a doctor?â
Jack doesnât even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
âAre you hungry?â he asks. âEllis is ordering wingsâwe can grab a menu.â
âStarving,â you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
âGreat.â His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. âLetâs get back to the others.â
âWait,â Trent says. âAre youââ
âIt was nice meeting you,â you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until youâre halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
âThanks for that,â you murmur. âHe just wouldnât take a hint.â
Jack nods. âI noticed.â
He doesnât look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robbyâbecause if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay heâs felt all night.
Because youâre here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKayâand not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutesâbecause once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he canât focusânot when your hand settles lightly on this new guyâs shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself heâs not going to. That he shouldnât.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
âHey,â he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant wayâlike youâre waiting for him to say whatever it is thatâs so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. âHave you been drinking water?â
You frown. âUm. Not really.â
âYou should really drink some water,â he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
âUh, yeah. Okay. Water.â
He knows he shouldnât have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-drivenâbut he canât help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversationâand even if it wasnât, heâs not sure what heâd say. Not when youâre looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you areâso young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that heâs just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that youâre not his. That they think youâre fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that heâs not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as youâre about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the barâjust for some airâbut then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You donât mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, youâre just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump intoâbut before you can even take the manâs hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, youâre starting to notice a pattern.
And youâre getting a little annoyed.
âOh my God,â Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBAâs Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. âWe have to dance. Come on!â
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before sheâs dragging you onto the dancefloorâinto the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateoâs round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappearedâand now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospectsâplenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like heâs doing you a favour.
At some point during the secondâor maybe thirdâchorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. Youâre not even entirely sure how. One second youâre dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next heâs thereâclose enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like heâs trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you donât quite catch over the music, but you laugh anywayâmore out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like thatâhe falters.
Itâs subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
âUhâactually,â he mutters, already stepping away. âIâyeah. Sorry.â
Then heâs gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder andâ
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels⊠deliberate.
You stare at him for a secondâfrustration flickering across your faceâthen turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. âYour plan isnât working!â
She turns to face you, frowning. âWhat do you mean itâs not working?â
You stare at her. âThe plan to get me laid? Itâs not working.â
âWhy not?â
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
âBecause of him,â you say, nodding toward Jack. âBecause I let him save me from one bad interaction and now heâs justâhovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.â
Santosâ mouth twitches.
âI think he thinks heâs being helpful,â you add, shaking your head. âLike heâs doing me a favour or something, butâGod, Iâm never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.â
Santos just looks at you for a secondâthen smiles. Slow. Knowing.
âAnd what part of my plan isnât working?â
You frown. âAre you even listening to me?â
âI said I was going to get you laid,â she says, lifting her drink to her lips. âI never said anything about going home with a stranger.â
It doesnât land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logicâbecause that doesnât make sense, thatâs not the plan. If youâre not going home with a stranger, then whoâ
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
âWaitâSantos,â you start, eyes widening. âYou donât meanââ
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like sheâs been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor againâto the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesnât even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
âActually,â Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. âI think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come onââ she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, âletâs play a game.â
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like sheâd been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
âAlright,â Santos announces, picking up someoneâs abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, âweâre playing a game.â
Whitaker leans forward. âA game?â
âYes, Huckleberry. A game.â Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. âItâs called Never Have I Ever.â
Mateo snorts. âThatâs a middle school sleepover game.â
âGreat,â Santos replies. âThen it should be easy for you.â
Thereâs a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
âCan I start?â Mohan pipes up beside Santos. âIâve got a good one.â
Santos nods. âBe my guest.â
Youâre not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since heâd been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now youâre suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behindâand now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
âOkay,â Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. âNever have I ever⊠called in sick when I wasnât actually sick.â
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
âReally?â Santos says. âThat was your good one?â
Mohan shrugs. âI thoughtââ
âNever mind,â Santos cuts her off. âMy turn.â
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
âNever have I ever,â she starts slowly, âfantasised about someone else sitting at this table.â
Whitaker frowns. âYouâve accidentally fantasised about someone here?â
He shrugs. âSometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?â
Santos rolls her eyes. âOh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.â
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hersâand you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
âAlright, Iâve got one,â she says, grinning. âNever have I ever⊠faked it.â
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
âNever?â Ellis asks, eyes wide. âSo you alwaysââ
âOh, God, no,â McKay laughs. âDefinitely not. I just refuse to fake it.â
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
âOkay, my turn,â Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. âNever have I ever⊠hooked up with someone at work.â
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance upâbecause Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just⊠watching.
He doesnât laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
âWhatâve you got, Langdon?â McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a momentâthen sighs.
âAlright, I already know Iâm going to get shit for this, butââ He clears his throat. âNever have I ever⊠had sex in public.â
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like itâs nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesnât ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And youâ
You catch Santosâ gaze from the other end of the tableâsharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of itâ
âOkay, my turn,â you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
âNever have I ever,â you say slowly, ââŠfinished during sex.â
For a secondânothing.
Then the table erupts.
âWhatânoââ Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks youâre joking. âYouâre kidding.â
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. âWait, seriously?â
âOh my God,â McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like sheâs trying to figure out if youâre lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. âWell⊠thatâs unfortunate.â
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesnât quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesnât say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from youâ
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesnât change, but something in his eyes doesâsharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesnât stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebelliousâand blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear itâvoices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing theyâre being misrepresentedâbut it all feels⊠distant.
Like itâs happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way heâs hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughsâbut you donât catch the words. Youâre too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jackâs jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactionsâbut it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenlyâ
âYou ready?â
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
âReady?â you echo.
She nods toward the door. âTime to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.â
You glance around at the empty table. âOh.â
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. Youâre still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skinâwhich, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
âThe Uberâs just around the corner,â Whitaker says.
âGreat,â Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. âIâm freezing.â
Youâre not sure if itâs the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but youâre not nearly as cold as you should be.
âYou sure you donât mind if I stay over tonight?â Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. âAs long as you donât mind the couchâand Dr. Shamsi isnât going to have us arrested for kidnapping.â
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. âUhâno. Itâs totally fine. I told my dad.â
âAre you working tomorrow?â Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. âDay off. You?â
Whitaker sighs. âYeah.â
âSo am I,â Santos adds. âAnd if I donât get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other peopleâs lives.â
âThatâs reassuring,â Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. Thereâs a faint hitch in his stepâsomething you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when heâs been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
âThis is us,â Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seatâand Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forwardâthen hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
âWait.â Your pulse jumps. âThereâs too manyââ
âYouâre with Dr. Abbot,â Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like sheâs trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
âIâIâm what?â
Santos shrugs. âJavadiâs staying over and Mohanâs place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.â
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
âSee you tomorrow!â
Thereâs a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curbâand the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you donât turn around. You canât. Not now that youâre alone with him.
Thenâ
âIâm this way,â he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but donât dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the barâand it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that youâre aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so youâre walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
Itâs not awkward. Itâs just⊠quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and youâre suddenly, painfully aware of everythingâthe way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasnât quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightlyâjust enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. Heâs so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way thatâs subtle but unmistakableâclean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you canât quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like youâre not entirely sure where to put them.
Itâs his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like heâd discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driverâs side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way thatâs almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windscreen.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And thenâ
âYou canât say shit like that around me.â
You blink, finally turning toward himâand regretting it immediately. Heâs so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
âSay what?â you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at youânot fully, just turning his head slightly.
âYou know what,â he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silenceâand he doesnât move to turn it off, doesnât even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporterâs voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something youâre not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You canât say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop itâpulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missedâbut heâs focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didnât just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didnât mean it like that.
Heâs justâheâs your attending. Heâs responsible. Of course heâd say something. Of course heâdâ
Except he didnât say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way heâd been watching you. The way he didnât laugh, didnât joke, didnât let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between youâof how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in andâ
No.
No, thatâs notâ
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
Youâre just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternativeâ
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavierâpulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this timeâuntilâ
The car stopsâand you blink.
For a moment, you donât move. You canât.
Then Jack clears his throat.
âOhâuhâthanks,â you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. âAnytime.â
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight wordsâeight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitateâone hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This isâ
âDo youââ You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. âDo you want to come up?â
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like heâs not quite sure he heard you right.
âYou canât be serious.â
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it backârewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
âYeah,â you say, a little too quickly. âNo, that wasâthat was stupid.â
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You donât look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. Itâs old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been jankyâbut now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think thatâs funny, because it wonât budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Thenâ
âHere.â
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your backâthe solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the keyâand the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs toâthen he pushes the door open.
You donât even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shutâbut heâs still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. âGo.â
Itâs quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitateâlong enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between youâ
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock itâalmost like he doesnât think you know how doors work nowâbut the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and itâs a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like heâs a man on the edgeâ
And youâre daring him to jump.
âDrink?â you offer, keeping your voice lightâinnocent.
He clears his throat. âWater, please.â
You canât help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
âSo polite,â you murmur.
He doesnât move, doesnât shiftâbut you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way thatâs totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, heâs turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
âHere,â you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. âThank you.â
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
âAre you working tomorrow?â he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and itâs hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
âIsnât that something you should already know?â
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he canât quite help himself.
âYouâre impossible. You know that?â
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says itâshort, sharp, loadedâand you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
âAm I?â you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. âOnly one way to find out.â
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottleâand it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
âI should go,â he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the doorâand you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
âWaitâuhâbefore you go,â you say, stepping toward him, âcould you help me with something?â
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until youâre almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
âCould you help me out of my dress?â
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jackâs jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way youâre offering him something he never thought heâd be allowed to have.
He nods onceâcareful, controlledâbut the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through youâhot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skinâwarm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
âHow do you do it?â you whisper, voice catching slightly. âHow are you always so⊠unaffected by everything?â
âUnaffected?â he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper endsâbut he doesnât stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
âYou have no idea,â he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, âhow much you affect me.â
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourselfâand heâs closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neckâ
Not rough, not rushedâjust firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that youâre real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like heâs giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
Itâs not tentative. Thereâs nothing careful about it. It lands like something heâs been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quicklyâhis stomach, his chestâanything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of itâGod, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraintâmakes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but thereâs tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like heâs still tryingâstillâto hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesnât work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like youâve just undone him, and for a second the kiss faltersânot because heâs pulling away, but because heâs trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
âDonât,â you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, itâs deeper.
Less restrained.
Like heâs finally stopped pretending this isnât exactly what he wants.
Itâs different nowâharder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesnât stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let himâGod, you let himâtilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel itâhow close he is.
Itâs in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he canât quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like heâs tryingâone last timeâto get a handle on this.
He doesnât.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first placeâand it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze dropsâjust for a second, but itâs enough.
âTell me to stop,â he says, voice low, roughânothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
âBedroom,â you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shiftsâtightensâlike that word landed exactly where it shouldnât. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesnât find any.
He nods onceâand you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before youâve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like heâs not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
Itâs barely a walk.
More like being guidedâpulledâacross the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what youâve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before heâs on you again.
Not rushedânever rushedâbut certain, like the decision has already been made and thereâs no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. Thereâs something in his expression youâve never seen before. Itâs not soft, not gentleâjust stripped of whatever distance heâd been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time thereâs nothing in the way of itânothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer itâand the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
âStill want this?â he asks, voice rough, quieter nowâbut it lands heavier here.
You donât answer. You just step into him.
And itâs all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentionalâlike heâs choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like heâs letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shiftsâfirmer nowâguiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way heâs kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like heâs not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
âLast chance,â he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
âIâm not the one holding back.â
You barely have time to move up the mattress before heâs there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instantâreplaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from youâbut itâs different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like heâs learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomachâbut they donât stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around itânot tight, not forcefulâjust certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
âJack,â you whisper. âIââ
He shushes you.
âLet me do this, okay?â His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath itâsomething that makes your stomach knot. âIâve got you.â
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hipâeach touch deliberate, like heâs taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âGood girl.â
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says itâthe way his voice dropsâmakes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you canât quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where heâs touching youâwhere he isnât touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like heâs feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to moveâslow, circling, testingâwhile his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rockâslow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim thatâs more suggestion than friction.
âJackââ your voice catches, breaking on his name. âPlease. I wantââ
âTell me, sweetheart,â he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
âMore,â you manage, breath shaking. âNeed more.â
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he canât stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. âFuckâJackââ
The reaction pulls something from himâa sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
Youâve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And youâve never wanted anyone like this before.
âGod,â he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. âYouâre so wet for me, sweetheart.â
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the wordsâand he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel itâthe stretch, the heatâbefore he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediateâdevastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You canât answerânot when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he canât decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
âPlease,â you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. âPlease, Iâneed you.â
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
âYou sure?â
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
âNever have I ever finished during sex, remember?â you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. âYou gonna fix that, or what?â
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then itâs goneâreplaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint heâs been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but itâs replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
âFuck,â he breathes, like he canât quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. Thereâs a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
Heâs already hardâfully, heavilyâflushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
âFuckââ he chokes, the word breaking out of him. âI havenât been this hard inââ His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. ââever.â
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he triesâtriesâto hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
âIâll buy you new ones,â he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before itâs gone. âPromise.â
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearingâsharp, suddenâgoes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldnât be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbotâcontrolled, composed, always holding the lineâlosing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretchâthe sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is himâhere, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breatheâpant, reallyâeyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like youâre trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
âYouâfuckâyouâre so tight, sweetheart,â he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. âIâm not gonna lastââ
âThen donât,â you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. âJust fuck me. Please, Jack.â
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on himâand before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
âFuckââ you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. âJackââ
He doesnât stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like heâs checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
âMhm,â you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isnât enough.
For a secondâjust a secondâyouâre distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of himâ
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loudâtoo loudâechoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you donât care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. Heâs barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shiftâsmall as it isâhits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds youâre both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediatelyâthe change, the focusâas his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way heâs losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until itâs too much, not enough, everything all at once.
âJackââ you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. âFuck, Iââ
âI know, sweetheart,â he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. âCome on my cock, yeah?â
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm heâs set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way heâs working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesnât falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
Itâs never felt like this before. Youâve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you canât hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at onceâsharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you canât stop, like you donât want to.
âFuck,â he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside youâslower now, but deeper, like heâs chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesnât want to miss a second of it. âThatâs it. Thatâs my girl.â
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completelyâa broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel itâevery part of itâthe way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where youâre pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back downâa long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breatheâbut you donât mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isnât stupidly early for his shift. He couldnât be, really. Because heâd woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spinâand that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldnât have left at allâbut he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbourâs cat to feed, and sleep he shouldâve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesnât need to be early to see you, because youâre going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldnât be looking forward to that as much as he is.
âAfternoon, Dr. Abbot,â Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. âWasnât sure weâd see you today. Arenât you usually here by now?â
âIâm on time,â Jack mutters. âIâm a busy man.â
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nursesâ station. He shouldnât be this anxious to see you againânot in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs wonât quite fill until youâre near him again.
âSheâs not here,â Dana says without looking up from her chart. âWasnât feeling well, so Ellis came in early.â
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say somethingâdefend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking forâbut he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldnât incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
Heâd seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he leftâbut you hadnât said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesnât stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadnât texted you today because he knew heâd see you tonight and didnât want to seem⊠overbearing. Even now, heâs not sure if he shouldâbut he feels off in a way he hasnât in years, like heâs waiting on something he canât control and itâs making him feel sick.
What if last night hadnât meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was justâ
âHey, kid,â Dana calls from the nursesâ station. âBig night?â
Jackâs head snaps upâand there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadnât realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
âYou donât know the half of it,â you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. âI have a feeling I donât want to know.â
Jack canât help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. Thereâs a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside himânot too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
âMiss me?â
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
âThought you were sick.â
You lift one shoulder. âA little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.â
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at youâand you look right back, like you both know exactly whatâs changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
âAnd I missed the night shift attending,â you say finally.
Thenâbefore he can respond, before heâs even fully processed what you saidâyou lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isnât yours.
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